Alhawiat

BALKISSE, Kameshli, Syrian Kurdistan

When you meet Balkisse, you instantly feel that she is a woman of strength, that carries a life-long burden. There is something in her soft smile and her honest eyes that says a lot.

She is 45 years old. Before the war erupted in Syria, her and her family lived in Kameshli, in the Kurdish region of Syria, at the Turkish border. They now live in the poor southern suburb of Beirut, in Haret Hreik, generally known for being the Hezbollah’s stronghold of the Lebanese capital.

Her testimony is a story of courage and strength that rises, very accurately, questions of identity and gender, in a patriarchal society that allows only little freedom to women.

In the patriarcal society that is usually observed in the middle-east, having a son is strongly hoped as he represents the assurance of having an additional financial income, especially once the father turns too old to continue working.

But for Balkisse’s parents, faith seemed to have decided differently: her mother gave birth to ten daughters, making Balkisse the eldest of this large sorority.

"I was studying normally then, but when I turned 16, I realised how bad our financial situation was. My father was getting old and sick and couldn’t provide us with what we needed. So, I decided to work to help him out. It was a difficult situation to handle, as in Syria women can’t work outside the house. They’re forced to stay at home because of religious rules, traditions and customs.

Given the fact I had become the family provider, I was able to have more freedom than before because I needed to keep my job. I started teaching my neighbours what I’ve learned to make more money. What I was able to do was so rare in Syria, especially in our neighbourhood which was quite popular. And even if I have always dreamed of going to university, unfortunately it wasn’t meant to be. Not with our financial situation."

Finding herself at the head of her family at a young age, Balkisse acceded to some kind of autonomy that women don’t have usually, but that sacrificed quickly her scholar ambitions. While her whole family organised itself as a small business, notably by making their house an sewing workshop open to other women of her village, another difficulty added itself to the weight of traditions.

"Do you know what “foreigners” means? It means that we’re Kurds … we have neither the Syrian nationality nor the citizenship. We only have a piece of paper on which it’s written “Maktoumié” to say we’re Kurds.

Syrian Kurds suffered a lot in Syria. We were living there, alongside our Arab brothers, but we faced a huge injustice from the Government towards us. Arabs could apply for any job they wanted, we couldn’t. We weren’t Syrian, according to the law. Our youth couldn’t claim the same posts as Arabs, couldn’t go to big schools."

Balkisse in her home in Haret Hreik with her nephew © Chloe Sharrock

" At 4am at the lebanese border, they let everyone go through, except me.

They told me it was because of my involvements in a Human Rights group, and that my name was on the list of people forbidden to leave the country.

The next day I had to go to an office in the middle of the country, to get a permit. Once I got there, I was confiscated my phone, my ID, everything. The made me wait for hours, and took me to an office were they showed me a file with my name on it and informations about the actions we did with our group. I explained it was only sit-ins and pacific protests.

Apparently, they had been watching me for a long time.

They then left me for hours in a separate room, without telling me what was going on.

At 3 pm nobody came to see me. I just waited. Then, a policeman showed up and told me that I could leave if I wanted to. He took the file back and left, without saying another word and without giving me the damn permit, of course. It lasted 6 days. I came every day at 8 am and left at 3 pm, and in the meanwhile my phone and belongings were still there.

Part I. Being Kurd in Syria

To fully understand the current situation of the Kurds in Syria, it is necessary to look back at the remodeling of the Middle-East's, taking its roots in the Sykes-Picot agreement of 1915.

If the Kurdistan was a country of a whole since the twelth century, with its own culture and identity deeply anchored among the various minorities that composed it, what remains of it is now the teared reflection of decades of regional tensions and political power games.

In 1921, the Djezireh and Kurd-Dagh provinces are annexed to Syria, under French mandate at that time, despite the international treaty of Sevres, that urged a year earlier the creation of an independent Kurdish state. In parallel, the Turkish government, leaded by its nationalist leader Kemal, signed his own treaty with WWI's Allies, and devoted the annexation of most of the Kurdish territory to its new Turkish state - in spite of its past alliance with the traditional Kurdish party.

