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Title: Dispatches from Rojava Author: Paul Z. Simons Date: 2015 Language: en Topics: Rojava, syria, turkey, ypg, revolution Source: Retrieved on April 4th, 2018 from multiple sources (see footnotes) Notes: 1. https://anarchistnews.org/content/%C2%ADrojava-dispatch-one 2. https://anarchistnews.org/content/rojava-dispatch-two 3. https://anarchistnews.org/content/rojava-dispatch-three 4. https://anarchistnews.org/content/rojava-dispatch-four 5. https://anarchistnews.org/content/rojava-dispatch-five 6. https://anarchistnews.org/content/rojava-dispatch-six
The young Kurdish woman, a border worker, walks me down to the launch on
the Tigris River, I look out over the water and shallow canyon that
10,000 years ago gave birth to animal domestication, agriculture,
complex hierarchical societies, in a word--civilization. She hands me my
passport, says good luck and I step into the launch. It slowly glides
across the river, the two or three other men in the boat talk in
Kurmanji and generally ignore the clueless American, rendered in their
native tongue, merikik. As we draw to the far shore the difference
between the border sites operated by the Kurdistan Regional Government
and the Autonomous Kurdish Region is obvious, the former is huge with
multiple buildings, paved roads and two restaurants, the latter is
several card tables set on the pebbled beach of the Tigris. Two young
members of the internal Rojava security force (Asayîş) search through
suspect bags, they look at me, smile and return to their work. Oddly, at
a border crossing, I feel, for the first time ever, welcome. There are a
few large tents set on the beach to cover the overheated who are waiting
to cross, and that’s it. I had been given a contact name and when I
mentioned it to one of the Asayîş she waved me over to a man who
arranged passage for me up the hill to the original Syrian border
facility by car. There I met my contact and was served the ubiquitous
sugared glass of tea. A beverage that by this time I had drunk enough of
to not just stretch my bladder, but to break it. I sip the tea and he
calls a translator to help with our discussion. I introduce myself and
what I hope to accomplish in Rojava—some sense of the institutions that
the Kurds have implemented since the stabilization of the battlefront;
including the local assemblies, how they interact with the militias, the
executive councils, and some of the new institutions-- schools,
universities and infrastructure that the PYD and their allies have
built. He abruptly asked what I needed, after which I just about dropped
my tea, and then mumbled sheepishly,” A car? A translator?”
He nodded and indicated that the PYD could provide that. He did want to
make clear several things, first the PKK and the PYD are two separate
and non-contiguous entities. Next that what is happening in Rojava is a
direct reflection of the ideas and philosophy of Abdullah Ă–calan
(pronounced in Kurmanji, Ojalan, you fucking heathens). I nodded, noting
the twingy feeling in my gut of hero worship, then reminded myself that
this hero is buried so deep in a Turkish prison that they probably won’t
let him out after he dies. I was given a car and driver and sent to
Amuda, to make contact with folks at the cantonal PYD media center. The
next three hours were spent driving across Rojava, a really unique mix
of mountains, plains, agriculture, oil wells, villages and people. The
Asayîş check points were entertaining, the soldiers would look at the
driver, then at me and say,” Thank you,” or nod. My tattoos raised an
occasional Kurdish eyebrow. The folks on the street were wide-eyed, and
silently kind.
In Amuda I met with the media folks and they asked me what I wanted to
do, I set out my ideas and goals (once again) and they decided to send
me to Kobani first thing as the weather looks it will rain by the end of
this week or the beginning of next. The roads are a mélange of asphalt,
dirt, and in one or two places gaping pits left by ISIS car bombs.
Therefore a good solid rain can really stop movement on the roads.
Finally, the media people sent me to a house for journalists run by the
YPG--communal living--but not a problem. At the house there was a
smattering of journalists, some folks from the Netherlands helping to
revamp a local hospital. There is a CNN crew here trying to make some
kind of story out of Rojava, and since there is currently no huge amount
of bloodshed here— it’s obviously not a great way to sell advertising. I
have been listening to them prepare a video report for the past half
hour in which---basically nothing happens—oh, and a YPJ militiawoman
gets asked pointed, burning questions like,” Do you want kids, or to
stay in the militia?” Devastating. I always wanted to listen to a CNN
report being prepped. One off the bucket list.
So tomorrow it’s off to Kobani for several days. I am in one of the
sketchiest places on earth, surrounded by friends--I am not afraid. More
later…
It is dark in Kobane, far darker than what you’d expect for a city of
150,000 souls. A few lights wink and crackle out of the encroaching dust
and night, and the stillness is broken by the noise of grinding
electrical generators and the sound of dumptrucks being filled with
rubble and then driving off to one of the dumps outside the city center.
