The Turkish government has not led an independent investigation into this matter, it has merely ignored the legitimate grievances of Kurdish people, and continues to treat Kurdish people indiscriminately. You can read some of our previous coverage of this incident:

(1) 34 Kurdish civilians killed by Turkish warplanes – Video
(2) AKR calls for protests against Turkish brutality towards Kurds
(3) Kurds in London hold protest in memory of Uludere victims
(4) Turkish General Staff knew Uludere victims were not PKK rebels
(5) BDP refers Turkish air raids to Hague Court

A Fatal Census

Kime ez? asked Cegerxwîn (1903 – 1984), a celebrated Kurdish poet. Who am I? Nobody, the Syrian government answered, you do not exist.

In August 1962 the Syrian government ordered a census in the province of Hasakeh which was carried out in October 1962. The province is situated in the northern parts of Syria and mostly inhabited by Kurds seeing as this area is the western part of Kurdistan that was divided between Turkey, Iran, Iraq and Syria as a consequence of the Lausanne Treaty in 1923.

The census was fatal for the Kurds as it resulted in 120.000 Kurds loosing their Syrian citizenship and thus their rights. The number of stateless Kurds has according to Human Rights Watch since then only continued to grow to a number of 300.000 because children of the stateless, born and raised in Syria, have not been given citizenship either.

In April 2011 the Syrian dictator Bashar al-Assad said he would grant the Kurds citizenship. This did not cause much joy for two reasons. First, only registered Kurds would be given official identity papers while non-registered would remain stateless. Second, it was a poor way to keep the Kurds, who consitute 10 – 15 % of the Syrian population, from joining the anti-regime protests that had begun only weeks earlier.

You Deserved To Be Gassed!

They say the uprising started in Damascus, March 2011. No, it started in Qamişlo, March 2004. A report from KurdWatch that gathers information about violation of human rights against Kurds within the Syrian borders closely describes what happened on March 12, 2004.

A football match was to be played at the stadium in Qamişlo. The team al-Futuwah was an Arabic team from Deir ez Zor and the other team, al-Jihad, was from Qamişlo. According to the Danish Refugee Council quoted in the report, an eyewitness said that the supporters of al-Futuwah had not been checked by security before entering the stadium and that they brought weapon in the form of knives, sticks and stones with them.

A journalist sitting in the press box observed that the supporters of al-Futuwah prior to the game had kept shouting: “Fallujah, Fallujah!” after which they started attacking the other team’s supporters with the sticks and stones they had brought with them. According to the report, “Fallujah” was a way for the supporters of al-Futuwah to show their support to Saddam Hussein, one of the worst oppressors in the history of Kurds, who in 1988 ordered the gassing of the Kurdish town Halabja which killed more than 5.000 people and injured more than 10.000.

While the attack took place, three young men came to the press box and asked another journalist, who was to comment on the match on radio, if he would announce that three children had been killed during the attack. The news spread and people from the nearest towns came to the stadium in such large numbers that the journalist described the stadium as being besieged. But the death of the three children soon proved wrong and people both inside and outside the stadium grew calm.

The peace did not last long as people soon began to throw with rocks and the police, military and intelligence service arrived to the stadium.

The report remarks that the security made a mistake by shooting into the air and thus frightening people; they should have instead tried dissolving the growing angry crowd with other measures. The first mentioned journalist said according to the report that supporters of al-Futuwah called out to the Kurds: “Saddam Hussein treated you they way you deserve to be treated!”

At this point the security people stepped in and split up the two groups. The Kurds were told to leave while al-Futuwah supporters remained inside the stadium.

According to eyewitnesses the security consisting of the police, military and intelligence shot and even killed Kurds who protested al- Futuwahs discriminating heckling by saying “Long live Kurdistan.” A witness said that security was being untruthful when it later claimed that the Kurds were shooting back: “Even the government have not stated this.”

