'A detox from patriarchy': how the emancipated women of Kurdish Syria are determined to keep their freedoms

NupeldaNupelda Khalil and Siliva Shourash had arranged their schedule for February 27th so that they could be in front of the television at 5pm, ready to witness an event that had been trailed for weeks. This was the expected declaration by Abdullah Öcalan, the founder of the Kurdistan Workers' Party (PKK) and an iconic figure for the 40 million predominately-Muslim Kurds who lack their own nation state and who instead live across parts of Syria, Turkey, Iraq and Iran.

But the two women had not accounted for the cratered roads, military checkpoints, traffic jams and unreliable internet of Rojava - Syrian Kurdistan - an autonomous utopia at the heart of a Middle East in turmoil.

Bouncing along in their van between the cities of Tabqah and Hasakah, the two activists were consumed with frustration until, miraculously, their internet connection came back just in time. In fits and starts, they were then able to follow the speech by “Apo” ('Uncle'), as Öcalan is known. It was a bombshell announcement: he was calling on his PKK to lay down its arms and dissolve itself after four decades of guerrilla warfare.

The ageing leader, labelled a terrorist by Ankara, was not permitted to speak in person. Instead, members of DEM, the pro-Kurdish party in Turkey, read his words after visiting him in the prison where he has been held for 26 years. The only concession granted by the Turkish authorities was for a photograph of Öcalan to be released, the first since his incarceration. However, the initial feeling of joy at seeing the face of their iconic leader, whose old portraits still hang in streets and homes, was soon replaced by one of shock.

“OK, it's what was expected, but it's an immense shock. We can't lay down our arms in Syria. We're under fire from the Turks and under threat from the jihadists,” says Nupelda Khalil with tears in her eyes, while Siliva Shourash - whose younger sister joined the PKK in the mountains of Iraq -clearly unsettled, stays silent.

On arriving in Hasakah, where Turkish air strikes had killed 12 people the previous day, including Kurdish fighters and shepherds, the two young women - raised on Kurdish resistance and Öcalan’s writings - did not linger in the streets. They were in no mood to celebrate.

A few fireworks greeted the announcement in this predominantly Arab city. But according to Nupelda Khalil, they were celebrating the sight of Apo, not his message. “We're happy to see him alive and apparently in good health. His appeal is another matter. We all need to discuss it together. We still don't know what impact this will have for us, for Syria.”

The biggest reaction in Hasakah came in the form of bursts of automatic gunfire punctuating the night air. This was a message from the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) - the military wing of the Kurdish-led autonomous administration that controls much of the northeast - the asayish or Kurdish police, and civilians who got out their rifles. That message was clear: “We won't lay down our arms.”

A more uncertain future than ever

It was a stance in line with that of SDF leader Mazloum Abdi, who posted on X: “Öcalan’s speech is addressed to the PKK and concerns an internal Turkish matter”. In other words, not the Kurds of Syria. Later the same evening, his tone was more measured. Mazloum Abdi welcomed an “historic announcement” that “calls for an end to the war in Turkey” and represents “an opportunity to build peace in the region”.

Three days earlier, in Rojava's capital Qamishli – close to the border of Iraq and of Turkey and its EU-funded frontier wall that divides Kurdish villages - Nupelda Khalil, Siliva Shourash and their colleagues from Rojava’s feminist confederation Kongra Star, had already begun trying to put Öcalan’s heavily-trailed declaration into some perspective. At the same time they continued to revere him for his legacy to the Kurdish and feminist causes.

“He will call for a peaceful, legal approach, without weapons, but what's happening in Turkey is not comparable to the situation in Rojava, which is run by an autonomous administration facing a war against the jihadists,” had predicted confederation member Amina Ose, speaking over a plate of sliced fruit at the group's headquarters. At the entrance, visitors are greeted by the Kurdish political and feminist slogan 'Jin, Jyan, Azadi' ('Woman, Life, Freedom'), painted in bright colours on the walls.

Seated near a statue of Themis, the Greek goddess of justice – something found in many Kurdish homes - the activist also repeated the key words of their “people’s association”, as she describes Kongra Star: freedom, democracy, ecology, confederalism. Amina Ose said she wished they had Themis’s gift of foresight, for the future of Syria’s Kurds has never seemed so uncertain.

Öcalan’s message, which even goes so far as to reject Kurdish administrative autonomy, has deepened the extreme political uncertainty that has prevailed since the fall of the Bashar al-Assad dictatorship in December and the country’s takeover by former jihadists claiming to be repentant. They are led by Ahmed al-Sharaa, leader of the Islamist armed group Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS).

