When I crossed the border into north-east Syria from the Iraqi side in mid-April, the major Iranian attack on Israel with over 300 drones had taken place only a few days before. On the way to Israel, several of these drones hit other targets, including the US embassy in Erbil in northern Iraq. Every journey to the areas of the autonomous self-administration, known as Rojava in Kurdish, usually starts from there. Rojava covers a third of Syria, meaning that a large part of the country is under the administration of a democratic, multi-ethnic government.
It is not only the effects of the Gaza war that are being felt in Erbil. The Turkish government's rapprochement with both Baghdad and the autonomous Kurdish government is also inexorably making progress. The autocrat is expected in Erbil in a few days' time - I will later receive pictures of the famous citadel dating back to the Neo-Assyrian era, wrapped in the Turkish flag. Both the Turkish visit and the homage paid to Erdoğan by the autonomous government under the feudal lord Barzani signal the beginning of a new military alliance that has been forged to take joint action against Kurdish guerrillas in the north.
Only one open border left
Meanwhile, the Sêmalka border crossing is busy, marked by much bustling about. Old people, young people and many families with small children are carrying heavy pieces of luggage into a check-in hall and routinely lining up in long queues in front of various counters. I do the same. Many are holding European or other foreign passports in their hands. Over five million Syrians are now living in exile, driven away by war and violence.
The travellers just in front of me in the queue want to visit their seriously ill father one last time or finally see relatives again who found it too difficult to flee the war zone years ago. In all the conversations, we quickly settle on the topic of the poor living situation in north-east Syria. Even though the atmosphere in the waiting room is rather relaxed and everyone is excited about their upcoming reunions on the other side of the border, all the people we talk to share a concern about what awaits them. Everyone knows about the war and the poor situation surrounding the supply of essential goods. "We have medicines and other useful materials in our luggage," explains a young mother who once lived in Qamişlo and has found a new home in Cologne, opening a stuffed backpack to prove it. Then I finally find a seat in a crowded minibus that takes us across the raging Tigris on a rickety pontoon bridge.
Following a similar procedure at the self-administration border station - pictures of Öcalan are hung up in the offices instead of Barzani, and the staff give me a friendly welcome - I head straight on to Qamişlo. The Medico partners are waiting for me there. Within the first few kilometres, we come across a US tank, its flag hoisted and visible from afar. Geopolitics is omnipresent in north-east Syria. US and Russian military convoys, countless military bases and Turkey's border wall with its oversized flags never make you forget how fiercely contested the region is. As absurd as it sounds: To this day, the US military is the most important guarantor and partner of the self- administration.
Since the common struggle against Islamic State (IS), which Kurdish self-defence units won with the support of the anti-IS coalition, thereby suffering high casualties, the US military and the Kurdish units have enjoyed a close but fragile partnership. In view of Donald Trump's possible re-election, however, many are wondering whether US troops may withdraw, just like back in 2019. At that time, Turkey seized the opportunity and occupied a border strip around Serekaniye. Hundreds of thousands of people were displaced. At the time, the self-administration appealed to the Syrian regime for support. Since then, Russia has also become a geopolitical player in the region. Rojava is the region where the world comes together.
The Kurdish Crescent minibus continues along the dusty and brittle road. We quickly become engrossed in discussions. I am not surprised when I am told that the political situation in Rojava has also changed since the Hamas attack on 7 October and the ensuing war against the Palestinian population. Iranian militias in north-east Syria are now more active, regularly attacking US military bases and contributing to the destabilisation of the entire region. What effect would Trump's possible election have? All travellers agree on how important each and every US base is in these fragile times in the Middle East.
Under fire
As if it wasn't already enough, the Turkish government changed its strategy last year and began systemically destroying important infrastructure with rocket fire and the targeted use of drones. This included a power plant producing electricity that was important for supplying the population as well as oil refineries. There has been no continuous electricity or water supply for months. Almost 90 per cent of the infrastructure has now been destroyed and reconstruction seems virtually impossible. Billions of dollars would have to be invested and there is a shortage of spare parts everywhere. The Kurdish human rights organisation Right Defense Initiative (RDI) is documenting the extent of the attacks in order to be able to fight for justice one day. To this end, they are already working with international criminal prosecution authorities.
We have now arrived in Qamişlo. This is where the real journey begins, with the agenda featuring visits to civil infrastructure projects, social institutions and human rights organisations. Most of the shops and facilities I pass are powered by noisy and dirty generators or small solar panels. Power cuts characterise everyday life in Rojava - a direct effect of Turkish strikes on the infrastructure.
So that I can witness the destruction myself, the RDI employees are planning a visit with me to places that have been bombed: We want to go to the Siwêdiyê power station, a gas station and a printing works in Qamişlo. All of them are used for civilian purposes and, according to international law, it is a war crime to deliberately destroy civilian infrastructure. But on the morning of the planned tour, I receive a WhatsApp message from the head of the organisation: "Drone alert". We have to cancel the visits. The RDI security system is working. It would be too dangerous to go to potential destinations now. Just two days ago, a Turkish drone came down on an oil field. In 2024 alone, Turkey killed 28 people and injured 44 others in 103 drone attacks.