It’s almost a year since the siege and there is still no electricity. I
am sitting on a porch of the only real hotel in Kobane sipping (yet one
more) sweetened tea in a glass. I’m glad I made it from Amuda to here,
the road was long, the road was creepy, but now, the road is over.
My driver picked me up at 6am in the morning after a sleepless night at
a YPG outpost in Amuda. As I walked out the door a YPG soldier threw me
a warm pita. I folded it into quarters and put it into my shoulder
bag—something to eat on the way. I left way too early to have breakfast.
The guy who picked me up, Salah, was driving one of the ever-present
white Hyundai (or Toyota) vans, I crawled in the front and we sped off.
It takes four hours to get from Amuda to Kobane, assuming the road’s not
closed for any reason.
The scenery was pretty much the same between Amuda and Serekaniye, more
villages, hundreds of villages, and fields that were not fallow were
filled with cotton and melon.
Between the border with the KRG and Serekaniye there’s very little to
indicate that that the Kurdish Autonomous Region is at war with anyone.
Once into Serekaniye that impression dissolves rapidly. Large buildings
are studded with pockmarks from small arms fire, and here and there one
shows signs of being hit by larger ordnance. In fact Serekaniye was one
of the side battles fought prior to the Siege of Kobane in November of
2012. It lies directly on the road to Kobane, sits right on the Turkish
border, and if it had been taken by al-Nusra (the Islamist terrorists de
jour at that point) Kurdish supply lines to Kobane would have been
severed. The YPG responded rapidly to the threat and fought viciously,
eventually routing the jihadis. The area around Serekaniye is still
somewhat contested though final mop up conducted during the spring seems
to have ended any military threat of losing the city.
And on the road one can see just how serious the YPG/J and Asayis take
the threat—multiple roadblocks and traps are set between Serekaniye and
Kobane. The militias have no intention of paying twice for the city of
Kobane. At one point we passed a mine that had blown out half the road
and eventually were brought to a stop by heavy construction equipment. A
rocket had hit the road in the night and it was closed definitely. My
driver shrugged, and we set out across a dirt road to go around the
obstruction. We had gone about five miles when we encountered an Arab
militia checkpoint. Salah pulled up spoke a few words in Arabic and then
asked quite clearly, ”YPG?”
To which the response was a headshake and the mumbled acronym in Arabic
of some other militia. My driver winced, and we drove on. This is where
my nerves started get the best of me and I had him stop and reassure me
that it was okay. He shrugged and said, “Syria.” I then knew where we
were. In some of the areas of Rojava small enclaves have declared for
Syria, this includes the section of Qamishli next to the Turkish border,
and evidently the tiny village we were driving through—as evidenced by a
Syrian flag floating proudly from a telephone pole. A few more turns and
we were back on the road headed to Kobane, passing an Asayis or YPG
checkpoint every ten miles. Landmarks I had come to appreciate and look
forward to for a variety of reasons.
On the last approach into Kobane from the east you are finally aware
that, yes, you are in a war zone. A large ridge of earth has been
erected effectively screening the city from approach and every here and
there tank traps can be seen jutting out from the sand. Passing this
earth wall the city rises up and shows its wounds. Large areas of the
outer city have been turned into great dumps of concrete, twisted steel
and burned out cars. Then a building catches your eye, it is only half
standing and leans oddly against its neighbor; its floors in various
states of anti-Euclidean geometry. By the time you come to the city
center you encounter whole blocks razed, pounded to rubble, and here and
there one sees a building untouched by even small arms fire surrounded
by the hulking wrecks of its former neighbors. Luck counts. The streets
are dusty, and an occasional water tanker passes in a vain attempt to
keep the air breathable. This in combination with the backhoes digging
out the wreckage one scoop at a time and the constant movement of heavy
trucks as they take the detritus to the growing concrete and steel
fields ensures that Kobane is almost always drowning in dust. In fact my
first night I walked out at twilight and the city looked more like an
impressionist painting by Monet than anything else. Buildings melded
into each other in the dust, colors and shapes softened and were lost. A
blurred x-ray of a city.
In spite of this people move to Kobane daily, in fact with the cheap
real estate—you pay what you can afford—there something of a run on
property. As an example an Arab man I spoke to bought a house, complete,
for around 15,000 Syrian Pounds ($80 at today’s exchange rate). Not bad.
