Between the Swords of Tyrants and the Cunning of Politicians: The Kurds in the Maze of Geography and Blood

In a land torn apart by the cruelty of tyrants and the inferno of invaders, the morning was never a harbinger of good fortune-;- it was the bearer of a renewed tragedy—a wound that stubbornly refuses to heal. Damascus shakes off the ashes of its own despotism, only to witness fresh fires igniting amid the brittle brush. There, amidst the ruins of justice’s illusions and in the debris of shattered hope, executioners unfurl black banners and chant slogans of deliverance—yet they are but shifting shadows of the very same monstrous force.

In the north, where the hearts of a nation continue to beat unbroken despite the sword and the flame, the oppressors ready their arrows and unleash them upon children who have known nothing but the language of crashing waves and radiant sun. Blood stains the banks of the Euphrates, an echoing lament reverberates through the alleys of Afrin, and history seems to repeat itself—as if cursed in the eternal chronicle of humankind.

Turkey, mistress of deceit, intones a proclamation of peace with a tongue dripping with the residue of wars past, offering an olive branch tainted by the blood of the crucified. What sort of peace is this? A peace that erases names, obliterates homelands, and sows fear in place of hope? If the mountains possessed tongues, they would recite the ancient covenant—the covenant of those who stood between sword and chains and defiantly declared, “No.”

And what of the West? It sees without truly perceiving, hears without genuinely listening, mastering the art of silence when words become a luxury, extending a hand of aid when none is needed. It combats terrorism when it lies far beyond its borders, yet when terror looms over the voiceless, it averts its gaze and turns its face away—as if justice were the exclusive right of those who hold its scales!

But does the wind fwhen challenged by unyielding rocks? Do flames die down when fanned by treacherous hands? No—in hardship, resolve only deepens-;- dawn is born from the ashes of a weighty night, and the banners of those who refuse to be mere shadows on their own soil—or scattered fragments in foreign lands—rise ever higher.

And if politics is merely a game of self-interest, then history remembers only those who refused to be mere pieces on a chessboard—those who do not submit, nor bend, even when the earth and sky conspire against them.

O world, engrossed in dividing the spoils, is it not a disgrace that the blood of the innocent fuels the relentless machine of war? Is it not incumbent upon you to learn from the lessons of the past? For history will one day judge your collective conscience: either you will stand as an impregnable bulwark against darkness,´-or-you will be complicit in a crime inscribed in letters of blood upon the pages of the century. Choose your path wisely, and know that the relentless cycle of time may well return to you the fruits of your own making.

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