We decide to visit other places that have been hit where we can feel safer. In Qamişlo, we make an appointment at the only dialysis centre in the region, where we meet the manager, Gulîstan. She was there when the centre was shelled on 24 January this year. There were 20 patients and eight nurses in the building with her. The attacks targeted the facility behind the building, where oxygen was produced and bottled. The plant has now been completely destroyed; the machines have been perforated and storage containers scattered about.
Gulîstan collects shrapnel from the ground and pours it into my hands. She tells me about the evening on which the attacks took place. Although all the patients could be brought to safety in the attacks, two people died in the following days because they could no longer be treated. The dialysis centre had to shut down completely for a month and is now only operating to a limited extent. It actually treats up to 70 patients and performs 600 dialyses a month. Oxygen for the therapy now has to be procured from private companies, which is extremely expensive and, unlike in the past, often has to be paid for by the patients themselves.
Gulîstan looks in our direction. "We can't rebuild the oxygen system," she says helplessly. "We have no resources and no spare parts. Some patients are bound to die and there's nothing we can do about it."
We drive on to Berivan Mihemed's parents. They live in a busy neighbourhood in Qamişlo. An old man wearing a suit opens the door for us and leads us through the courtyard into the living room. It is Berivan's father. He quickly begins to talk about his only daughter, of whom he was so proud; he struggles to find words for the huge void that her death has left in the family. Berivan was in her mid-20s and had been working in the print shop in Qamişlo for five years, printing magazines, school books and textbooks. "She wanted to support our family with her job. She wanted to make our arduous everyday lives a little easier," her father relates haltingly. He remembers exactly how he climbed onto the roof terrace after the night-time attacks on the morning of 25 December 2023 and saw billows of smoke rising from where the print shop was located. He hurried down the stairs, jumped into his car and drove off. But it was too late. The building was completely torn apart and his daughter was already in hospital. But there was nothing left to save at the clinic, either. When he arrived, his daughter had already died.
Berivan's mother joins them. She puts up a picture. Tears are running down her cheeks. The loss is deep. "Can there be justice? Where can we find it?" she asks, probably already aware of the answer.
Hardly anyone outside Syria is still looking to Rojava, where countless crimes are being committed over and over again. They will continue to go unpunished for many years to come without being noticed or investigated.
Support remains absent
We leave the house and make our way to the emergency aid organisation Kurdish Red Crescent (KRH), which was able to open the first civilian prosthesis workshop in 2023. Thousands of people who have lost limbs in the war receive care here. KRH headquarters are quartered in the same building. From here, operations are planned, projects are managed and over 1,000 employees are coordinated throughout north-east Syria. There are two larger buildings at the site that are equipped to care for burn victims and provide cancer treatment. They are both out of operation - international donors have departed despite other agreements. It is not the only aid project that has come to a standstill.
What the cut in international funding can mean for aid projects and people in need becomes particularly evident when I visit the "Washokani" refugee camp near Hasakeh. Almost 17,000 people from Serêkaniyê and the surrounding vicinity have been living there since 2019, displaced by attacks conducted by the Turkish army. The KRH runs a primary health clinic there providing basic healthcare. Until now, in acute emergencies patients have always been taken to the hospital under the control of the Syrian regime in al-Hasakah. There was an agreement with the World Health Organisation (WHO), whose hospitals are far better equipped. This programme has now also been discontinued, however. The same applies to healthcare in the al-Hol camp. The closed camp is home to 50,000 people, almost all of whom have IS connections. It is completely unclear how emergency patients are to be treated in future.
Two small children have already died of dehydration in the Washokani camp this year. The refugee camps are extremely hard hit by the heat and inadequate infrastructure. Although small solar panels have been installed to provide lighting and mobile phone charging stations, there is not enough for much more.
"The international donors tell us they have no money left," reports Dilgesh Issa, the director of the Kurdish Red Crescent, later. "We are told that resources are needed elsewhere. We understand this, but the humanitarian situation here is also more dramatic than it has been for a long time."
Independent reports corroborate his statement. The inadequate supply of essential resources also has an impact on the health sector; at the beginning of the year, the UN Human Rights Council declared a humanitarian crisis. Many injuries and illnesses are due to inadequate supplies of essential goods - be it cholera caused by contaminated water or burns because old gas cylinders have to be used again and again. The price of gas has risen tenfold, prompting people to search for cheaper alternatives.
Colours fade
After more than a week in the region, I make my way back to the border. The road we take runs almost parallel to the border wall erected by Turkey in 2017. The Turkish flag waves ostentatiously. The towns on the other side would only be a few minutes' drive away if it weren't for the wall. Things are not looking good for the democratic project of the autonomous self-administration in northern and eastern Syria. Between geopolitical interests and Islamists, the self-administration lacks a status recognised under international law that would allow it to negotiate its own future on the international diplomatic stage.
The colours of the revolution are fading noticeably. Many people are simply running out of energy, the democratic awakening and hopes for a better life are fading. In this imposed hopelessness, moving to Europe would appear to be the only prospect of survival for many.
In spite of it all, I can still recall some conversations with people who refuse to be intimidated and want to hold on to their democratic achievements. The head of the Women's Commission, Ewa Pirosî, put it this way at a dinner together: "No one can take away our experience of shaping a society ourselves, with dignity and recognition. We have fought for rights that we are not prepared to give up again. This will sustain us for a very long time."
The text was first published on 26 July 2024 in the daily newspaper nd.
