Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Marriage Contract in the Shadows and a Flood from the East
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By Dr. Adnan Buzan
Thus spoke Zarathustra—not as a prophet of the age, nor as a sage emerging from mountain caves to grant humanity a new certainty, but rather as a sarcastic question standing before this strange Syrian and Kurdish scene and asking:
When did this love affair begin? Where did the story start? And how did enemies, friends, and rivals become one political family?
When did this sudden romance arise between the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF), Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), Turkey, and the leadership of the Kurdistan Region? Who wrote this love story behind closed doors? Who arranged the seats, chose the witnesses, and placed the ring on the finger before everyone emerged before the public to speak of “principles,” “rights,” and “national interests”?
In Syrian politics, nothing appears to be what it truly is.
The enemy who is cursed in the morning may become a partner by evening. The ally whose portraits are raised during celebrations may be handed over at the first turning point. And the slogans written with the blood of young people may be erased with the stroke of a pen at a negotiating table about which those who shed that blood know nothing.
It is as though we are witnessing a political marriage contract concluded in the shadows before the public was allowed to see it in the open.
And if we continue with this bitter metaphor, then the question becomes legitimate: Who performed the marriage ceremony? Who were the witnesses? And who was the real absentee from the celebration?
Political interpretations speak of regional and international roles and understandings conducted through direct and indirect channels, while the United States and France stood at the heart of international balances, knowing more than they were willing to say. As usual, however, the peoples themselves were not invited to the celebration. Their role had already been assigned: to applaud when asked to applaud, to fight when asked to fight, and to mourn when the lists of the dead and the victims began to grow.
But the most dangerous part of the story is not what is said publicly.
It is what remains unsaid.
Kurdish and Syrian political memory is sometimes short—or perhaps it has been exhausted to the point where it can no longer arrange events in their proper order. Everyone remembers the slogans, but few pause before the dates. Everyone remembers the battles, but few ask:
Why did this battle take place? Who decided its timing? Who benefited from its consequences? And who knew in advance that it was going to happen?
In October 2022, the Afrin region—particularly the village of Qirzihil—witnessed military confrontations and developments that revealed new paradoxes within the Syrian landscape. At that moment, it appeared as though new political and military lines were beginning to be drawn behind the curtain.
And here the real question begins:
Was that merely a passing military battle, or was it an early signal of understandings and transformations that were never revealed to public opinion?
A serious political researcher must not transform every rapprochement or coincidence of events into a fully constructed “conspiracy”; history is far more complex than that. But people have the right to ask questions, and politics has the duty to provide explanations.
What actually happened?
Who spoke to whom?
Who reached agreements with whom?
And what was the nature of the communications that preceded those transformations?
These are not questions of treason or accusation. They are legitimate political questions—especially when the price involves human lives and the future of an entire people.
The Kurd in Syria has grown accustomed to constantly hearing that the current phase is dangerous, that the battle is decisive, that the enemy stands at the gates, that patience is a duty, and that the leadership knows what the people do not know.
But the problem begins when the phrase “the leadership knows” becomes a license to conceal everything.
No political project has the right to ask its people to die without allowing them to know why.
And no leadership has the right to demand absolute trust from its public while remaining incapable of explaining its movement from alliance to hostility, from hostility to understanding, and from understanding to silence.
Trust is not obedience.
Politics is not a religion.
And a leader is not a prophet.
As for the relationship between Mazloum Abdi and Abu Mohammad al-Julani, or the possibility that understandings preceded the major transformations in Syria, it is necessary to distinguish between established facts and political interpretations and inferences. History is not written through rumors, but neither is it written solely through official statements.
Real politics often takes place in the space between what is said and what actually happens.
This is where the questions surrounding what happened in Sheikh Maqsoud and al-Ashrafiyah, as well as in other parts of the Syrian geography, become particularly relevant: Why were some local forces left to face their fate alone? Why did young men and women fall in battles that might perhaps have been avoided? And why did certain military and political transformations occur more rapidly than the public could comprehend?
The blood that was shed is not a detail. Every Kurdish young man who fell as a martyr carried an entire life within him. Every young woman who fell as a martyr carried a dream that would never be completed. And every mother who waited for her son at the door knew nothing about the maps being drawn behind closed doors.
