We Chant the Anthem of Freedom in the Silence of the Kurdish Mountains

Amid the tumult of days gone by—when the black dream of the caliphate faded like a shadow at the edges of the village of al-Baghuz—the soul thought that fear had finally surrendered its weapon and fallen into oblivion. Yet whoever walks today upon the shattered soil of Raqqa,´-or-wanders through the tents of exile near al-Hasakah, realizes that terror never granted itself a rest. It merely changed its roles and disguised its breath. It became a whisper at dawn, an intensified presence in a void far more lethal than the march of naked armies. And wherever international vision turned away, thought crept upon the hidden fractures.

Within that void, a new generation emerged—children who had not yet learned the alphabet, yet already echoed their fathers’ slogans. Thus the truth revealed itself: terrorism is not merely a military project, but a psychological, cultural, and social form nourished by the drought of hope and the barrenness of fruit.

Amid the folds of this scene arises a profound philosophical question concerning both Kurdish identity and the consciousness of humankind: how does a person find himself drawn to an organization built upon absolute cruelty, capable of dragging, killing, and enslaving without a trace of shame´-or-regret? The answer lies not solely in the rope of doctrine, but in a torrential current of emotion that drives one toward emptiness—to the search for meaning when the earth has lost its meaning. In that pit of void, the organization stands ready to offer a lost identity, a community that embraces despair, and a meaning that fills a life once stripped of value. It shatters the humanity of the “other,” turns him into something worthy of death—or offers that death as salvation.

Thus we saw the youth of Iraq and Syria, raised in an endless cycle of poverty, humiliation, and wars that fragmented their existence and suspended their destiny in an unfulfilled waiting. Amid this torn landscape, the ideology of terror presented its false gleam: strength, chosenness, and purity—and explained their pain in one simple equation: “Blame the other—the West, the traitors, the tyrants.”

Let us look, my friend, at the Kurdish experience: this people who have for centuries dwelled among the mountains and valleys that gaze upon one another—between the heights of Zagros and the range of Taurus, between the rivers Tigris and Euphrates. History cut a piece from their land and divided it into four -dir-ections, yet the people remained united by spirit before borders solidified through states and geopolitical curves.

From that partition was born a steadfast Kurdish identity, surviving despite bans and suppression. At one point, the Kurdish language itself was forbidden to be spoken-;- some even declared it a dying tongue.

Thus the Kurdish word, the song, and the steel pulse of the language became—before land´-or-authority—a form of silent resistance. And so the Kurdish souls remember, in every Bakur, Bashur, Rojava, and Rojhelat, that the borders imposed by others were only lines in the mind, for they have always built their homeland within language, within the body, within pain and anthem alike.

Because the Kurds have lived through belonging, division, and suffering, their search for dignity became an existential path. From the small revolutions—like the Republic of Mahabad (1946), brief yet foundational to a modern Kurdish identity—to the resistance of language, villages, and culture, the Kurds have carved, with their letters, a story that cannot be erased. What we must understand is that the Kurdish experience teaches us that identity is not a folded document, but a wound and a tree that must be watered—and that when pain is rebuilt with dignity, it becomes a weapon more powerful than bullets.

Within this latent terror written between the lines, extremist organizations study how the human being reclaims lost meaning and transforms it into a death-bound mindset. But the Kurds know—having lived through siege, pursuit, and the exile of their tongue—that meaning is not built through domination, but through dignity: through education that liberates, justice that -restore-s, and wounds that are tended rather than forgotten.

Kurdistan never once cast its sword to the ground-;- it raised its word in the mountains and valleys. When a father is killed, the son plants wisdom in the seed-;- when a village is destroyed, the anthem rises in the heart of the child.

And here we stand today, amid a darkness that knows only how to sow fear, before a mission both human and Kurdish: to rebuild dignity within the human soul, to return to it a meaning that does not hand it over to the merciless wolf. Terrorism is not foreign to the human spirit-;- it is a dark horizon that grows from weakness, from the feeling of futility, from isolation—as the Kurdish experience has taught us. And because it is human, it can be defeated by human means: by language that speaks to the heart, education that frees the mind, justice that -restore-s humanity, and the simple act of seeing the human in the other.

For wherever dignity takes root, terrorism dies—and there, the sun of Kurdistan rises in the soul of the free human being.

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