The Kurdistan, quartered by the quarrels and deals of its surrounding neighbours, find itself in 1925 cut in four between Turkey, Syria, Iran and Iraq, and furthermore, deprived of its autonomy - in every aspect of it

As in Syria now, there are around 2,5 millions of Kurds living in the north of the country, making them the largest minority of the territory. It is easy to feel in Balkisse's testimony the harsh living conditions of this population, totally segregated by Assad's regime: submitted to an especially constraining status, the Kurds found themselves totally stalled from their cultural roots, in a strategic attempt from the Syrian government to depersonalise the entire community. A panel of restrictive laws come therefore to minorise them even more, prevent them to express their cultural identity and hinder their spiritual free practice.

Therefore, in Syria, Kurds did not exist as citizens. The use of their language was forbidden, as was private Kurd schools. Furthermore, having a Kurd name could prevent a newborn from being recognised, while in parallel, all geographic names were changed to Arab.

"Even the Christians were allowed to study in Armenian, unlike us. Studying in Kurdish was impossible even if we represent the 2nd largest community in Syria after Arabs ! But despite this, we were still disadvantaged compared to the other communities, for historical reason I guess.. Even having electricity at home was impossible because we’re Kurds ! We had to give the name of an Arab friend so we could subscribe to power. We were all affected by this injustice. It was too much to handle."

In 2011, the Kurdish people rose up against the Syrian government to contest their territory, benefiting from the general revolutionary wave that hit the country at that time, and saw themselves granted a few additional rights.

"They finally ended up giving us a citizenship when we were in Syria.. But they only did it to make sure we wouldn’t participate in the war against the government and take part to the revolution."

The following years, the Kurdish region was left to itself while the Syrian army preferred to focus on more strategic regions of Syria, which left an open path to islamists groups such as Daesh or Al-Nosra. Soon, the living conditions of the region under constant attacks became unbearable.

“Constant power cuts, water scarcity, food embargo, prices increasing considerably, etc. It became intolerable, not to mention the high danger. And being women under theses circumstances didn’t help much.”

Balkisse's family had no other solution than fleeing to Lebanon, where a member of their family was already living. Leaving everything behind them: their house, their business and their belongings.

Despite the little extra freedom that the Syrian revolution entailed, Balkisse's origines were still an additional weight to the whole situation, even when it came to fleeing the country.

Part II. Being Kurd in Lebanon

When Balkisse finally made it to Lebanon, she joined her entire family in a small flat in the southern suburb of Beirut. One of the difficult psychological obstacle that refugees face sometimes relies in simple things such as the absence of personal belongings. Only able to take with them jewelries and a beaded necklace offered by a former lover for Balkisse, all the family's memories vanished as they were left to their homeland.

Balkisse immediately endorsed back her paternal role, and started working in Amel Association's sewing workshop, to make just enough money to keep her family standing on its feet. Helped by her sisters, freed from the social scheme observed back in Syria, she also turned herself into humanitarian and social work.

" All my sisters are working now, so am I. I also do a lot of volunteering with an association called IMC, and currently, I am a member of the association "World". I worked a lot with “Al Maamura clinics” as well.

We are helping Syrian refugees. I started working there because I wanted to help people who are in the same situation as my mother who is now disabled. My nephews also help us every now and then. Sometimes I run groceries for the refugees, I cook for them, or simply show them the city a little."

It is not rare to see refugees turning themselves towards associations and structures that allow them to volunteer among other refugees. In countries such as Lebanon where they're denied basic rights and not recognised as citizens, being part of a community is a indispensable step towards social reconstruction and cohesion. It gives a sense of belonging in a foreign land where seing itself as part of the society is difficult.

"Not having a nationality is difficult for everyone, not only for woman. Because without that, we won’t have any rights as human beings.

In Kurdistan for exemple, it felt like we were living in the shadow. It was as if we didn’t even exist. It prevented us from doing many things that we dreamed about, like studying and finding a good job for instance. It's crazy what a piece of paper can do".

" It's crazy what a piece of paper can do "

BALKISSE, Kameshli, Syrian Kurdistan

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