It’s late, I’m tired and have developed a serious negative attitude
towards the Syrian squat toilet. Tomorrow it’s time to look into the
issue of revolution, and speak to the residents of this city in the
process of slow rebirth.
The two Hyundai minivans cruise caravan style through the backstreets of
Kobane. In the first van are two representatives of the Kobane Canton’s
TEV-DEM, the body charged with implementing Democratic Confederalism. In
the trailing minivan I ride with the translator and driver. Tiny
children play on either side of the street and seem ambivalent to the
passing cars, if they can survive a month long siege by ISIS, a few
stray cars are nothing.
I had met Ahmad Shaif at the Kobane Canton Center, a bullet-pocked
building set on a hill in Kobane. In previous years it had been the
government center for the Syrian state and was subsequently expropriated
by the Kurds after the representatives of Assad’s regime exited the
canton post-haste. Ahmad is one of several TEV-DEM administrators, and
his office bare of paperwork, computers or any other item one would
associate with a workspace in the West, is the place where Kobane
residents come to for assistance in maintaining their communal councils.
We had met and he had invited me to a council commune meeting he was
helping to facilitate. I was in, definitely in.
Our vehicle stopped on a side street and an older man greeted us, hands
shook all around, I was introduced and welcomed. We went through a
rubbled courtyard and up a flight of steps. Shoes were kicked off, and
we entered into a room fully carpeted with cushions spread sofa like
around the walls. A window opened onto the room and several bullet holes
impinged the glass, these projectiles had traced a neat line of holes
into the concrete of the far wall. Above this damage, a picture of
Ocalan was hung, draped on either side by YPG and YPJ flags. The room
started to fill with men, most older and Kurdish, and one or two Arabs.
Women slowly joined the group as well, the older women, their heads
swathed in scarves, would take turns shaking hands around the room and
then sit. Men and women sat apart, the empowerment of women not yet
extending to the predefined Middle East cultural space.
Mr Shaif began saying that it was a pleasure to be welcomed by the
council, and that he was happy with the number of people attending (18
total, 10 men, 7 women—and me). He then drew out a map and laid it on
the carpet, pointing to a block in a tangle of lines and circles meant
to represent the Sehid Kawa (Martyr Kawa) neighborhood of the city. He
continued that with the recent influx of immigrants into the city they
were expecting the commune to expand, and that if it grows larger than
100 families it may be too unwieldy to be responsive. Possible
geographic divisions were discussed with the council; a few questions, a
few answers, some leaning over the map and nodding. He finished by
saying that the division of the commune, if any, was up to them. He
wanted to present the issue and whatever they decided was fine. Just
call with an answer.
I was introduced and got a chance to ask a few questions. I asked about
what they do, on a regular basis, as a council and got a wild range of
responses, from dealing with marital issues, helping get gas and rides
to and from clinics, shopping, whatever was needed, whatever was urgent.
Finally a man said that during the siege it was the council that had
kept the commune fed and clothed, that helped with YPG intellingence
gathering and that when the fighting became desperate commune members
were issued Kalashnikovs and fought with the YPG to save their
neighborhood. I asked if all were given weapons, including the women. He
nodded and said everyone willing to fight, fought.
My curiosity got the better of me and I asked about the line of bullet
holes in the wall. The man who had initially welcomed us stood and
pointed out the window to a two story building some 200 feet away.
Pointing, he indicated the line of sight between the buildings top floor
and the damaged wall in his house. Then holding an invisible Kalashnikov
he sighted the building and pretended to shoot back. Saying that he had
returned fire and that the gunman had eventually left.
With my questions done they asked me what the Americans thought of
Kobane. I said many supported their Revolution, many wanted to hear
more, and those ignorant enough to have an opinion without information
didn’t matter. There were some smiles and nods—especially the women, a
few seemed surprised at my directness. Finally a young women of fifteen
asked me what I thought. I closed my eyes for a moment and said,” What’s
happening here may be part of the future, not just for the Kurds, but
for everyone. I know I feel welcome here, and safe. And as small as that
is, it’s a big change from much of my experience.”
Ahmad then rose and thanked the group, we all shook hands again—there
were some touching of hands to the chest, and we left.
Back out on the street the children were busy playing, somewhere a dog
barked and the drivers were cranking over the vans engines. I stopped
Ahmad and asked about how the communes had formed, did TEV-DEM have
responsibility for that task. He shook his head, “ Some formed
spontaneously, some we helped get started, many have yet to become
stable, with strong council members. It’s a process, and in Kobane the
siege speeded up the formation of the communes, but the rebuilding and
lack of resources has now slowed it. We can’t stop though, these
communes are at the center of society.”
