When Mountains Speak and the World Stays Quiet

To those who write history in the ink of others—wait. For in the far corners of this East, there are names still unwritten, voices yet unheard, and a people who carved the chapters of tragedy with their flesh, but were absent from the prologue.

In this forsaken corner of geography—where rifles are born from the womb of murdered justice, and intentions are watered not by rain but by blood—the Kurds stand at a crossroads. Not between war and peace, but between a heavy silence and a yawning abyss. And silence, yes, it has a scent—like the smell of delayed funerals. And calm, too, has a shape—like the stillness of a legal trap dressed as diplomacy.

Since the roar of rifles fell quiet, hearts have not. They beat faster. The mountains still cradle weapons that remain untriggered. Drones circle above—not to announce war, but to dictate the terms of an ending without a victor. But what kind of peace is this, imposed from above, beneath the gaze of surveillance, and whispered into the ears of the silenced?

To demand that the Kurdish people surrender their arms before returning their stolen rights—is like asking the prisoner to kiss his chains. Weapons, though once a means, were never an end. Yet when the doors of politics are shut, and the windows of justice are nailed closed, steel becomes a language that only stone can understand—not parliaments.

Qandil—yes, that rugged spine of the resistance—is a mirror of this paradox: no war declared, no peace proclaimed. No marching soldiers, no retreating ones. Just time, slowly eroding will, draining clarity, thinning the field of purpose. Is this the calm of wisdom,´-or-the quiet of a grave?

You ask why the operations stopped. Why the guns fell silent. Why statements grew rare. But absence of noise is not presence of peace. This may be the fog before the deal. And what kind of deal is struck when one of the parties doesn’t even know what’s being written in its name? What kind of table is it, where the Kurds are forbidden to sit—yet asked to sign?

And Iran—once the master of whispers and shadows—now stumbles, caught between domestic unraveling and regional retreat. It no longer holds the strings it once pulled. But its appetite for sabotage hasn’t yet starved. It lingers—not as a force, but as a shadow-;- not as a partner, but as a storm without lightning.

Let no one forget what happened in Hawraman, in Hakurk, in Darbandikhan. Memory still clings to the moments when General Soleimani offered the Kurds rifles—if only they d abandon their dream. He knew they could not be bought. Yet he tried, as many have, to twist the one truth they cannot bend: that rights are not requested—they are reclaimed.

To speak of disarmament without speaking of justice is deceit dressed in legal robes. Negotiations that ignore the prisoners, deny the identity, erase the language from schools—these are not talks. These are traps. And can a people be freed through traps?

So to the sons and daughters of this broken East, and to those who thought Qandil had fallen silent—know this: mountains do not grow quiet, they contemplate. They do not retreat, they reconfigure. They do not discard their weapons—they hide them when the moment does not deserve their roar.

And to Turkey—if you seek a genuine peace, begin not with weapons, but with memory. Acknowledge that this people has a history still unwritten, a land still unreclaimed, an identity still unrecognized, and a resistance still misunderstood. To think that your drones can shape a future atop the ruins of hope—that is a delusion no wind of history will sustain.

We do not wager on wars—we wager on reason. We do not sanctify rifles—we sanctify dignity. But dignity is not protected by declarations, it is guarded by stances. Whoever expects the Kurds to lay down their arms before securing their future, has yet to grasp what it means to be born Kurdish in this crooked world.

Let it be said clearly, now:
No peace without dignity.
No state without shared power.
No memory without recognition.
And no end to this conflict until Turkey opens its heart before its borders, and reads the truth before it rewrites the law.

And in the end—let the mountain hear, the capital hear, the exiled hear:
The Kurds, though weary, have not forgotten.
Though silent, their silence is not an end, but the beginning of a different dialogue—written in cleaner ink, spoken in a freer voice, and crafted in the language of justice at last.

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