Here lies the greatest tragedy of Kurdish politics:
Those who draw the maps do not usually die upon them. It is those who do not even know why the map has changed who die.
Then came the rapid transformations in areas such as Deir Hafer, Tabqa, Raqqa, and Deir ez-Zor, and the questions began multiplying faster than the answers. How can a large and organized military force, possessing extensive experience in warfare, allied with a superpower, and controlling vast territories, face sudden transformations or rapid withdrawals at certain moments?
Was this the result of military weakness? A change in international decision-making? Political understandings? A redistribution of territory and influence? Or did all of these factors converge at a single moment?
Reducing history to a single narrative is a mistake, but ignoring the possibility of political understandings is also a mistake. The Middle East is not governed by military power alone. How many powerful armies have lost because the decision to wage war was no longer in their hands? And how many cities have fallen before the battle even began because the agreement had already been written somewhere else?
Therefore, the Kurdish question today should not be:
Who won? And who lost?
It should be:
Who decided?
Because peoples who do not know who decides their fate become an audience in a political play without even knowing the name of its author.
For many years, the Kurds in Syria have lived between Washington's promises, Moscow's calculations, Ankara's pressures, Damascus's balances, and the rivalries of regional powers. And each time, they were told to wait.
Wait for the political solution.
Wait for recognition.
Wait for the constitution.
Wait for the agreement.
Wait for international protection.
But history does not show mercy to a people that builds its entire future around waiting for others.
The United States will not remain forever. France will not fight forever for the dream of another people. Turkey will not abandon its strategic calculations for the sake of emotions. Damascus, whether new or old, will not grant rights for free. And no regional power enters politics out of love.
States do not love; they calculate.
And perhaps this is the sentence that should be written above every Kurdish political office.
States do not love peoples.
States use alliances.
An alliance lasts as long as the interests behind it endure. When those interests change, beautiful words become nothing more than old pieces of paper.
That is why the most dangerous thing the Kurds can do today is to view events as a series of surprises. Nothing is surprising in politics to those who know how to read interests.
Names may change. Flags may change. A man may move from Idlib to Damascus. Yesterday's “terrorist,” in the language of politics, may become today's “statesman.” An adversary may become a negotiating partner. And allies may suddenly discover that they no longer need one another.
This is politics when it is governed by interests.
The Kurd, however, has often approached politics as though it were an emotional relationship.
He loves America because it helped him, and hates it when it abandons him. He trusts Russia when it opens a door for him, and curses it when it closes that door. He attaches himself to one side or another, only to discover years later that everyone had been playing a game far larger than himself.
Perhaps the time has come to leave this political childhood behind.
The Kurds do not need more songs about betrayal; they have heard enough of them.
They need to ask a harsher question:
Why are we always deceived?
And perhaps the answer is even more painful: because we keep repeating the same mistakes.
We place the fate of the people in the hands of an organization. Then we place the organization in the hands of a leader. Then we place the leader beyond criticism. And years later, we discover that an entire people had been paying the price for a decision in which they had no part.
Therefore:
Criticism is not betrayal.
Asking questions is not treason.
Seeking the truth is not serving the enemy.
The real betrayal is to allow people to be killed and then prevent the living from asking why they died.
As for those who ask today: What will happen to the Kurds in the future?
I have no prophecy, nor do I claim to know the unseen. But I see an East in turmoil, borders that remain unsettled, regional powers repositioning themselves, and major states speaking of peace while preparing for new wars.
I see the Kurdish people once again standing before a dangerous historical moment:
Either they learn from everything that has happened, or they reproduce the same tragedy under new names.
I am not saying that the future is predetermined. The future does not write itself.
But I am saying:
There is a flood coming from the East.
The flood will not ask about the names of political parties. It will not distinguish between those who raised one flag and those who raised another. It will not care who stood with this alliance or that one. And when it comes, peoples will not be saved by the slogans they once raised, but by their ability to know the truth before it is too late.
So, will the Kurds awaken?
Or will they continue applauding the ceremonies of political marriages while, behind closed doors, the lists of the next victims are being written?
That is the question.
As for Zarathustra, if he were to return today and look upon this scene, perhaps he would say nothing. Perhaps he would merely smile. Then he would turn his back on everyone and say:
Woe to a people whose sons die in battles while they do not know who signed the agreement.