He nodded and left. I climbed into the van and set out for my hotel,
some coffee and to think through this thing. This new thing.
(The name of the commune, Sehid Kawa C (Martyr Kawa C) is derived from
the name of the neighborhood in Kobane—Sehid Kawa and C designates it as
the third commune formed. Many of the city’s areas are being renamed for
the YPJ/G fighters who were killed in those respective neighborhoods.
Martyrs, their lives and deaths form a large part of Kurdish resistance
consciousness and symbolism. More later…)
“The blood of martyrs never touches the ground.”
--Kurdish Prover
So I had been kicking around Kobane for a day or two and had made some
good contacts in the media center and also the YPG. One afternoon the
translator and I had stopped by to see what the YPG were up to; it was
quiet, mostly. Then a commander came walking through talking rapidly and
pointing. I looked at the translator and he said that the YPG are
helping to escort the bodies of 18 YPG/J fighters from Kobane Canton to
Cizere Canton for final burial. There was some kind of ceremony that was
supposed to happen too. So we saddled up the Hyundai minivan and
followed the racing YPG cars to wherever it was they were going.
We landed at a building with an enclosed courtyard near Kobane’s sook.
It looked like it must have been a sports club, likely volleyball as it
had changing rooms and a volleyball court sized enclosed area (As soccer
is to Brazilians, so volleyball is to the Kurds, an obsession, a crazed,
fan-driven juggernaut). The building had been expropriated and given to
the Institute for the Families of the Martyrs, a revolutionary
institution to provide support for folks who lost people in the
fighting, and to keep the memories of the martyrs alive. Not that the
latter task needs much energy, the photos of martyrs are ubiquitous.
They are hung in shop windows, on poles, on the walls of offices, in
magazines, in Asayis and YPG outposts, in town squares, in schools; in
fact, basically, everywhere. And these posters and what they represent
resonate deeply with the Kurds. What is interesting in all this is the
anonymous nature of the Martyrs, there aren’t just one or two, or even
dozens, there are literally thousands. Sure, some stand out, like Arwin
Mirkhan, a young PYJ fighter who with her team was leading the final
assault on Mishtehnur hill above Kobane. They were separated from the
main assault body and shot up piece meal by Daesh (terrorists) fighters.
With all her comrades dead or gravely wounded she resolved not to be
taken alive and sold into slavery or beheaded. In the chaos of the final
seconds of her life Arwin Mirkhan doused herself with a Molotov cocktail
and lit a match.
At the center a hundred people or so have gathered, women sit in one
room and men in the other waiting for the arrival of the Cizere
delegation to accept the bodies of the dead. It is quiet, my TEV-DEM
contact, Mr. Shaif is there and he thanks me for attending. We wait, we
talk, we drink tea. An old bus, with windows missing is eased into the
courtyard, we wait some more. Finally the Cizere contingent arrives,
older men and women, some TEV-DEM, some of the parents and family of the
martyrs, some private folks. They are lead into an open room and the
certificates for burial and death are passed ceremoniously to them. They
accept. There are no tears.
The Kobane and Cizere contingent board the bus, I wheedle a seat for the
translator and me. We drive to the Martyrs cemetery, some words are
spoken by people representing Kobane thanking Cizere and the sacrifice
that the fighters made for the freedom of Kobane. The Cizere contingent
affirms their support and commitment to Kobane and the Revolution. The
occasion is brief, solemn. More than one mother of a fallen fighter is
in the audience, yet it is quiet. There are no tears.
We are now late and the old bus blasts like a rocket back through the
dusty streets. The area around the Institute is alive with activity as
cars carrying the flag draped coffins of the fallen pass by the gate and
people look on from the surrounding streets. I dash around the corner to
see what’s happening at the gate to the center. The women have come out
of the institute compound and stand chanting on the streets, fingers
raised in the V for victory salute. The individual cars carrying the
heroes pass the saluting crowd, driven by YPG soldiers who return the V
salute. The women chant in both Arabic and Kurmanji, occasionally making
the zazi, the uniquely regional feminine ululation, which can be heard
piercing the still heavy air.
I look on and without thinking I raise my hand in a V salute, but remain
silent. There is no longer seeing or hearing this scene, only feeling
it. My throat tightens and I find myself hating and loving in the same
moment. Loving these young fighters who died for freedom, real freedom;
and hating the fact of their deaths, too young, too brave, too many, and
those who killed them—Daesh scum. If I could have killed every Daesh
fighter in that moment, I would have. Every. Last. One. I reel in my
emotions and look over to the gathered women on my right. Their faces
are a blur of sadness, gratitude, and determination. I realize that this
wasn’t about the Siege of Kobane, it was about the next, inevitable
battle. It was about those who will die, as much as those who have. And
there are no tears. Except my own.
