Green revolution: The Syrian Kurds fighting for Rojava’s environment
HAYAKA, Syria – A peaceful stillness infuses the air in Hayaka. The quiet is broken only by the occasional call of a bird, gentle lapping of water at the lake’s edge, and gusts of wind blowing raindrops through the air.
Hayaka is a nature reserve that consists of a long, thin stream-fed lake ending in a small stretch of oak forest in Rojava, northern Syria, near the border with Iraq.
On the day I visited in mid-February, Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) had corralled Islamic State (ISIS) militants into a small pocket of territory in their last holdout of Baghouz. The oasis where I stood was a world away from the constant barrage of airstrikes and artillery fire that was happening just over 300 kilometers away.
One of the untold victims of that conflict is Rojava’s environment. Kurdish authorities have not even begun to evaluate the short- and long-term damage caused by the thousands of munitions which have blasted whole neighbourhoods apart. They have struggled to balance the need to produce fuel while minimizing the ill-effects of their ramshackle oil refineries. A lack of equipment to treat wastewater coupled with poor relations with Turkey is polluting rivers and streams. The bellwether bee is dying out.
These challenges crown decades of neglect of Kurdish areas by the regime in Damascus. The new administration is now slowly beginning to prioritize the protection and promotion of the environment.
In Hayaka, the chilly early spring weather has kept all but the most intrepid of visitors away, though on sunny weekends the water’s edge is lined with picnickers who make it over the winding, pitted dirt road to the sleepy village that bears the same name and is surrounded by the rich farmlands that gently roll across eastern Rojava.
“We are very happy to have this protected area,” said Hassan Ahmed, the 47-year-old co-chief of Hayaka village that sits atop a hill overlooking the reserve. Walking through grass sodden with rain, Ahmed stoops to pick up a plastic bottle discarded by an errant visitor.
The woods are home to diverse animal life including wild boar, porcupines, rabbits, and partridge. The lake is replete with fish and the treetops a stop on avian migration routes.
Hunting, fishing, and logging are banned. Locals, however, are given some leniency. They have rights to limited fishing and hunting and can hew trees that are over eight years old, provided they plant a new tree for every one cut down.
“This is our hope, to be green and have trees and animals,” Ahmed proclaimed.
His dedication to the protection of the reserve is cast into doubt, however, when we see a group of men folding up an inflatable boat after a day’s fishing. They didn’t catch anything. Although Ahmed does not recognize them as locals, he is not concerned about them flouting the fishing ban. A little is okay.
Luqman Ahmi, however, is most definitely bothered. As founder of Rojava’s Green Party, he is leading efforts in the autonomous region of northern Syria to clean up and protect the environment. He points out that fish in the lake are probably spawning at this time of year, so fishing should be strictly banned. He also complains that local officials tend to favor getting good grazing land for their sheep than creating a nature reserve.
The challenge, he explains, is to convince people of the long-term benefits of environmental preservation. That is an uphill struggle.
“The Rojava government gives its full support, but what can we do if individuals aren’t invested?” he asks.
The environment is far from the top priority for most people in Rojava right now. Attention and resources have been focused on the war against ISIS. Ahmi says it is hard to make people care about trees when mothers and fathers are watching their children leave for the front line or grieving for the dead.
However, he has seen some success in getting people to stop cutting down trees.
When the Syrian conflict first broke out eight years ago, there was a shortage of fuel in Rojava. People chopped down thousands of trees to use for heating and cooking in the winters of 2012 and 2013. This is one of the reasons why the authorities accept the existence of substandard oil refineries that are polluting the environment. In a situation of give and take, domestic fuel production has at least saved some trees.
Mizgeft is another nature reserve, a little east of Qamishli. A stand of pine trees borders a small lake. About 10 percent of the area’s pine trees were cut down in 2012, according to Khalif Mohammed, the chief of nearby Mizgefta Nu village.
The area has been protected for more than 25 years. After losing a chunk of tree cover in the early days of the war, local authorities are now planting new trees every year and have doubled the number from 4,000 to 8,000.
