By The Renegade
Christmas in Qamishlo: a day of many Turkish drone strikes…
A certain thud engrained in the intuition of each Qamishlokî, distinct from any other. Work freezes in place, people ensuring the wellbeing of one another. A flurry of fire engines and ambulances darts across the cityscape, followed by a convoy of media workers documenting the attacks. Residents rush to the hospitals to donate blood, an act of city-wide mutual aid on the level of mortality.
Then another thud, then a louder thud, and a louder thud. Black and grey clouds swell over the city in a billowing mass of state calligraphy written across a cloudless sky. Printing press, food production, electricity, construction, agricultural facilities. Workers who left their families this morning to catalyze society, now immortalized in the soul of the city. “I’m okay, but all my friends are gone,” said a print worker.
Each thud is immediately followed by intense youth laughter and excitement. Kids in the street mimic the sound of drone strikes by shooting toy pop guns, converting every attack into a moment of joy, defying every piece of metal in the sky as well as the state that lurks just over the northern border wall. Every ounce of psychological warfare, useless.
With onset of evening the sky begins to dim, ink of state calligraphy diluting into a cloudless night. The too familiar thud carries on into dusk, the city refusing to wilt.
…and still just another day.