9 people died on the 12th of March 2004. The Kurdish parties made an agreement with the government; if they were allowed to bury their murdered Kurds without the involvement of the police, they would make sure to keep the funeral procession under control. A journalist described the procession joined by tens of thousands of people as being quiet. Kurds waved the Kurdish flag, a few cried out in anger at Bashar al-Assad and others threw rocks at a statue of Assad’s father, Hafez al-Assad, a man so feared and infamous that before one did not even dare point their fingers at pictures of him. But other Kurds stopped them from throwing stones and the mourners continued walking towards the city hall.

At some point during the march one could hear shots from a military base nearby. Nothing happened and the procession continued. The journalist who had walked with the mourners left them to visit a lawyer whose office had a view over the square where the march had passed through. He was standing near the window when a car drove by. The car was open in the back and 7-8 men were sitting facing the square with their machine guns. They drove up to the few mourners at the back of the funeral procession and shot them. That day 23 people died.

The word about the killings spread and soon hell broke loose. People in the Kurdish towns set public buildings on fire while large demonstrations were held abroad in solidarity with the Kurds and support of the much anticipated uprising against al-Assad.

According to the report sources say that the Kurdish TV-channel ROJ TV, broadcasting from Denmark, was an important factor in mobilising the Kurds and gathering them at demonstrations in dimensions never seen before in West Kurdistan. The government’s crack down on the protests was brutal, and the Kurdish voice was once again brought to silence.

A Kurdish Dragon

Ketin xewê, ketin xewê, ketin xewa zilm û zorê, ketin xewa bindestiyê. They have been lulled into a deep sleep by the oppressor, Cegerxwîn said about the Kurds.
In the time after the uprising no one dared say a word about al-Assad. Many families had either lost a son to death or to the security service who usually came early in the morning and took the young Kurdish men away. My friend, who had only been out to buy bread on March 12, was brought home to his mom alive after one month in a jail in Damascus, tortured and with his teeth missing.

The grief of Kurds was deeper than the wells in their garden, it was a grief that paralysed the town and rest of West Kurdistan. Qamişlo was dead because its sons were dead. The Kurdish mothers tore their hair and ripped their clothes apart, the Kurdish fathers rocked back and forth with tears dripping down on the palms of their hands and the Kurdish sisters and brothers sat side by side, numb and with their heads falling first against their chest, then the wall.

The windows of Qamişlo are barred. The bars are shaped as flowers, fountains and sunrises but it does not change the fact that the town is a prison. The question is how can dead people tear off the window bars and demand freedom?
I was sitting in a livingroom in Qamişlo in January 2011, only weeks before the uprising in Syria began, and watching the people in Tunis overthrow Ben Ali. I once again asked the elder Kurds what this meant to them and what they would do. Nothing, they answered, never will we rise against al-Assad. I asked the young Kurds what they would do. They did not answer but I could see a fire in them I had never seen before.

Belê em in ejdehayê, ji xewa dili, siyar bûn niha, Cegerxwîn writes. The sleep of the Kurds will not last forever; the Kurdish people is a dragon that will awaken, ready to fight all injustice done to it.

The dragon is my generation, the dragon are the young men and women. Their sleep is not as deep as the sleep of their parents.
They are alive. They are Kurdistan.

The Kurdish region of Syria has continued to see campaigns and protests against the Assad regime, of which this girl and the men she leads are a small part of. The relationship between the formal Kurdish opposition and the Syrian National Council has been rocky of late, with SNC leader Burhan Ghalioun saying that “There is no such thing as a Syrian Kurdistan.” Ghalioun’s comment was poorly received, particularly in the context of the Kurdish National Council’s separation from the SNC the month before, and sparked protests in support of Kurdish rights throughout the Kurdish region.

"Ghalioun, Kurdistan is right here."

The Kurdish people and local revolutionary groups have been very active in organizing visible efforts against the regime. One of the many creative ways Kurds have resisted against the regime is through sweetness. In particul, this Kurdish LCC in Rukn al Deen, Damascus wrap candies and sweets with revolutionary messages and distribute them throughout the city. That simple nonviolent act serves to spread their revolutionary message throughout the city in a lasting and meaningful way.