Driving westward from Qamishli, the rolling farmland slowly becomes rockier and fields give way to orchards and groves as we arrive in Kobane.
This small city hit global headlines when thousands of its residents fled advancing Islamic State (ISIS) militants in 2014. In January 2015, the Kurdish People’s Protection Units (YPG), backed by US-led coalition airpower, launched their offensive to retake the city, succeeding by mid-March 2015.
Dealing ISIS its first major blow, the battle for Kobane was a turning point in the war, but it left much of the city in ruins. “When we came back to Kobane, there was no life here. No life for people, animals, plants or trees,” said Faris Ati, co-mayor of the city.
With “every street full of rubble,” the local administration rose to the task of cleaning up and rebuilding. They scooped up tonnes of debris and dumped them in a natural pit just outside of the city. A factory making license plates now sits atop the crumbling concrete and twisted rebar. The administration then turned to the task of making their city beautiful again.
On a sunny day in a walled garden off a busy street a group of women sit around a mound of rich, dark soil. They scoop up piles of the earth and fill plastic bags, laughing and chatting as they work. They are part of an ambitious project to sprout 100,000 trees this year in the war-scarred streets.
The tree planting project was conceived by the female co-mayor of Kobane Rawshin Abdi. It is overseen by female agricultural engineer Amina Weso and employs only women. Weso said the trees will be planted around the city, in front of schools, businesses, and public buildings. If they are successful, another 100,000 trees will be planted next year.
Adla Issa, her gloves encrusted with soil, sits among the women, a colourful scarf loosely draped over her head. She is a single mother of three. One son, Salah, died in the ISIS war. Her husband died more than 25 years ago.
“We are happy working here. We hope for more chances to work,” Shamsa Ali calls out across the circle of five women. Like Issa, she is her family’s only breadwinner. Ali has four small children. Her husband is sick and cannot work.
The square of land where about a dozen women are busily enriching soil with manure, filling plastic bags with the earth, and planting walnuts used to be a centre for the Baath party. Regime officials would write reports about Kurdish political activities and hand over details of dissident Kurds to the police.
Today, it is full of laughter and hope about Kobane’s future, one they hope will include a healthy environment.
Hayaka is a nature reserve that consists of a long, thin stream-fed lake ending in a small stretch of oak forest in Rojava, northern Syria, near the border with Iraq.
On the day I visited in mid-February, Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) had corralled Islamic State (ISIS) militants into a small pocket of territory in their last holdout of Baghouz. The oasis where I stood was a world away from the constant barrage of airstrikes and artillery fire that was happening just over 300 kilometers away.
One of the untold victims of that conflict is Rojava’s environment. Kurdish authorities have not even begun to evaluate the short- and long-term damage caused by the thousands of munitions which have blasted whole neighbourhoods apart. They have struggled to balance the need to produce fuel while minimizing the ill-effects of their ramshackle oil refineries. A lack of equipment to treat wastewater coupled with poor relations with Turkey is polluting rivers and streams. The bellwether bee is dying out.
These challenges crown decades of neglect of Kurdish areas by the regime in Damascus. The new administration is now slowly beginning to prioritize the protection and promotion of the environment.
In Hayaka, the chilly early spring weather has kept all but the most intrepid of visitors away, though on sunny weekends the water’s edge is lined with picnickers who make it over the winding, pitted dirt road to the sleepy village that bears the same name and is surrounded by the rich farmlands that gently roll across eastern Rojava.
“We are very happy to have this protected area,” said Hassan Ahmed, the 47-year-old co-chief of Hayaka village that sits atop a hill overlooking the reserve. Walking through grass sodden with rain, Ahmed stoops to pick up a plastic bottle discarded by an errant visitor.
The woods are home to diverse animal life including wild boar, porcupines, rabbits, and partridge. The lake is replete with fish and the treetops a stop on avian migration routes.
Hunting, fishing, and logging are banned. Locals, however, are given some leniency. They have rights to limited fishing and hunting and can hew trees that are over eight years old, provided they plant a new tree for every one cut down.