YPG dimeĹźe, erd Ă» ezman diheje
(YPG marches, earth and heavens tremble)
---YPG motto
“ Wait….what….we’re lost?” Mohammed the translator nods and I turn to
the driver. He shrugs. I had headed out in Qamishli to do an interview
about the HĂŞza Parastina CewherĂ® (HPC, Self Defense Forces), the new
citizen’s militia formations in Rojava. The driver--per every other taxi
driver on earth--knew a short cut that would get us there on time,
guaranteed. Problem was he knew where we were, but couldn’t find the
address of the HPC. So as we sat on a corner deciding what to do, I
noticed several yellow YPG flags floating over an old fence. The driver
pointed and shrugged, indicating maybe they know. Couldn’t hurt.
We all hop out of the taxi and approach the YPG outpost through a tangle
of tank traps, concrete barriers and mud. The fighters at the gate are
older than most I’ve met before, with graying beards, dark, tanned skin,
and wrinkles. First thought, these guys look tough, real tough. We shake
hands and when they find out I’m an American, one goes to tell the
Commander. He returns with a tall well-built balding man, with clear
grey eyes. We shake hands and he introduces himself. He is the Commander
of the Qamishli Cizere Canton T.S. Cemal (Martyr Cemal) commando with
approximately 400 fighters (4 Companies). He invites us in for coffee or
tea, and to meet the fighters. What the hell. I’m late for my interview,
it’s chilly--a coffee would be nice, I want to meet the fighters; and I
like this man.
The Yekîneyên Parastina Gel (YPG, People’s Defense Units) and the
Yekîneyên Parastina Jinê (YPJ, Women’s Defense Units) are the armed
backbone of the Revolution. The YPG, formed in 2004 (YPJ in 2012), is no
army. It is a militia, a people armed, in the best sense of the word.
Some facts…
YPG/J Organization (Unit Name and Size)
1) Team, 6 – 10 fighters.
2) Suite, 2 Teams, 12 – 20 fighters.
3) Block (Kurmanji—garug), 2 suites, 24 – 40 fighters.
4) Company, 2 Blocks, 48 – 80 fighters.
5) Estimated Total YPG/J Census, 50,000 fighters
6) There are no officers. When engaged in operations, the fighters
choose (by vote or consensus) Team/Suite/Block/Company Leaders. When
idle, there is no leadership structure at any level, save Regional
Commands. Commanders are chosen (vote or consensus) for regions and
Cantons (Kobane, Qamishli) and can only serve six months in any given
commando. They are then replaced. There is no re-election.
The Commander and I talk as we set off to the barracks. He tells me the
men are rested, ready to fight, though the area has been quiet for
months. The commando deploys, on a revolving basis, 15 fighters per week
to the front. He has only one new recruit, a boy of 16, who left Aleppo
and crossed Daesh lines to join the YPG. Breakfast is over and the
fighters are lounging near the barracks. They see the Commander and me
moving towards them and a few start walking over, then more follow. I
introduce myself through Mohammed, they seem surprised that an American
would visit; one or two look down, boots shuffle in the mud. I move
closer and start shaking hands, I look in their eyes, I mumble thank you
in English. The fighters nod, they smile, they get it. One or two say in
Kurmanji, “You are welcome.”
I ask if I can take some pictures, the Commander maneuvers the fighters
onto the tarmac to a spot in front of a large YPG flag snapping in the
wind. A few photos, and as we walk off for coffee several of the less
shy militiamen grab my arm and ask for individual or group photos. I
stand with the men, arms on each other’s shoulders, we smile at the
camera. In that moment one word flashes into my mind like summer
lightning; a Spanish word, from a different insurrection and a different
time, Hermanos.
A table is brought out and several cups of steaming, brackish Turkish
coffee are set. Mohammed, the taxi driver, the Commander and I sit and
drink while the fighters stand and look on. I ask some questions. Most
are from Cizere, many from the city of Qamishli. They tell me that their
fight isn’t just for the Kurds, but for the whole world. And not just to
defeat Daesh, but to win a Revolution. They want me to understand this.
That it is important. I tell them I do understand. I tell them I believe
it also.
The YPG/J have developed some unique protocols regarding training,
deployment, and morale. Some more facts…
1) Training for a YPG/J fighter lasts 45 days.
