The Strings of Freedom… Between the Flute of Silence and the Drums of Oblivion

In the desert of forgetfulness, where voices fade into the shifting sands of politics and history sprouts thorns in the side of justice, the strings of freedom play a melody heard only by the heart of the oppressed. The Kurd in Syria is not a passing tale but a poem inscribed with the ink of wounds, sealed with the stamp of marginalization—as if time itself conspires to keep the echoes of their footsteps suspended between a land that refuses to embrace them and a sky that denies them the rain of recognition.

Wasn’t the homeland meant for all?´-or-do homelands become open graves when they close their doors to their own people? In the corners of maps fenced with conspiracies, the Kurd crosses borders carrying a suitcase filled with deprivation, scattering the stolen letters of his identity along the way and gathering from the air of exile whatever keeps the flame of memory burning on the fire of loss. And when he speaks of his rights, he is like one calling out in a marketplace that has sold its conscience to the strongest,´-or-like one painting his borders with colors visible only to those who carry the light of justice in their souls.

When the earth rose in revolt, demanding freedom, the Kurds stood in the front lines—yet they remained on the sidelines when the political spoils were divided. As if freedom were a currency that could not be spent in their markets,´-or-justice a garment tailored only for the powerful. This is nothing new-;- for ages, chapters of denial have been written in thick Arabic ink, etched onto the walls of ruin as if they were unerasable commandments, echoing in the halls of power like an incantation that wards off the mere thought of recognizing those who drank from the Euphrates and slept in the shadows of their mountains since time immemorial.

But must a human remain shackled to a fate he did not write? Is there not, hidden within the folds of forgetfulness, a tunnel leading to the light of existence? The Kurdish cause is not a cry into the void, nor a poem that ends at the edges of paper—it is a covenant between the land and its inhabitants, where the strings of freedom play an unbroken tune. Even if the voice is hoarse, its echo in the soul does not fade. Either the land reconciles with its people,´-or-oblivion will remain the sole ruler in a homeland that claims to embrace all, yet tightens around its own children until they suffocate.

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