January 18, 2026
We’re sitting in the car, driving to Hesekê. It’s evening, and the tension is palpable. The enemy has advanced to the city’s outskirts, and we’ve set out to join the medical teams. Only a few cars are traveling in the same direction as us; we encounter refugees from Tebqa and Raqqa, families from Afrin fleeing the advancing gangs. It’s a strange feeling. We analyze the situation, exchange medical information, and try to ease the tension a little. It feels like driving into an approaching storm, but excitement and tension alternate. The attacks, the massacres, the question of how our friends in the attacked areas are doing—all of this alternates with the deep-seated defiance of not wanting to give this revolution another inch to these gangs. That sounds dramatic, but in my head, there’s a voice that keeps saying, “Enough.” “Whatever it takes, we have to do everything we can to stop them.”
The stream of cars doesn’t let up. As we drive on, our conversations continue to revolve around medical matters and defense: what should we expect, what should we pay particular attention to? When we reach the clinic, it’s a hive of activity. The wounded, those who have undergone surgery and are stable, are being distributed to other cities, and ambulances are constantly speeding away. We are warmly greeted by our friends, and after a short time, we too are helping to load wounded friends into ambulances. The place where we are is close to the front, and we are trying to keep as few friends here as possible. Many friends were ambushed during the retreat from Şedadê and Derazor; cars keep arriving, and we help wherever we can. After a few hours, things quiet down, and we use the time to visit friends from the military units. We know some of them, and we meet others for the first time. Everyone is anxiously awaiting what the future holds. Some friends from the YPJ were curious, and after a while, we sat together, drank tea, and marveled at the encounters this revolution made possible. We (two Germans) sat with Arab, Assyrian, Armenian, and Kurdish friends from all regions of Rojava, gathered around a wood-burning stove. It grew later and later, minutes spent in conversation, glancing at the news, and keeping watch on the roof. We were all anxiously anticipating what the next few hours would bring. After a few hours, the need for sleep set in. I closed my eyes… Just an hour or two, then we’ll see what happens next.
January 20, 2026
I slowly let my gaze wander, observing my surroundings, watching for suspicious movements, and brooding to myself. I came to Rojava because I see in its self-governance, its women’s liberation ideology, and the coexistence of so many peoples an example for the whole world. Because I see hope in it. For me, Rojava is a place from which hope shimmers, like the first rays of sunshine after a rain shower through the clouds. The current attacks are an attack on this hope, and we will defend it with everything we have. These are the thoughts running through my head as I stand on the roof of the clinic where we work. I gaze at the sunrise, which lies before me in a reddish-gold hue. In the distance, I hear the rumble of fighter jets circling us. Coalition planes, monitoring the transfer of IS fighters. Perhaps so they can be imprisoned elsewhere, perhaps so the US can once again assemble a mercenary army of Islamists—who really knows? I clench my fists, glaring angrily at the circling jets. The friend next to me laughs and pats me on the shoulder. “Dev ji wan berde,” which means something like, “Screw them!” I nod, and he continues, “No one will give us our freedom; we can only rely on ourselves. On our strength, the strength of society, and our convictions.” Smiling, we look around. Armored vehicles of the YPG and YPJ drive by, revolutionary songs blare from loudspeakers, the wind carrying the sounds up to us. On the surrounding rooftops, many other friends are keeping watch, just like us. Vigilant, determined, ready. No one will give us our freedom; we can only rely on ourselves. On our strength, the strength of society, and our convictions.
March 3, 2026
Several weeks have passed, and life in the city is slowly returning to normal. Now that the integration agreement has been signed, everyone is trying to understand what this will mean in practice, how we can defend the achievements of the revolution, and how we can ensure that societal change continues here. The attacks on the revolution aimed to incite the peoples of Rojava and Syria against each other, because tension between the peoples would have given the states the opportunity to continue their divide-and-rule policies for decades. The resistance here, in all parts of Kurdistan, and around the world, this resistance has given us the opportunity to reach an agreement that has stopped the bloodshed for the time being. The last few weeks have been an intense time, during which I have had the privilege of meeting many different people; we have fought, mourned, laughed, and dreamed together. Friendships forged in such times and under such circumstances have a special significance and will surely be remembered. In these weeks, during which we’ve shared both difficult and light, funny and empowering experiences, one thing has become clear to me: No matter what difficulties, attacks, and obstacles may lie ahead, if we live and fight with hope, determination, and the will to change, then we can create something wonderful under any imaginable condition.