This Friday’s protests brought many Syrian Kurds to the streets to celebrate the revolution in their own unique way. Kurds waved Syrian and Kurdish flags (sewn into the same flag in some cases), and sang “Biji Kurdistan” (Long live Kurdistan) as part of a Kurdish remix of the popular revolutionary song “Yallah Irhel Ya Bashar”.

Although this Friday’s wave of protests was called “Victory from God” in most of Syria, some Kurdish neighborhoods held signs referring to the day as “Friday of Celebrating Kurds in Aleppo”, in recognition of the Kurdish minority across the city that are often unrecognized.

For a full round up of videos, articles, and pictures of Kurds in Syria protesting against the regime, visit our page on Crowdvoice.

The history of Kurdish people is largely unknown, not because it is impossible to find out about Kurds, but simply because the Kurdish cause has not been sensationalised. Among Muslims little sympathy is shown to Kurdish people, despite the fact that majority of Kurds are Muslims, making them 40 Million stateless people, in comparison to 4 Million Palestinians that have world sympathy. The difference being; the former is Kurdish while the latter is Arab. Palestinian struggle has become internalised within university campuses, Islamic lectures and Muslim-populated countries as an ‘Islamic cause’ while the Kurdish cause has not been.

Kurds have been subject to multiple genocides, from the recent massacre of Halabja in 1988 where thousands of Kurds were indsicrimiantely killed through poisonous chemical gas sanctioned by the former Iraqi President Saddam Hussein, to Dersim massacre. In the Dersim massacre 40,000 to 70,000 Kurdish people were killed in Turkey, and others were displaced.

Last year I wrote an article highlighting the harrowing accounts of rape that Kurdish women faced, and the indiscriminate killing of thousands. You can read that here.

Kurdish Twitter users have tried to raise awareness about the Dersim Genocide through social media under the hashtag #GenocideinDersim. Here are of the highlights:

“Thousands of Kurds including women & children, were slain; others, mostly children, were thrown into the Euphrates” #GenocideInDersim

— Kamal Chomani (@KamalChomani) May 4, 2012

Turkey’s history is full of genocides and massacres by successive goverments #GenocideInDersim — Shakawan (@Shakawan) May 4, 2012

b’coz the army bricked up the entrances of the caves. These caves are marked with numbers on the military maps of the area #GenocideInDersim — Tara Fatehi (@TaraFatehi) May 4, 2012

Although 70 years have passed, Turkey is not willing to acknowledge this Genocide like many other Genocides in Kurdistan. #GenocideInDersim

— Yekbun (@Yekbuns) May 4, 2012

“Those responsible for the deaths of thousands of people have never been tried nor have they been brought out into light” #GenocideInDersim

— Yekbun (@Yekbuns) May 4, 2012

#GenocideInDersim was only the start of a long & devastating physical and psychological massacre Kurds suffered under the Republic of Turkey

— Ehmedê Xanî (@KurdSeT) May 4, 2012

Speak of what happened in Dersim. Don’t let history forgive. #GenocideInDersim

— Lawen Azad (@LawenAzad) May 4, 2012

Burcu Ozcelebi is a teacher at Express Language Schools in Antalya

Hundreds of children have been poisoned by milk earlier today in Turkey, the majority of these children were Kurdish. It is unclear whether this was poor governmental management or lack of monitoring which has caused this at this stage, but the Turkish government has responded by saying the allegations of poisoning are merely psychological.

A teacher at ELS Express Language school responded by saying, ‘I wish they had done that long time ago’ in response to a tweet, which mentioned that hundreds of Kurdish children were food poisoned. The tweet has since been removed, but we have a screen-shot of it (as we do with most racist comments).

We have contacted the ELS to make sure Burcu Ozcelebi is held responsible for perpetuating racism on social media, especially given her role as a teacher in Turkey. We encourage our supporters to send a letter to ELS, expressing outrage at the comments of Burcu Ozcelebi.