Syria’s new interim president - who was once known by his kunya or war name Abu Mohammed al-Jolani, back when he was a key figure in the Islamic State in Iraq and later in Al-Qaeda in Syria - has little time for democratic confederalism, the ideological cornerstone of Rojava’s revolutionary “Commune” experiment.

Al-Sharaa has close links to Ankara, which harbours ambitions of reviving an Ottoman empire and wages war against Syria’s Kurds using drones and Islamist mercenaries - mostly Arabs and Turkmens - under the banner of the Syrian National Army (SNA). The new Syrian leader himself rejects any notion of Kurdish autonomy and calls on all factions to lay down their arms. That includes the heroes and heroines of the fight against the Islamic State: the SDF.

Formed in 2015 and dominated by Kurdish militiamen from the People’s Defense Units (YPG), the SDF were once supported by an international coalition that has since largely abandoned them, except for the United States. “But for how much longer?” people ask anxiously.

In a sign of distrust, if not outright rejection, and despite their calls for dialogue and their adoption of the new Syrian flag, the Kurds were excluded from another historic event: the National Dialogue Conference, promised by al-Sharaa, which took place on February 25th.

Among the hundreds of invited participants from all backgrounds, not a single Kurdish representative was present; either from the Autonomous Administration (AANES) of Rojava itself, or its political mainstay, the Democratic Union Party (PYD), which is close to the PKK. Even the Kurdish National Council, the PYD’s enemy and seen as pro-Turkish, was left out.

“This is very regrettable and a very bad sign,” says Amina Ose. “We're open to dialogue on democracy and autonomy; we're not asking for secession, we want a united Syria.” Those present in the room list the threats surrounding the Kurdish people in this shattered and war-weary Syria, which is still at risk of Balkanisation. “Just this week, the Druze have demanded autonomy,” points out one activist. “Will it be the Alawites next? The Armenians?” Recent clashes between the Alawites and new government, amid horrific claims that the latter's troops have carried out “executions” of dozens of people, underline the fragility of the new regime.

Another activist mentions Turkey’s impunity in the north, Israel’s in the south, the fear of an Islamic State resurgence, the risk of the United States withdrawing its 2,000 soldiers currently supporting the SDF, and the protests in Arab-majority cities such as Tabqah, where demonstrators are demanding that the SDF leave.

On the eve of the appointment, on March 1st, of a transitional government that, according to al-Sharaa, will “embody Syria’s diversity”, all were anxious about their future. Women have so far been kept at arm’s length from power, and there is real concern about what will become of the democratic, feminist and environmental revolution, inspired by Marxism-Leninism, that put Rojava on the world map - and which they are so proud to support.

“With his jihadist background, Jolani does not inspire confidence. He was one of those we fought against. To me, he still represents Daesh,” says Nupelda Khalil grimly, using the Arabic word for Islamic State. She is “horrified” by the figures Jolani has surrounded himself with - “people with blood on their hands” - such as Abu Hatem Chakra, the leader of the pro-Turkish militia Ahrar al-Sharqiya, accused, among other crimes, of the brutal assassination of Kurdish political activist Hevrîn Khalaf in October 2019.

Even though al-Sharaa is under pressure and eager to see the lifting of sanctions that have paralysed Syria, Nupelda Khalil does not expect to see a gender-balanced government like the one practised by AANES, which mandates parity in all institutions and a co-leadership model with one man and one woman.

“What will become of our achievements?” asks Amina Ose. “In Rojava, women can go to war, they can join the army, it's not just for men. That has helped change mindsets. Al-Sharaa must integrate the Kurdish forces, including the women’s brigades, into the Syrian army.”

“Our revolution has transformed society,” continues the activist, who fears that women will be pushed back into secondary roles, particularly in education. That was exactly what Aisha al-Dibs, appointed to the so-called “women’s affairs” ministry, has advocated - sparking intense controversy. “Before 2014, we were trapped in the most rigid form of Islam. There's still a long way to go, but we have learned how to change laws: we have banned child marriage, outlawed forced marriages, and enshrined equality between men and women in matters of inheritance,” says Amina Ose.

Across both the arid and the fertile plains of Rojava, through clouds of dust and the thick black smoke from makeshift oil refineries, Kurdish, Arab and Christian women – some wearing headscarves, others not - are organising themselves, taking power, establishing equality and direct democracy, and striving to inspire the new Syria.

