By: Dr. Adnan Buzan
After everything that has happened to the Kurds in Syria over the past years, it is no longer possible for some to continue demanding that the people remain silent, or to ask thousands of families to turn the page on their sons and daughters as though nothing had happened. Today, as the region enters a new political phase, and amid the transformations taking place in the relationship between the Syrian Democratic Forces and the new authorities in Damascus, every Syrian Kurd has the right to pause and look back at the years that have passed and ask one question—a question that carries within it thousands of others: Where did the sons and daughters of the Kurds go? And who bears responsibility for their blood?
No political or military leadership can speak today about the future, new agreements, and forthcoming settlements before confronting the past. Nor can the Kurdish people be asked to forget the thousands of young men and women who entered the battlefields and never returned, while being expected to content themselves with slogans about heroism, victories, and sacrifice. Sacrifice is a beautiful word when spoken in speeches, but it becomes a terrifying question when a mother stands before the photograph of her son, wanting to know why he died, who sent him, who made the decision, and for what purpose his life came to an end.
For this reason, I address Mr. Mustafa Khalil Abdi, known as Mazloum Abdi, directly, as one of the most prominent figures responsible for the military and political system that shaped the fate of vast areas of Syria throughout the years of war: Why do you not speak openly to the Kurdish people of Syria and tell them the whole truth? Why do you not provide a clear account of the blood of thousands of young men and women? Why do you not tell the people where their sons and daughters went, who made the decisions that sent them to the battlefronts, and who held the real authority over their lives and destinies?
I do not raise these questions out of personal hostility, but out of a sense of responsibility toward a people whose sons and daughters were driven into many wars while the real decisions remained far removed from the people themselves. Based on the information I possess and on what I consider myself a witness to, I believe that the matter is far greater than merely isolated military mistakes. It concerns the nature of an entire system that made decisions in the name of the Kurds while Kurdish youth ultimately paid the price.
Among the most dangerous files that must be opened before the Kurdish people is the issue of the cadres who came from Qandil and their real role in managing military and political decision-making within the Kurdish regions of Syria. Who held the real decision-making power? Who decided to send young people to the battlefronts? Who decided whether to withdraw, remain, or remain silent? And why was the Kurdish people always the last to know the truth about what was being carried out in their name?
According to the information I possess, many of those cadres were not merely military, political, or organizational personnel. They exercised direct influence over crucial decisions, and the lives of thousands of young men and women were tied to orders issued from outside the Syrian Kurdish community itself. The question that must be asked without fear is this: Was the Syrian Kurd truly fighting for a project whose details he genuinely understood, or was he being used in conflicts and calculations that extended beyond his land and his future?
The Kurds lost an enormous number of their young men and women in Afrin during the events of 2018, and this issue cannot be treated as merely another chapter of a war that has ended. Afrin requires a reckoning. It requires the opening of both the military and political archives and an examination of who made the decisions, who was responsible for managing the battle, and who determined the fate of thousands of young people who found themselves facing an overwhelming military machine.
Every young man and woman who lost their life in Afrin has the right to the truth, and their families have the right to know. It is not enough to say that the circumstances were difficult, because difficult circumstances are precisely the moments in which the value of leadership—or the extent of its failure—is revealed. A leadership that sends people to war must later be prepared to stand before the people and the families of the victims and say: Why did we make this decision?
And the matter does not end with Afrin. There is also the issue of Ashrafieh and Sheikh Maqsoud, where promises of support and reinforcement remain part of the memory of those who lived through those events. People and fighters were told that forces would join them, that supplies and reinforcements would arrive, and that they would not be left alone. But the question that remained afterward was: What happened when the battle began? Why did the assistance that people were waiting for fail to arrive? And who made the decision that led to a change in the military position?
According to my testimony and the information I possess, the decision to remain silent and not intervene at the decisive moment was not an ordinary decision. Rather, it was a decision that left areas, fighters, and civilians facing an unknown fate. And if there was someone who issued such a decision, then that person must come forward and tell the people why it was made. Those who were in Sheikh Maqsoud and Ashrafieh were not merely points on a military map; they were human beings, members of a people, and individuals with families waiting for them.
That is precisely the point. Those who were in Sheikh Maqsoud and Ashrafieh were not merely points on a military map; they were human beings, members of a people, and they had families waiting for them.
Then there is the Deir Hafer file, a matter no less serious. Who cut off the supplies? Who held the decision-making authority along the front lines? Who was communicating with the other parties? And who was responsible for the decisions that ultimately resulted in the loss of large numbers of fighters? These are not questions belonging to some distant past; they are questions of the present, because those who lost their sons and daughters are still living among us, and their families are still waiting for the truth.
Based on the information I possess, there are details that must be disclosed to the public concerning how those battles were managed, the decisions that were made during them, and the fate of the young men and women who found themselves in positions from which they were unable to escape. The Kurdish people do not need more political statements; they need the truth.
As for the tunnels, this is one of the most painful and cruelest files, because it concerns the fate of young men and women who found themselves trapped in confined spaces, far from their families, waiting for orders from the leadership and trusting that those who had sent them there would not abandon them. Who dug those tunnels? Who knew their locations? Who knew how many fighters were inside them? And who made the decisions concerning withdrawal or remaining in place?