Address: Kırcami Mahallesi, Avni Tolunay Caddesi, Bal İşmerkezi 1-2-3 Antalya, Türkiye Kırcami ve Kırcami Muhtarlığı yanı, Sante Onkoloji Laboratuarı üstü

Tel:+90 242 322 97 00 GSM +0505 631 40 66

Fax: +90 242 322 97 00

Email: info@elsturkey.com

Kurdish women meeting in London on International Women's day - 2012

I don’t mean to underestimate the harrowing accounts of honour-based violence or killings that have been reported over the years, but I’m increasingly irritated by a western oriental narrative of Kurdish women, as victims of honour. We are not all victims of honour, in fact our history testifies to this. Don’t misunderstand me here, inequality and patriarchy exists within Kurdish dominated societies, but it does not mean we are all idle victims under patriarchal systems which have been imposed on us, on the contrary we are at the forefront of challenging patriarchy.

It is convenient for contemporary writers and speakers to paint a picture of Kurdish women as weak, unable to speak or challenge inequality. In doing so, they secure themselves a platform upon which they can reinforce stereotypes in front of a western audience.

We are women of strength, and the hard work of our foremothers ensured the survival of our nation. They worked side by side with men, to ensure that our Kurdish identity survived, but they did not get the responses they should have, or the appreciation they deserved. Many forgotten, and unknown but of those that remain, they will remain in our hearts and are examples of female leadership. The female soldiers, or as we know them; Pêşmerge exemplify for much of our history, the strength of Kurdish women.

In my recent trip to Hewler, which is located in Southern Kurdistan I met countless young Kurdish activists and feminists who continued to fight for equality. They looked like ordinary girls, but in fact did extraordinary things.

To escape the world where patriarchy was given precedence, Shanaz built a wall of books around her bed. The books of Gloria Steinman and Jessica Valenti were neatly put on top of each other to form, what seemed like a house of books. Her room carefully colour-coordinated, books piled up on top of each other, not on bookshelves but on the floor, categorised and ripped in parts. ‘You keep a pretty collection, I smiled’ as I ran my hand through the books, a feminist haven for Shanaz, who had hoped to re-create a society where female leadership was prominent and egalitarianism given precedence. ‘The books nourish the mind, while society tries to destroy it’ Shanaz remarked sarcastically, and as I would come to know her in the coming months, she proved to be a thinker, and not much of writer. She did not use social networking sites, despite my pleas, but made regular efforts to educate young girls about their rights.

Her odd ways did not put me off, and I was happy to learn from her, as much as I irritated her with my continuous strain of questions, she answered them. Shanaz was the type of person that didn’t want to become socially known, but exerted influence slowly within society, without making a fuss. Shanaz regularly visited the homeless shelter houses, orphanages, children’s hospitals and elderly homes, she would make notes on their enquiries and write lists of things they requested, sometimes she would be able to deliver, and when she didn’t, it evidently made her upset.

On one occasion, one of the terminally ill children had requested to visit Paris, but the child’s condition was not suitable, and in a typical Hollywood-like attitude, where if one can’t go to Paris, they would bring Paris to them, Shanaz tried to recreate the Eiffel tower with newspapers and Christmas lights. In the end, it looked more like a tree, sprinkled with colourful dots than a tower.

That day we ended up having sun seeds in the balcony, while overlooking the mesmerising beauty of Hewler, one of the oldest cities in the world. Shanaz is one of the many young Kurdish women are who is eager to develop the prosperous Kurdish region into a society where women are treated equally, and not sexually harassed in public. She is not a victim of honour, and those who continuously perpetuate the myth that we are all victims of honour do more to harm us, than help.

Ali Güneş was a high-school teacher who took part in a demonstration against the 2004 NATO summit in Istanbul. He was subject to ill-treatment by Turkish police, and pepper sprayed. The court concluded that there was no justification for the usage of tear gas against Ali Güneş, and that the police were negligent for not conducting an investigation in regard to his complaints.

In 2004, Ali Güneş participated in a demonstration against the NATO summit in Istanbul. He is a High-school teacher, and member of the Education and Science Worker’s Union and of the confederation of Public Workers’ Unions. On 28 June 2004, he was unarmed, and staged a peaceful demonstration with his colleagues. The police “grabbed him by the arms, sprayed him with tear gas and beat him up”. Afterwards, he was taken to a police station and kept for 11 hours.