In December 2024 a women’s university opened in Hasakah entirely free of charge, including tuition, accommodation and meals. Here some fifty teenage girls are studying music, sculpture, theatre, painting and cinema, using culture and art to overcome the trauma of dictatorship, war and Islamic State.

“What a beautiful act of defiance,” smiles director Evin Pachu as she peers into each classroom, eager to hear the celestial melody of the kanun stringed instrument in one, a Vivaldi violin piece in another. She speaks of the urgency of “organising and uniting Syrian women, of inventing feminist perspectives, which also means creating spaces like this”. She adds: “In systems of oppression and colonisation, women’s creativity is stifled. We want to regain this creative freedom and reclaim our place in the world of culture and the arts.”

'A centre to detox from patriarchy'

The youngest student is 15 and comes from Raqqa, the former Islamic State capital and a desert city where daily life remains a struggle. Several students were displaced by bombings and brutality. For them, studying is a lifeline, a gateway to the future. In the cafeteria Yasmine, a young woman with a diva’s voice who was raised in Kobane - one of the bastions of Kurdish resistance - sings traditional songs that bring tears to the eye.

Two hours’ drive away lies Jinwar, literally “the place of women”, a village built for and by women, set among birdlife and fields of harmal - Syrian rue - a herb said to ward off more than 200 ailments. There is no capitalism here. And no men either, except when they are needed to repair buildings or install solar panels.

“This is not about hating men,” explains Salwa Rashid, who arrived with her four children a year ago. “Jinwar is a refuge for women battered by life, by war. It's a centre to detox from patriarchy. In our cultures, we're not taught what it means to be a free, independent, emancipated woman, someone who can live without being under the authority of a man, whether a father, a husband, a brother or an uncle.”

At Jinwar, if a woman enters a long-term relationship with a man, she leaves the village, but does so with newfound confidence, having learnt how to command respect. She departs without breaking the ties of sisterhood, embraces her friends and receives their blessings for her future happiness. At Jinwar, young boys are also taught to be feminists, to “have respect and love for women”. Gender roles are dismantled, possibilities redefined. Girls learn science and technology; boys, care-giving.

Salwa Rashid came to Jinwar inspired by what she sees as the “greatest of political projects”: under the slogan of Woman, Life, Freedom. An archivist for Kongra Star, she has read extensively about Öcalan, who drew on the theories of American libertarian environmentalist Murray Bookchin. She wanted her daughters and son to grow up outside the patriarchal and capitalist system. Her husband died in 2016 in one of the battles against Islamic State, between Aleppo and Afrin.

At the women’s house in Qamishli, they fight against so-called 'honour crimes', still all-too common, against polygamy, domestic and sexual violence, and the entrenched patriarchal belief that women and girls belong to the men of their family. And they vow to keep up the pressure on Ahmed al-Sharaa.

Like many others, the centre's co-founder Ilam Emer, who is in her sixties and dressed in a black headscarf and long robe, still struggles to call al-Sharaa by anything other than his jihadist name, Abu al-Jolani. “We want women’s rights to be respected. Whether it’s the [editor's note, former ruling party under Assad] Ba’ath Party or Jolani, it’s the same. We must make our voices heard and refuse to be silenced.”

Twice imprisoned in 1989 under the regime of Bashar al-Assad's father Hafez al-Assad for her Kurdish feminist activism, Ilam Emer emerged with broken bones. “For four months, I couldn’t walk. I had to crawl on all fours,” she recalls. Yet despite that traumatic experience, she insists that she “fears Jolani more than the Ba’ath regime”. She says: “The men around Jolani have killed many women. You can’t ignore the fact that they have raped your daughters, your friends, your neighbours.” She, too, cites the name of Abu Hatem Chakra. She, too, fears losing the hard-won gains.

The women’s house was founded in 2011 welcoming all faiths and communities. Since then, similar spaces have sprung up across Rojava, even at times and in places of extreme danger, in cities besieged by Islamic State such as Afrin, Kobane, Deir Ezzor and Raqqa. “Our guiding principle is the liberation of women and justice. If we hear that a husband has killed his wife in the name of ‘honour’, or that he has paid off her family with ‘blood money’ to bypass justice, we take it to the authorities,” explains Ilam Emer.