These questions are not a political luxury, because a human life does not lose its value simply because a person wears a military uniform. A fighter who enters a tunnel on the basis of a decision made by the leadership does not become the property of that leadership; he is someone's son, someone's daughter, a human being with a right to life, and whoever issued the order must bear responsibility for his or her fate.
If decisions were made that resulted in fighters being left in those positions, or in their rescue being abandoned, or in their being prevented from defending themselves, then those decisions must be revealed in full, with every detail. And if some of these fighters ended up being taken prisoner, while their families still do not know where they are, then those families have the right to know the complete truth.
A new political order cannot be built upon unidentified graves.
A new future cannot begin while the past remains filled with closed files.
And the people cannot simply be told: Forget everything, because the phase has changed.
The political phase may change for politicians, but the mother who lost her son does not move into a new phase. The father waiting for news of his daughter does not live in a new political era; he is still living in the very same moment in which he lost his son or daughter.
Therefore, responsibility does not rest solely with Mazloum Abdi, nor solely with the leadership of the SDF. The leadership of the Kurdistan Region of Iraq must also face political and historical questions. Kurdish leaders cannot invoke brotherhood and the national cause when it comes to slogans, and then disappear when it comes to accountability and responsibility.
The Syrian Kurd has every right to ask the leadership of the Kurdistan Region: Where were you throughout everything that happened? What did you know? What political role did you play? What was the nature of the understandings and arrangements reached in the region? And was the interest of the Syrian Kurdish people genuinely present in those calculations?
Based on my political position and the information I possess, I hold those leaders who were part of the decision-making process morally and politically responsible for revealing the truth. The Syrian Kurdish people did not always have the right to participate in making those decisions, but they were always present when the time came to pay the price.
Here, we must also pause before the tragedy of Sinjar and the Yazidis. No national discourse can be sincere if it treats the blood of the Yazidis as a secondary issue. What happened in Sinjar was a humanitarian and national catastrophe, and the questions concerning the responsibility of the forces that were present at the time must not be buried. Who had the ability to defend the people? Who made the decision to withdraw? And who left the people at the mercy of ISIS?
The Yazidis are not strangers to the Kurdish cause. The women who were subjected to enslavement, killing, and displacement are not merely numbers. They are women of this people. Sinjar is not a land that can simply be abandoned, only for its tragedy to later be turned into material for political speeches.
The greatest problem in Kurdish politics is not merely the mistakes that have been committed, but also the culture that prevents people from questioning them. For many years, certain leaders have been elevated into figures who are considered beyond criticism. Anyone who asks questions is branded a traitor; anyone who criticizes becomes an agent; and anyone who demands accountability is accused of working against the Kurdish cause.
But the Kurdish cause does not need more silence.
It needs the truth.
And no people can build their future if they are afraid to open the files of their past.
I am not saying that everyone who carried a weapon is responsible for everything that happened, nor am I saying that the war was easy or that every decision was simple. But I say one thing: whoever held the decision-making power must bear responsibility for the decisions they made.
Those who sent young men and women to war must answer for their fate.
Those who promised support must explain why that support never arrived.
Those who made the decision to withdraw must explain why they withdrew.
Those who left people behind on the battlefronts must explain why they abandoned them.
And those who knew something must not remain silent.
The Syrian Kurds have paid an enormous price. They lost their sons and daughters; they lost cities and villages; they lost their stability; and they lost a significant part of their future. Today, before they are asked to enter a new political phase, and before they are asked to applaud agreements and understandings, they must first receive their most fundamental right: the right to know the truth.
I say clearly that I hold the political and military leadership that was in a position of decision-making politically and morally responsible for revealing the fate of these young men and women. I place Mazloum Abdi, as one of the most prominent figures of that leadership, before his historical responsibility. I also place the leadership of the Kurdistan Region of Iraq before its political responsibility for all understandings, positions, and decisions that affected the fate of the Kurds in Syria.
No one is above criticism.
No one is above history.
And no one has the right to regard the blood of the sons and daughters of the people as their own possession.
The blood of Kurdish youth is not fuel for obscure political projects. It is not a bargaining chip in negotiations, nor is it a price to be paid for regional understandings.
It is human blood.
And therefore, the question will remain, no matter how hard some may try to ignore it:
Where are the sons and daughters of the Kurds whom we lost? Who sent them? Who made the decisions? And who bears responsibility?
These questions will not die.
Because peoples may remain silent, but they do not forget.
Mothers may wait for years, but they never forget their children.
And history may be delayed, but in the end, it opens the files that everyone tried to keep closed.
I say that the information and details I possess concerning these files will not remain in the shadows forever, because a people that has paid in blood has the right to know the whole truth—without slogans, without political sanctification, and without fear of names or positions.
The era of silence is over.
The era of questions has begun.
And those who held the decision-making power yesterday must be prepared to answer today.
The blood of the Kurds does not belong to the SDF, nor to Qandil, nor to the Kurdistan Region, nor to any individual leader. The blood of the Kurds belongs to their people, and the people will demand the truth, no matter how long it takes.