2) After training, the fighter is asked where and what type of duty s/he
would like to do. They can opt for front-line service, tactical
reserves, Turkish border patrol, internal checkpoints, or logistics and
communication. The choice of duty, where to serve, and how long to
serve, is solely the individual fighter’s.
3) Leave in the YPG/J varies with commando and combat situation. When
idle, single men, and most YPJ fighters (who are usually unmarried) go
on leave 4 days a month. Married men serve one week, and week off. When
engaged in battle, leave is still offered to the fighters, but is rarely
taken. One Kobane Commander joked that the seige lasted only a month
because the married fighters realized that the more Daesh they killed,
the sooner they would see their wives and children.
4) Food, clothing and shelter are provided to all YPG fighters, they
also receive compensation amounting to about $100/month—for odds and
ends, cigarettes, candy, amusement, travel, what have you. This seems
small by US standards, but in Rojava it can go a long way. I pay about
one dollar for a pack of Gauloises Blondes, and a kilo (2.2 pounds) of
candy will set you back $0.75.
The cups are drained, time to go. I rise and thank the Commander again.
He thanks me, and walks off to his duties. I begin shaking hands with
the militiamen, saying thank you to each one, holding eye contact. Now,
I need them to understand. The fighters form a line as I move so I can
spend a moment of time with each of them. As I pass down the row it
feels like a chunk of steel has settled in my heart. The first older
soldier we met has been by my side the entire time. He follows us to the
taxi. I extend a hand and to show our mutual respect, we kiss each other
on the right cheek, the left cheek and then the left shoulder.
Back in the car I start thinking about the HCP interview up ahead, and
then my eye catches the yellow YPG flag, still dancing in the morning
breeze. There is a popular song in Arabic which include the lyrics, “God
save the YPG; they protect the people; Arab, Kurd and Christian are
brothers, they protect the land and grow hope.” And I think to myself:
yes. Protect this militia of individuals who fight with their whole
heart, who are fearless, who are kind, who grow hope, and who I have
known for a short time as brothers. May their desires, for peace, for
freedom, to be with their families and friends, become reality.
I looked at the taxi driver motioning forward with my hand and said,
“So?”
He fired off some rapid Kurmanji to Mohammed who translated,” He said
you forgot to ask about the HPC address…”
There is a small cemetery on the side of the 712 highway as it crawls
its way westward out of Kobane. There are roughly 100 graves there, they
are well-kept, some sprout plastic flowers, and small mementoes can be
seen that have been placed atop others. The cemetery is marked by a sign
and a large poster of the martyrs buried there. This poster, however, is
markedly different than most YPG/J martyr remembrances; this one
includes pictures of old folks, newlyweds, teenagers and the very young.
For this cemetery is dedicated solely to those who lost their lives
during the massacre of June 25, 2015. On that night some 100 Daesh,
disguised as Asayîş, infiltrated the Turkish border, exploded several
car bombs and then began to systematically massacre anyone they could
lay their hands on. An estimated 233 civilians were killed over the
ensuing three days, including two of the driver’s uncles. Which is how I
found this place; he had asked for a moment to stop by and tend the
graves. I told him of course and asked if he came to the cemetery often.
“Every week,” was his response.
I finally found and met Aram Qamishlo, the HPC Director for Qamishili.
The HPC compound where he works sits right behind the YPG barracks
described in Dispatch Five. The HPC headquarters is yet another enclosed
compound, a former storage area for the moribund Chemins de Fer Syriens
railway system. According to Aram, the idea of formal defense units
directly responsible to, and for the defense of, the communes had long
been part of TEV-DEM discussions. The policy to further decentralize
militia and security responsibilities with the concomitant devolution of
power into the communes being the overarching priority. Significantly
however, Aram states that the final push for the HPC came not from
above, but from the communes. Prior to the HPC, each commune had
implemented some level of security force, comprised of their own members
and responsible to the commune council. This proved insufficient so the
Qamishli communes requested that the Cizere Executive Council designate
a name for the units, provide weapons training, a uniform, and outline
specific duties for the militia. In March of 2015, and as a result of
the relative stability of the region, the first units of the HĂŞza
Parastina CewherĂ® (HPC, Self Defense Forces) began training and
deploying in Cizere Canton, specifically Qamishli.
The driver, Mohammed the translator, and me wander among the graves.
