A dairy entry has been extracted from the heroes of the resistance of honour being exhibited in Rojava since the invasion war of the Turkish state.
A small window to the life of a warrior fighting on the frontlines of Rojava:
“This War is a Long-Term Resistance, a Fight of Will that will be won by the Strong Utopia.
Don’t think we’ve been silent for a few days in Rojava. Conditions, the hustle and bustle and communications are impenetrable. And we’re on a ground where the herd of babars break everything down. Here it is sometimes a luxury to behave, live and talk as usual. Under these conditions, it is the debt on every persons back to be as efficient every second, to evaluate, work, resist and fight.
If the tongues are silent on the Rojava front, know that heart is beating faster, hands are working faster. For everyone, the warriors in front, or those behind, for the the comrades in different places and for the people who have devoted themselves to all of this; retreating even one step back from the positions is devastating, whatever the reason may be. The pain of living with those words is a thousand times more excrutiating than speaking them.
But this is not just a war, it is a long-standing resistance. It is a fight in which those with a powerful system, belief, utopia will win, it is a fight of will. Although withdrawing from Serêkaniyê was a painful, as difficult as a hundred bleeding wounds, it was a military choice, even an obligation, which was triggered by many factors, prepared and required to be considered only by observing lives.
Only then can one understand the weight of how many lives there are left to live, how many futures remain unexperienced. Undoubtedly, the opressed people of Kurdistan, the comrades near and far, the people who’s hearts beat with their warriors on the front and those who have given new meaning to their lives with the legend of Serekaniye will weigh up this decision. In fact, they may even condemn this decision and hold it subject to judgement; everyone should know whatever the final opinion of the people is, without doubt we carry as a medal of honour. But our comrades and our people should know that this fight is not over.
Our fight will continue untill the freedom of our leadership, until the victory of freedom in Kurdistan. Today, the most intense clashes took place in Zergan in Serekaniyê, where revolutionary operations continue in many places. In the Girê Spi’s Siluk district, this time the self-sacrificer, Berxwedan Amed, showed that he is a comrade of Zilan.
He exploded the headquarters of the gangs bellowing “Allah-u Akbar” and “we will dig the roots of the Kurds out.” So here the fight and the war continues and will continue. An equation of life without the Kurdish identity is no longer possible here. Everybody should get comfortable with this. The enemy saw this reality and the world witnessed it once again. The time that this resistance becomes a world-wide gain for Kurds is closer than ever. Because the Apoist bouncers once again showed that they are warriors who are passionate about love, determination and loyalty to Kurdistan and its people.
I will share the story of Murathan Mungan’s poem as read by a warrior on the front and complete my diary for today.”
CLOVE
Sons of my people with cloves on their ears
Be ready to skip, we’re going
At a misty dawn
As in ancient times
Don’t forget where we stayed
We have not been defeated yet
Take some fairy tales with you, we may not return for a long time.
Tales will remind you of where you were born
of the climate of relations
childhood can be carried
even if history has been taken from the hands
Put some tobacco and history in your bags, the thyme and mountain fires
The thousand-year meaning of dawn, the sound of waters and ages
Memorize, just like learning the names of unknown herbs
Look at the skin color of the moon for the last time
that is, all summer nights that have been lived and will be left behind
escaped lovers, cliff-looking escapes, haughty bandits hiding
Like fools,
Lock the castles of your heart
Phoenix and Key, until a second order
That flew past the Mountains of Kaf
Sons of my people with cloves on their ears
Gather your tents.
The avalanche is coming.
We are going.
Put some lullabies, whistles and sagas in your mouth
Pull some black tradtion over your eyes
With the quill of a bird of prey
Free the beam trapped in leaf-green eyes, the obligation of anger
cross hang your rifles
like old bandit pictures
which have been driven out of our time
like children expelled from their homeland and their century
tradition is sometimes a form of rebellion…
The sons of my people with the smell of cinnamon
Let us skip, moonful nights, months, await us
tell your children completely before they set off
Spill everything kept in mind
leave a cigarette holder, prayer beads and a layer
to the paths of friends
maybe you can’t meet again
Like birds as high as the peaks
on the mountains which leave you naked to death
The yellowed phantasms of the moors with horses
loaded connotations of old words
Take it with you.
With the morning that greets the mourning
smile in mirrors which your face does not fit in
burry your hearts like mines
to the land where you give your dead
Bid farewell to the gathered accounts of your past
Remember that the immigrant reached the threshold of the century,
resident persecution through immigrant history,
then take the high altitude of the loneliness of night guards
loneliness is a handy thing, sometimes it is good
those who do not know to be alone when necessary
Do not believe in the togetherness
then patience.
It is the historical deposit of the oppressed and the enlightened
it is tried everywhere with new meanings.
And there are superstitions of every age
takes sacrifice, gives sacrifice
Fate passes, calendars change hands.
Time covers everything
Children who see far knows that the future will take longer.…
Equestrian moon in the evening
Extinct volcanoes.
wind of the dead
burned whispers…
dreaming of the future
how many hisotries have set up tents here
solitude is left heirloom
and the sky
the mines of the sky, the stars
both hides and hides
Bootes, milky way, Venus
was our neighbor here
Is it as bright as the place you go to?
Now those who see the homeland as a range
what roads, what years will you pass
throw the flower to the defeated rebels
trust in everyone and every century
to the children who know the remote well
to the edge men, the people of fire
your unity does not fall apart on the roads of refuge
O Peoples
Equestrian moon in the evening
thick caddice night, wind blowing
we are going to a place with no future
the wind of the dead blowing behind us
already buried elsewhere
we’re going to stay bold one night
no tents, no history, no reign
only the sound of the wind sends us off.
The moon strikes the forehead of all the dead
they are lying in the lonely valleys
with the heat of when they were first hit
if someone had touched their shoulder
all of a sudden, they would start all over again
progressing night, passing moon
In the vacant world of objects
shifting, bright, history, seasons
death and the moon
Clove on the ear
Cinnamon on the skin
Migration in your eyes
The Phoenix will return someday
The key will turn in its lock
Can Toprak
