Emine Cagirga has kept three bullet casings she found from the day her daughter was shot. The fourth was lodged in Cemile, 10, who died instantly.
Numb with grief, Emine sits in her garden, a photograph of her daughter pinned to her dress.
Cizre has seen some of the worst violence since a two-year-long ceasefire between the Turkish state and the Kurdish rebel group, the PKK, collapsed in July.
With the town under curfew for nine days, no ambulance came for Cemile. And her family could not leave their house to bury her.
"It was sniper fire," says Emine. "Cemile was at the front gate. I ran towards her, shouting her name. She collapsed. 'Mama,' she said. And then she died."
"I kept her body beside me until the morning and held her hand," Emine recalls, staring into the distance.
"Then I took her to the fridge and put her inside. I didn't want her to decay. We kept her there for two days until we could bury her."
Emine has now moved the fridge next door since her other children were so terrified of it. She takes me to see it: a grim memory of her family's darkest hour.
"Cemile was an angel - she was part of my soul," Emine says. "How can the government bring this pain upon mothers? In God's name, what do you want from us?"