“This is our hope, to be green and have trees and animals,” Ahmed proclaimed.
His dedication to the protection of the reserve is cast into doubt, however, when we see a group of men folding up an inflatable boat after a day’s fishing. They didn’t catch anything. Although Ahmed does not recognize them as locals, he is not concerned about them flouting the fishing ban. A little is okay.
Luqman Ahmi, however, is most definitely bothered. As founder of Rojava’s Green Party, he is leading efforts in the autonomous region of northern Syria to clean up and protect the environment. He points out that fish in the lake are probably spawning at this time of year, so fishing should be strictly banned. He also complains that local officials tend to favor getting good grazing land for their sheep than creating a nature reserve.
The challenge, he explains, is to convince people of the long-term benefits of environmental preservation. That is an uphill struggle.
“The Rojava government gives its full support, but what can we do if individuals aren’t invested?” he asks.
The environment is far from the top priority for most people in Rojava right now. Attention and resources have been focused on the war against ISIS. Ahmi says it is hard to make people care about trees when mothers and fathers are watching their children leave for the front line or grieving for the dead.
However, he has seen some success in getting people to stop cutting down trees.
When the Syrian conflict first broke out eight years ago, there was a shortage of fuel in Rojava. People chopped down thousands of trees to use for heating and cooking in the winters of 2012 and 2013. This is one of the reasons why the authorities accept the existence of substandard oil refineries that are polluting the environment. In a situation of give and take, domestic fuel production has at least saved some trees.
Mizgeft is another nature reserve, a little east of Qamishli. A stand of pine trees borders a small lake. About 10 percent of the area’s pine trees were cut down in 2012, according to Khalif Mohammed, the chief of nearby Mizgefta Nu village.
The area has been protected for more than 25 years. After losing a chunk of tree cover in the early days of the war, local authorities are now planting new trees every year and have doubled the number from 4,000 to 8,000.
Driving westward from Qamishli, the rolling farmland slowly becomes rockier and fields give way to orchards and groves as we arrive in Kobane.
This small city hit global headlines when thousands of its residents fled advancing Islamic State (ISIS) militants in 2014. In January 2015, the Kurdish People’s Protection Units (YPG), backed by US-led coalition airpower, launched their offensive to retake the city, succeeding by mid-March 2015.
Dealing ISIS its first major blow, the battle for Kobane was a turning point in the war, but it left much of the city in ruins. “When we came back to Kobane, there was no life here. No life for people, animals, plants or trees,” said Faris Ati, co-mayor of the city.
With “every street full of rubble,” the local administration rose to the task of cleaning up and rebuilding. They scooped up tonnes of debris and dumped them in a natural pit just outside of the city. A factory making license plates now sits atop the crumbling concrete and twisted rebar. The administration then turned to the task of making their city beautiful again.
On a sunny day in a walled garden off a busy street a group of women sit around a mound of rich, dark soil. They scoop up piles of the earth and fill plastic bags, laughing and chatting as they work. They are part of an ambitious project to sprout 100,000 trees this year in the war-scarred streets.
The tree planting project was conceived by the female co-mayor of Kobane Rawshin Abdi. It is overseen by female agricultural engineer Amina Weso and employs only women. Weso said the trees will be planted around the city, in front of schools, businesses, and public buildings. If they are successful, another 100,000 trees will be planted next year.
Adla Issa, her gloves encrusted with soil, sits among the women, a colourful scarf loosely draped over her head. She is a single mother of three. One son, Salah, died in the ISIS war. Her husband died more than 25 years ago.
“We are happy working here. We hope for more chances to work,” Shamsa Ali calls out across the circle of five women. Like Issa, she is her family’s only breadwinner. Ali has four small children. Her husband is sick and cannot work.
The square of land where about a dozen women are busily enriching soil with manure, filling plastic bags with the earth, and planting walnuts used to be a centre for the Baath party. Regime officials would write reports about Kurdish political activities and hand over details of dissident Kurds to the police.
Today, it is full of laughter and hope about Kobane’s future, one they hope will include a healthy environment.