She wears a headscarf as a sign of her faith and advocates for “democratic Islam, not the Islam tainted by jihadists who behead people, or Jolani’s followers who smash crosses”. She is keen to make this distinction, emphasising a feminism that does not revolve around a piece of fabric, rejecting the Islamophobic narratives of the West, which often fixate only on the image of Kurdish women taking up arms. “No one forced me to wear the headscarf. I chose it myself,” she says.

Forty years of feminist struggle

“There can be no question of losing under al-Sharaa all the progress we've made. The women’s revolution in Rojava didn’t start in 2012. This has been a forty-year-long war of ideas, a long struggle with our fathers, brothers, and husbands to win recognition of our autonomy, our political participation, and our aspirations for equality,” declares Mekia Hessou, speaking from the ground floor of a building in Qamishli which has been plunged into darkness by a power cut.

The spokesperson for the Syrian Democratic Women’s Council - a network bringing together 250 Syrian women across faiths and communities - she is meeting with a dozen colleagues around cardamom coffee and an oil stove.

They, too, are worried by and wary of the new Syrian government. But they are not overwhelmed by the challenges ahead. “We must create a balance of power,” they say in unison, “and make al-Sharaa accept that women are part of the people and must take part in collective decision-making.”

“There have been informal exchanges with the new regime, but no official negotiations,” explains one participant. “We want to be involved in discussions on the future Constitution and the laws of the new Syria to guarantee women’s rights. We will not accept any backsliding.”

Some took part in those first informal meetings and remember how al-Sharaa’s supporters handed them niqabs – a garment which covers the face - at the end as a “form of pressure”. “Since then, al-Sharaa has changed tactics to present a democratic face. It’s up to us to put pressure on him,” concludes Mekia Hessou, who lost her daughter in a car bomb attack in 2014 in Qamishli that was claimed by Islamic State. The young woman had just got married and was pregnant.

They founded the network in 2017 to “make the voices of Syrian women heard”. It was not easy. Some feared ending up in Assad’s prisons for getting involved. And then there was the wall of resistance from men who “do not easily accept women coming together and making decisions without consulting them”.

An additional role – defending the land

A counter-project that emerged after the jihadist siege in Tabqah in the northern province of Raqqa, where Islamic State also spread terror, faced similar resistance too. Zenoubia is an association of Arab women, mostly from working-class backgrounds, who have adopted the Kurdish slogan “Woman, Life, Freedom” as their own. In the courtyard of their centre, warmed by the sun against the bitter cold and gathered under banners bearing the image of Öcalan, a dozen women, young and old, speak of revolution on both a collective and personal scale.

“In our families, it's difficult to gain acceptance for our emancipation. Daesh, war, and patriarchy have only reinforced conservatism. But we won't give up,” says Shahada Ali. She is 28 and works as a hairdresser. “We won't accept going backwards. We will protest for our rights if we have to,” adds Rofran Abdallah, also 28. Wearing a headscarf and a long taupe coat, she recalls the rule of Islamic State; the stonings, the whippings and the merciless morality police, the hisba.

In Tabqah, Islamic State laid siege and threatened to blow up the hydroelectric dam on the Euphrates, the largest in Syria and which was built with Soviet assistance between 1968 and 1973. If destroyed, entire regions of Syria and Iraq would have been submerged.

Today, this strategic installation, vital to the population, is threatened by Turkey and its Syrian National Army (SNA) auxiliaries - just like the Tishrin dam to the north-west near Manbij, a city now under SNA control close to the Turkish-Syrian border. After enduring a “barbaric state” under the Assads, then Islamic State, and now under Kurdish occupation, the local population - deprived of electricity and subjected to drone strikes and car bombings - has had no respite.

On January 18th, Hemrin Ali, 35, a former youth leader in the autonomous administration, travelled to the Tishrin dam with one of the civilian convoys organised by the Kurdish authorities. She wanted to show solidarity with her brothers and sisters in arms and to express her anger towards Turkey. She was dancing with her friends to traditional music when a bomb tore through them.

A month and a half later she is bedridden in her family home on the outskirts of Qamishli, nursing wounds from shrapnel in her shoulder, abdomen, and legs, injuries that required surgery. But despite the danger and her wounds, she has no regrets about going to Tishrin, where her brother fights the SNA in tunnels.

“‘Woman, Life, Freedom’ is about this too,” she says. “Protecting our land from aggression, resisting attacks on our water, electricity and vital infrastructure.”

On this February afternoon Nupelda Khalil and Siliva Shourash are at her bedside. And two issues dominate: Apo Öcalan and Ahmed al-Sharaa.

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• The original French version of this article can be found here.

English version by Michael Streeter