Undelivered Letters... and a Memory That Won’t Die

I’m not asking for a state. I don’t want a flag to raise on a mountain, nor an anthem that forces my children to memorize it. I just want to say: I am Kurdish — without that admission being thrown into a prison cell,´-or-hanged from a noose.

They say: the political process is ongoing... and Ö-;-calan, in essence, said: stop dreaming of a state-;- what matters is to be free within ourselves, to be recognized on our own land. But tell me, I beg you — how can you define yourself as Kurdish under a constitution that only recognizes Turks? On a geography that only sees the red flag, one language, and an identity carved on the stone of denial?

The state hasn t changed, my friend. The same one that killed us in Zakho and Afrin now walks in democratic clothing in Amed. The same hand that burned down villages now pens negotiation texts — but still holds a weapon in its other fist. So how can we trust in a peace led by a mind that sees Kurds only as a postponed threat?

The party, with all its weight and history, came down from the mountain to say: we carry an olive branch, not a rifle. Cease the fire, extend a hand, speak the language of the state — not of revolution. But what was the response? Silence that echoes like gunfire, and laws that criminalize even your name if it’s not written in Turkish.

And the leader — whose body remains imprisoned on an island — read the world from his small cell and imagined a new map of freedom, drawn not by borders but by relationships. But the state didn’t read what he wrote. It only saw that the party had retreated, and assumed it had surrendered. It failed to understand that the retreat was meant for transformation, not submission.

The opportunity slipped —´-or-rather, we let it slip. We were late in turning our military strength into political legitimacy. Had we done it before Turkey occupied northern Rojava, we’d be negotiating today from a position of power, not relying on the good faith of those who won’t even recognize your name.

My brother, not every ceasefire is peace, and not every initiative signals a will to solve. The state knows how to weave traps from words. It starts with a “process” and ends with a media massacre. And you — stuck in the middle — wonder whether to go on dreaming,´-or-return to the mountain.

This is not a "historic opportunity." It’s a moment suspended between two ropes: the rope of official denial and the rope of the people’s patience. If the first isn’t cut, the second will hang. And how many times has the Kurd been hanged in history — not for bearing arms, but for bearing his name.

Rate the article
Bad	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10	Very good
Result : 100%							Participated in the vote : 1