There are others here too, family, friends. They tend the graves of
their loved ones. Hands, earth, sadness. One or two small boys play at
tag while their parents clean the dry mounds of paper and rubbish. The
graves are a sphinx. All of the headstones are in Arabic, which I can’t
read. Even the dates are undecipherable. I continue walking, grave to
grave, row to row, then one catches my eye. The dates and name are in
Latinized script. This person was named Nujiyan Gever and s/he was born
on October 14, 2014 and died on July 2, 2015. I count the months in my
head quickly—a baby. Nine months old. Mohammed reaches out and takes my
arm as I crouch to my knees. In my mind the simple phrase--a baby,
Nujiyan Gever, nine months old--repeats over and over. I begin to feel
unwell.
The HPC, like the YPG/J has developed innovative protocols for
recruitment, training, and deployment. Some facts…
1) Each commune elects two persons to participate in the HPC. In
practice there are far more volunteers for the HPC than it could
possibly train and supply.
2) HPC recruit training lasts 17 days.
3) TEV-DEM and YPG/J take equal responsibility for training the HPC
volunteers. The militias train on weapons and tactics and TEV-DEM train
on the ideas of Democratic Confederalism. Both are considered essential
for the HPC recruit to accomplish the mission of self defense.
4) As an example of HPC density, the city of Qamishli has a population
of about 230,000 and an HPC contingent of 500.
5) Kobane, after the massacre, set out to arm and train HPC volunteers
as quickly as possible. Due to the damage of the siege and lack of
resources the HPC implementation had lagged behind other priorities. No
more. In discussion with my TEV-DEM contact, Mr. Shaif was certain that
they would have a full contingent for the city by mid-November of 2015.
As Aram and I sit and chat I ask what he sees as the most important work
the HPC will do. He begins slowly, “ In Marxism the people were always
betrayed by the party, by the army, and what was left was dictatorship,
war. In our system the arming of the people, through the YPG, through
the Asayîş, through the HPC guarantees that this will not happen. The
HPC are one more guarantee for the success of the Revolution. So when we
say protect the people we mean not just against Daesh, but anyone.”
I am floored by his statement and say,” You know your history, Durruti
and Bakunin.”
He smiles and that was just enough.
The driver is finishing tending to his uncle’s graves. Mohammed and I
stand by the minivan. I smoke and watch the families as they walk
through the cemetery. The driver rises and walks towards us. I want to
tell him I’m sorry, express sympathy, say something.
” I hope this never happens again,” is all I can manage. He is silent.
We climb back in the minivan drive and he kicks over the engine. The
three of us look off at the graves of the old, the young, the newlyweds.
The minivan then groans onto the 712, and is gone.
(Note: In my drive from Semelka at the border to Amuda all the
checkpoints were Asayîş, by my return some week or so later three of the
checkpoints were run by men and women wearing the brown vest of the HPC.
Perhaps coincidence, perhaps not. My guess is the HPC will have a very
important role as the Revolution matures and expands. In one stroke
TEV-DEM may have addressed an issue that has plagued anarchist
insurrections since the Paris Commune, how to maintain power, in the
form of a militia, at the block and neighborhood level. Time will tell…)
“Mr. Errante…did you visit Syria?” The US Border Patrol officer stares
at me through the bulletproof plastic that separates us. He shifts in
his seat. The man wants an answer.
“ Me? Syria? No. No way… too dangerous,” I say. Praying the lie doesn’t
show on my face. I’m in Dublin, at US Pre-clearance, almost back to the
States and now, it seems, I may have some explaining to do.
He scoops up my passport and customs declaration in his right hand and
says,” Come this way Mr. Errante. We’re going to search your luggage.”
For the first time, during the entire trip, that sickening feeling of
real fear rises inside me.
Two days earlier--Paris. A singular morning, fresh sun and breeze, the
kind of daybreak that only the Mother of the Revolutions can serve for
breakfast. I walk through Père Lachaise Cemetery my head and shoulders
hunched forward. I know this old boneyard like a good friend, and
there’s one memorial that calls me now. The Mur des Fédérés (the Wall of
the Federals). A place on the enclosing wall of the old cemetery where
several hundred Communards were taken to be slaughtered by the forces of
law and order. The memorial comes into view, a simple plaque on a wall
of stone. Nothing more. I pull a YPG flag from my bag and drape it over
the memorial. I take a photo. A German man and his daughter walk around
the corner. I ask him to take a photo of me and the wall and the flag.
As he preps, my hand once again rises, almost unconsciously in the V
salute and he snaps a few photos. I am not done. There are two more
photos to be taken. One photo with the flag draped over Oscar Wilde’s
tomb, and one photo at the sculpted bronze cap that seals Nestor
Makhno’s ashes into the Columbarium. Taking the final picture I notice
an odd thing, did the likeness of Makhno smile a bit when I placed the
YPG flag? Or is it me?