On 7 September 2004, Ali Güneş brought proceeding against the police in regard to his ill-treatment during a peaceful demonstration. On 10 June 2004, the Turkish court ruled that an offence was not committed.

The European court of Human rights ruled, although tear gas is not recognised as a chemical weapon by the 1993 convention on the prohibition of the development, production, stockpiling and use of chemical weapons, and their destructions, there was concern in regard to its usage for law enforcement. The council of Europe’s committee for the prevention of Torture (CPT) has warned that the usage of tear-gas in confined spaces could be dangerous.

The court was in agreement with CPT that the usage of tear-gas against Ali Güneş was not justifiable. The court also noted that the unjustifiable usage of spraying gas into Ali Güneş’ face caused him both physical and mental suffering.

In light of Article 41, the Court held that Turkey was liable to pay Ali Güneş 10,000 euros for non-pecuniary damage and 1,500 euros for costs and expenses.

Read the full case of case of Ali Güneş v. Turkey on ECHR Portal.

In a statement to AKNews, the father of one of the detainees is quoted to have said the young men were fleeing against the regimes recruitment of soldiers “because he could be sent to violent places in most parts of the country and execute orders to kill civilians, against his own Syrian brothers.”

At that time the easiest and most popular route to return to Iraqi-occupied Kurdistan, it seemed, was to book a plane journey from London to Diyarbakir with a changeover in either Istanbul or Ankara. After reaching Diyarbakir you would secure a ride in the form of the sweaty cab-drivers baked by the summer sun waiting for passengers to take to the infamous Ibrahim Khalil border (Habur Gate). From there you would hire another ride into Southern Kurdistan, where we embarked on a journey towards the town of Erbil visiting my uncle, and after several days move onto reach my parents’ hometown of Sulaymaniyah. This journey took several hours in total.

When we reached Diyarbakir, a large Kurdish city in Turkish-occupied Kurdistan, we were greeted by the sweltering heat and proceeded to the tiny terminal to retrieve our luggage from the conveyer belt. Outside countless taxis were waiting to take people to their destinations with many bound for the border. My little brother kept repeatedly asking my mum when we would reach Kurdistan, it wasn’t Kurdistan for him; he didn’t feel as comfortable as one should in their country a chief reason being the numerous Gendermie checkpoints dotted along the roads.

We finally reached the border- now a bigger challenge appeared before us. There were various vehicles stretching from the border to far up the road; the taxi driver and we tourists had to exit the cars to follow procedures in the offices situated just before the Turkish border. Upon leaving the car we were hounded by local boys attempting to sell water from the coolers slung over their shoulders- dirty young kids with wise old eyes.

This was the place I’ll never forget.

Anyone who has been to the border in that year will know what it looks like and may even be able to correct my shady recollection. I remember a row of buildings perpendicular to the border pass a couple hundred metres down the road. Opposite these buildings were a similar row of buildings, lying in-between was a dry concrete land of about 50 metres in width, possibly more. It was the peak of summer and the sun was excelling in its function. The taxi drivers along with the travelling husbands, fathers and others who needed to cross the border for reasons of their own were desperately trying to gain access into a tiny room. It was where the bulk of the work was done and the Visas were granted. A lot of women were sitting in a poorly ventilated café, which was rich with the scent of perspiration but bar the café, there were very few seats for people to rest in. Most resigned themselves to standing or leaning against a wall in the coveted shade. I sat on the curb, feet on the concrete, facing the opposite row of buildings and the empty passage in front of us.

There were about a dozen and a half local kids attempting to sell water bottles to the tourists, their ages seemed to range from 10-17. They carried coolers containing their goods of God’s gift bottled in plastic. They were repeatedly shouted at and chased away by men in green uniforms for reasons I still don’t understand although it was clear that these Turkish soldiers were under strict orders regarding who had the monopoly on providing water (the Café).

