Asmin Bayram/JINHA

AMED – “We’ll resist until the leaves open; the rest is easy….” Or so Cizre’s dark-eyed Çavreş would say. He has entrusted that hope to other children now, as it’s not much longer until the leaves open….

The city of Cizre, Cizîra Botan: a 5,000-year-old city, a dimple in the face of the Tigris, the heart of Kurdistan. Many a conqueror has ventured to these shores, but the sanctuary of Cizre always knew how to teach a lesson to those drunk on power. These days, it seems history is giving its latest test to Cizre, the city that manages to fit in rebellion everywhere, and never forgets its love or humanity.

Is it the mountains nearby? Is it something in the water? It’s hard to say, but there’s something here that teaches you not to fear, a peculiar spirit to the place. Snipers, mortars, tanks and their howitzers—for 40 days, the apparatus called the state has set all its means of war to work in pursuit of death in Cizre. To witness this. To touch it. To tell of what happened here with your camera. To get your tongue and pen around it so that it reaches the next generations. These days, Cizre tells the story of a city that does not fear death, in a place with death on its tail.

In this city, where you can smell the mountains, the mountains mean hope. This is why the children are named after them: Besta, Cudi, Gabar, Kato… and on and on. The barricades are named for the heroic youth: Agit, Marinos, Soro, Çavreş… and on and on at every street corner.

We hit the streets. So some are saying “every position will be bombed, one by one; every house will be entered.” In that case, we’ll try to tell the story of every house, one by one, and every barricade. As we visit one street, a group of young people greets us with abundant smiles. “This is Point Çavreş; no pasarán!” they tell us and break out in laughter. Our hot tea arrives right away. And with it comes Çavreş [“black eyes”], tall and 27, eyes laughing and laden with hope. He doesn’t let us take his picture.

“What do these kids want?” It’s the question everyone’s asking, in so many words, and we pose it to Çavreş. And he begins to answer, sketching out a city and a people:

“I didn’t take up this gun to die or kill. I took it up to protect and liberate myself. I did it because there was no other way left. Women’s bodies were left in the street for seven days here. Remember Ms. Taybet. Children stood watch by her body so the animals wouldn’t rip it apart. They’ve been doing this to Kurdish children for years. They think we’re going to forget all this, but we won’t. We’re going to keep giving them trouble. Maybe we’ll die a lot, but they won’t sleep easy in their beds. As long as hearts beat in these children’s chests, we won’t show them our easy side. Either we’ll get our freedom or we’ll burn them down in this hell too….”

When we say goodbye, Çavreş looks at us as if to entrust us with his hope. “We’ll resist until the leaves open; the rest is easy…” he says.

It hasn’t been 24 hours since our farewell when we learn from a rending cry that Çavreş has been shot by a sniper. Resounding down the streets of the resistance are the ululations of a mother. “Çavreş, Çavreş,” she keens. “My Çavreş, my Çavreş who always ran to anyone’s cry for help. You were smiling even as you left this world. What happened to those bullets that couldn’t pierce you….”

That brilliant smile must have been immortalized in the mother’s cries, I tell myself, and when I look, I see it in a lifeless body now immortalized and in the faces of the children left behind….

The lives here are hidden, in fact, in Çavreş’ brief story. Death, life, resistance, existence and freedom….

(fk/cm)