The Border Patrol officer walks me to a holding room in the
Pre-Clearance area. I am told to sit on a row of benches. As I sit I see
that I am facing a wall of waist high one-way mirrors. In the reflection
I can see several officers directly behind me looking at my passport and
paper work. They talk quietly and nod.
My mind begins to play smuggler’s games. I go through all the potential
contraband in my bags, numerous YPG/J flags, buttons, and patches. A
book called Stateless Democracy, TEV-DEM flags, HPC flags and an HPC
emblazoned brown uniform vest including two Velcro pockets that exactly
fit a Kalashnikov banana clip for 7.62mm X 39 mm bullets. Additionally,
several pro-YPG/J, TEV-DEM magazines in scary Daesh-looking Arabic and
latinized Kurmanji. Welp, enough there for a few hours of interrogation,
maybe even a day or two of detention. One of the Border Patrol officers
calls me to his window. I stand, turn, and walk with measured steps to
where he motioned me.
After the stroll through Père Lachaise I hail a taxi and head to the
hotel. The taxi driver swerves through the Place de la RĂ©publique on our
way back to the Left Bank when it catches my eye. A flag; the
yellow/red/green flag of the Kurdish Autonomous Region, then two, and
then three of them. Finally I see a huge YPG pennant, yellow with red
star, as it lazes and hops in the mid-afternoon swirl. I yell at the
taxi driver to stop and pay the fare frantically. I hop into traffic on
the Rue du Temple and quickly read the sign over the bandstand,
“International March against Daesh, For Kobane, For Humanity.” Whooomp,
there it is, it’s November 1st--International Kobane Day, and one more
time, I am enmeshed in the Revolution.
I walk through the crowd, smelling the food, seeing the colors,
transported back to Kobane and Cizere by the sound of spoken Kurmanji,
and the feeling of rebirth, of making a new world. There is a tent where
representatives of the Halkların Demokratik Partisi (Turkish, HDP) sit,
drink tea, and converse. I walk over and introduce myself. I show them
some of my photos and posts about Rojava. They speak together, then
someone is sent to find a translator fluent in Turkish, French,
Kurmanji, and English. After what might be my last glass of Kurdish
style tea for a very long time, the translator arrives and we begin to
talk about how HDP integrates activities with events in Rojava. As the
conversation runs I once again feel it. The openness, the excitement,
the lack of fear, the infectious hope in everything these folks do and
believe. The. Damned. Hope.
The Border Patrol officer eyeballs me up and down and asks if I have any
cigarettes in my bag. I grin and say,” Yup, 15 packs of Gitanes and
Gauloises, can’t buy’em in the US anymore, y’know.”
A slight smile crosses his face and he asks about money, gold, anything
else I might try to be getting across the border. I answer that I have a
few Euros, a few dollars—maybe a total of $100 altogether. No gold, no
cheese, nada. He tells me to have a seat while they x-ray my bag. I
return to my seat. Only one thought crosses my mind now, did the YPG/J
use any paint on those flags that might show up on an x-ray? Oh well,
what the hell. I’ll find out soon enough.
As I leave the rally one last sign catches my eye, white on black, and
bold, cutting statements in French—demanding victory for the YPG. Well,
it’s the folks from the Fédération Anarchiste (FA), come to voice an
opinion. I saunter over and introduce myself, they know me a bit, I know
them a bit. I am invited back to their infoshop just off the Place de la
République. I sit for a while, tell them what I’d seen in Rojava. They
ask questions. I have some answers—not many. I walk around their space,
buy a few posters, thank them and leave. Now, a short night’s sleep, a
long day’s flight, and home.
The Border Patrol officer calls me to his window. I am now frustrated
and angry and hope I can hold my tongue. He looks me up and down one
last time and says,” Mr. Errante, you can proceed. Your bags will be put
back on the plane. Sorry for any inconvenience.”
“No inconvenience at all, really,” I respond. And with that final lie I
leave Preclearance, feeling very much, sodomized.
At the San Francisco airport I debark the plane and walk slowly toward
the bag claim. It’s taken me 26 hours to travel what should have taken
13. My back and legs ache and my head feels like a tree is growing in
it. As I round the final corner my compañera appears up ahead. She
smiles and we walk quickly to each other. I touch her hand, it is cool
and warm, it feels like love. We embrace, I smell her hair, and I
whisper,” I made it.”
“Home,” is all she replies. The sound of her voice--dusky, low,
familiar— tells me the rest.
(My name is El Errante. My name is Paul Z. Simons. Thanks for
reading—hope you enjoyed the Dispatches.)