It has been three days since the guerrilla disarmament ceremony in the Raperîn region on July 11, but the magic of Şikefta Casenê lingers. The site has quickly transformed into a place of pilgrimage and is now in the spotlight of media organizations.
On the day after the ceremony, cameras were already lined up at the cave’s entrance to capture this historic site. Long a refuge for resistance, the most fitting words to describe Şikefta Casenê are “stargeh” and “jîngeh”, a place that protects and gives life. In the past, locals had fled here to shield themselves from attacks. Surrounded on the right and across by towering cliffs, and on the left by a deep valley beyond a sharp drop, the cave can accommodate up to 100 people. Except for a recently constructed road, the path to this area is challenging and treacherous.
Mothers did not leave their children alone
The towering platform erected for the July 11 ceremony stood right at the cliff’s edge, where flat land met the deep valley below. The crowd held its breath, waiting for the guerrillas to appear on the stage. But this gathering wasn’t just notable for bringing together different segments of society; it also reunited Kurdish political leaders who had long struggled to come together, along with international media, and even representatives of the state they had opposed for half a century. Everyone had come with different intentions, but one shared emotion. The strong yet sorrowful mothers from Shengal, from the Saturday Mothers’ sit-ins, from the resistance stronghold of Sur, stood with a wisdom born of pain and pride. Some had buried their children with their own hands. Others had waited years for news of loved ones whose remains had never been found.
They had each given a part of themselves to this struggle. Above all, it was their right to be there — to see the brave fighters descending from the heart of the mountain whose peak kissed the sky, to greet them in their own way. They were the mothers of the guerrillas, the ones who had sent their children off to fight for a dignified life, who had wrapped their children’s lifeless bodies in cloth, who had received their children’s bones in boxes but never strayed from the path they believed in.
What could be more noble than transforming such pain into a relentless presence in the fields of struggle?
Three generations of struggle
Not only mothers, but three generations of women, all part of the struggle, were present. Young and energetic fighters, alongside seasoned women who shared their experiences and wisdom, stood together as the ceremony prepared to mark a new chapter in the fight. They had gathered from different geographies and backgrounds, drawn to Şikefta Casenê by a shared sense of purpose. Warm embraces, glances exchanged across the crowd, and brief conversations were enough to fuse their spirits into one. Peace Mothers, pioneers of the women’s movement, politicians, journalists, writers, scholars, held back tears until the ceremony ended. These tears were not a sign of weakness but of strength, the ability to carry pain while remaining human. The women would soon come together in emotion and meaning.
While honoring the past, these three generations were also preparing to take on the responsibility of the new struggle that was about to be declared. All eyes turned to the 56-step staircase carved into the mountainside. Hearts pounded in anticipation.
Walking with dignity
At 11:20 a.m., the first announcement echoed through the valley. “No slogans, no applause…” The crowd quieted instantly. Everyone, except a few condescending journalists and state representatives, focused on the staircase’s highest step. From one end of the crowd, a whisper: “They’re coming.” It spread like wildfire. A group of 30 guerrillas, led by KCK Executive Council Co-Chair Besê Hozat, began descending the 56 steps to usher in a new era. Heartbeats raced, breath was suspended. The silence was broken by mothers’ piercing ululations: “Tililililili!” Then came the slogans and applause.
That ululation was the only way for mothers to connect with the fighters — for they weren’t allowed to speak or embrace them. It was a code, a cry of unity and love. Time froze in that sacred moment. It was a convergence of loyalty, pride, and honor. Besê Hozat, draped in the resistance of Gülnaz Karataş and the regal composure of Sakine Cansız, and her women comrades once again elevated Kurdish women to celestial heights.
“Liberate yourselves anew. A people whose women are not free cannot be free. A revolution that cannot liberate women is no revolution. Our revolution is a women’s revolution,” said Leader Öcalan. And there, before our eyes, was that very revolution — walking toward a new beginning.
The role of weapons in Kurdish resistance
After greeting the crowd, Besê Hozat read a declaration explaining the purpose behind the group’s symbolic disarmament as the “Group for Peace and Democratic Society.” After the Kurdish version of the statement was also read, the guerrillas, one by one, placed their weapons and ammo belts into a massive metal cauldron brought to the site. The moment the weapons were set ablaze etched itself into the memory of the ceremony. With these very weapons, they protected their people and homeland from genocidal attacks and preserved Kurdish existence. Now, in the spirit of peace, they entrusted their weapons to the fire.
In 1992, when called upon to surrender during the war, Gülnaz Karataş smashed her gun against the rocks and threw herself off a cliff. Many similar examples exist throughout the Kurdish uprisings. In Kurdish resistance doctrine, surrendering weapons is not an option.
Footprints on 56 steps
When the time came for the fighters to return, most of the attendees rushed closer, hoping to steal one last glance or share a fleeting moment of eye contact. The fighters ascended the stairs in formation. This time, the mothers’ ululations rose again to send them off. Despite warnings and interventions, the cries did not stop until the guerrillas disappeared into the mountains.
And the tears that had welled in the eyes before the ceremony, were finally released.
The 56 steps leading to Şikefta Casenê now bear the footprints of worn-out “mekap” boots, and in the space where the ceremony unfolded, the seeds of peace were sown.
This is not the end of the road. But the path ahead, now open, invites us to walk with joy, with collective passion, with beauty. The pain in the mothers’ hearts hasn’t vanished; it remains, as do the memories. Alongside honor and pride.
Source: ANF News