An hour or so had passed while we grew agitated in the scorching weather, still waiting for the stamp; I was entertained by the cat and mouse game between the young boys and the soldiers. The boys would skilfully emerge from gaps between the buildings gliding down into the densely populated areas exchanging bottles for money where they could- then according to demand would patrol up and down the crowd, darting away once their cover was blown to escape the violence that would be inflicted upon them by the Turkish soldiers. A young boy was too slow and subsequently received a bitter boot from the left foot of a soldier as he shouted what I can only guess were profanities in Turkish, another was hit across the face and pushed away with great force. These skirmishes happened often in the hour and started becoming more regular as the sun increased its intensity, each time the young boys approached to sell water they were at risk at catching a slap or two sprinkled with insults, before retreating to the maze of cars disappearing from sight. These kids were young Kurdish boys from the impoverished and neglected South-East of Turkey attempting to make some money for their families selling water to the parents of thirsty kids like me. I really couldn’t fathom the harm they were doing and still can’t, I was shocked to see them being hit by grown adults in that way and admired their enthusiasm and guts. We wanted water- they were providing it- there was water to purchase in the café of the same brand and the same temperature as the sort that these young boys were providing, the only difference lay in the cheaper price these young boys provided it at.

Bored; I remained waiting for my dad and the taxi driver to call us over as I sat on the dull grey curb. I was a few metres from my mother as I saw two of the young local water-sellers foolishly wander into the barren no-man’s-land between the two parallel rows of buildings. Seemingly blinded by the sun’s rays of opportunity they had strolled into the clear sight of many soldiers, further from the buildings than the others had travelled, making escape near impossible. Standing in their worn-out muddy cotton with the makeshift straps of their coolers wrapped around them they awaited buyers.

A rumbling was heard in the distance, it grew in volume as a beige four door saloon car sped towards the two young boys braking intensely alongside them. Similar to the scene of a film, the screech of the tyres averted the gazes of the hundred or so Kurdish men, women and children towards the concrete stage where our eyes widened as we awaited what was to happen next.

The car vomited out three or four fierce looking Turkish soldiers clad in dark green-these two boys froze as they realised they had fallen right into an ambush. An older officer, clearly the superior of the three, took lead with a radio in one hand grabbing the collar of one of the boys then proceeding to repeatedly pound him across the face until the boy’s face was imprinted with the ridges of the officer’s fingerprints. Everyone watched while he boomed over aggressively at these young boys, no older than 14, slapping and kicking them as his colleagues got involved in roughing them up. He took one of the thermal coolers, raised it high above his head and let it crash to the ground- spewing shards of plastic which pierced the air. He began to collect the bottles of water from the floor and unscrewed them as his colleagues followed suit and emptied them onto the impermeable ground. The same happened to the other young Kurdish boy as they stood before these Turkish soldiers losing their means of providing money for their families and being physically beaten; all the while this Kurdish crowd watched.

Not one voice was raised, not one person attempted to stop it, all that could be heard was the barking of the Turkish officer, and the sniffling of one of the Kurdish boys with the backing track of cars driving up and down the road.

Not heroin nor whisky nor vodka nor cigarettes nor condoms, they were selling water, simply water.
After filling the back of the saloon with some remaining water bottles, the soldiers entered their car and drove on into the nothingness from whence they appeared, leaving on the stage the kids with an audience staring at them intensely.

All I could think about at the time was how lonely those kids must’ve felt and how angry I felt, they looked lost and embarrassed but still managed to compose themselves enough to exit the area with the local boys. Before doing so they looked around at the bottles on the floor to see if there was anything to scavenge, there wasn’t. That was the last I saw of any of the boys.

The silence of the Kurds. It was then I realised how powerless we were, we may have been the majority and there may have been Kurdish guns a few hundred metres away nonetheless not one person seemed to dare to raise an eyebrow. The Turkish officers left quite smug with themselves, I felt as though the demonstration we had seen was as much for the Kurdish people present as it was for the poor water sellers.

Everyone forgot the incident a minute or two later and carried on with conversations that had paused. I went on to have a holiday and returned to the border a month later. After having to let the Turkish officers rummage through our luggage at the border, in search of contraband in the form of anything Kurdish, we were eventually waved through. As we passed we drove alongside the row of buildings, I turned my head and gazed, smiling as I saw young Kurdish boys with bright blue water coolers.

That was resistance. This was Kurdistan.