On the fourteenth of July, Ali Al-Zaidi sat beside President Trump in the Oval Office and received the sort of welcome Iraqi leaders dream about. There was talk of “a lot of deals,” of Iraq’s “tremendous potential,” of a new chapter between the two nations, again. At one point the president congratulated his guest on his election victory. It was a generous compliment, considering that no Iraqi has ever cast a vote for the person of Ali Al-Zaidi. His name appeared on no ballot last November; he was not a candidate. Even the Washington Post’s news desk felt obliged to note the fact under the headline “Trump congratulated Iraq’s prime minister on election. He wasn’t on the ballot.” The same newspaper’s opinion pages had, a day earlier, carried an essay under Al-Zaidi’s own byline announcing that Iraq is ready for a new American partnership. The choreography was flawless.

The Hill welcomed “a new chapter for U.S.-Iraq ties.” The Middle East Institute asked, hopefully, whether this was a new US-Iraq relationship. The special envoy praised the prime minister’s “fresh leadership” and his “bold new agenda.” Running through all of it was a single admiring observation, repeated in different words by different institutions: the new man says all the right things. The Atlantic Council, in its preview of the visit, was refreshingly candid about what this actually meant. Form, it advised, may matter more than substance; Al-Zaidi needed to charm the president and give him confidence that America was backing the right leader. That was written by his boosters, not his critics, and it deserves to be read twice.

Of course he says all the right things. The right things were drafted for him weeks in advance. In the middle of June, a full month before his plane left Baghdad, the prime minister’s office and the American envoy issued a joint statement announcing a shared vision, complete with the disarmament and disbandment of armed factions. The July performance had a rehearsal in June, staged with coaches who know precisely what this White House likes to hear. Fluency in Washington’s language is a service that can be arranged, but it tells us nothing about what the man can deliver in Baghdad.

Then there is the label that has attached itself to him: the Trump of the Middle East. Victoria Taylor of the Atlantic Council relayed the comparison while cautioning that the reality is much more complicated, and she is right, though one can politely go further. Donald Trump built a global brand across half a century and won two national elections. Ali Al-Zaidi, at forty-one the youngest prime minister in Iraq’s history, owns a mid-sized Baghdad conglomerate, a television channel, a private university, and a bank that the US State Department sanctioned for money laundering in February of 2024. He has never campaigned nor faced a voter. As for the outsider image, the businessman untouched by politics, it survives only if one ignores the fact that he is a son-in-law of Faiq Zaidan, the head of the Supreme Judicial Council and arguably the most powerful unelected man in Iraq. His nomination emerged from a Coordination Framework backroom settlement, brokered among the same familiar names and concluded under Zaidan’s patronage, after a short period of deadlock that followed the election that he sat out entirely. The outsider is, on inspection, the consummate insider: a man with no politics of his own and every connection that matters.

Renad Mansour of Chatham House calls the celebrated anti-corruption drive “a veneer of going after the militias.” The Green Zone raids that made headlines have swept up figures whom Iraqi critics dismiss as small fish and expendable fall guys, while the Coordination Framework has pointedly declined to give the prime minister authority to pursue anyone linked to the armed factions. Muqtada al-Sadr’s millions of followers boycotted November’s election, having judged the whole process corrupt, and hold no stake in this government’s survival. The Islamic Resistance in Iraq rejected the outcomes of the Washington visit even before Al-Zaidi’s plane had landed. An opinion in Al Jazeera put the ground truth in a single line: Iraq’s prime minister carries the title, but not the power.

I have been watching Baghdad’s anointed men since 2003. What strikes me about this moment is not Al-Zaidi himself, who may well believe everything he said in Washington. It is the unanimity. Watch how quickly the think tanks, the columnists, and the officials converge on a single story and stop asking questions of it. We have seen this machinery at work before, and we know what it produces.

In December 2001 it produced Hamid Karzai, another elegant man who said all the right things, installed by a conference of foreign powers and local partners rather than by any ballot and feted in Washington to the point of a standing ovation before Congress. From 2003, the CIA delivered cash to his office in suitcases and shopping bags, tens of millions of dollars, what came to be called “ghost money.” Kabul Bank collapsed in 2010 under nearly a billion dollars of embezzlement by the connected elite around him. When the Afghanistan Papers were published in 2019, an American official summed up two decades in one sentence: the biggest source of corruption in Afghanistan was the United States. The point is not that Al-Zaidi is Karzai. Iraq is not Afghanistan, and history rarely repeats itself so neatly. The point is that Washington’s savior-making machinery is unchanged, and the machinery itself is what corrupts. Anoint a man, flood him with money, praise his every phrase, and decline to look too closely because he is “ours”: this recipe has been tested, and the results are documented.

Now weigh the pledges against the calendar. The militias disarmed and the remaining American troops gone, both by the thirtieth of September, promised aloud in the very week American bombs were falling on Iran and Iraq’s armed factions were announcing their defiance. Mansour calls the timeline almost impossible, and he is being diplomatic. Meanwhile, the Chevron pipeline agreement and an oil fund of half a million barrels a day move briskly forward. The money, at least, will arrive on schedule; however, the disarmament is questionable.

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And while the prime minister collected his applause, drones appeared over Erbil. On the evening of the fifteenth, with Al-Zaidi still in Washington, coalition air defenses downed eight explosive-laden drones over the city in under an hour, close to the airport that hosts American and coalition troops. It was the first attack of its kind since the fragile ceasefire of April. No group has claimed responsibility, and none needs to; suspicion falls where it always falls, on Iran and the armed factions aligned with it, the very militias Al-Zaidi had just promised to disarm. Baghdad’s habits in such moments are well established. When drones struck the Region’s oil fields last summer, the Kurdistan authorities blamed the Hashd al-Shaabi, a force formally integrated into Iraq’s own military, and Baghdad rejected the accusation. Hold that image steady: a man in Washington vowing to disarm the militias by the end of September, while unclaimed drones fall over Erbil and no one in his government will say who sent them or what they would do to stop such attacks in the future.

Part of the reason the stage belonged to Al-Zaidi at all is that the Kurds, quarreling among themselves over government formation, left it empty. Most Kurdish officials and party leaders greeted Al-Zaidi’s appointment with talk of a new era of security, stability, and peace, and the hope is understandable; a functioning Baghdad that pays salaries and honors its oil arrangements would change Kurdish lives. But we have watched every anointed man since 2003 arrive with American applause and depart with American regret, and we have learned to count the distance between what is said in Washington and what lands on Erbil. Perhaps Al-Zaidi will be different. The people applauding him have no way of knowing, and it does not appear to trouble them.

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Thirty-four years ago this week, on the fourth of July 1992, a group of men stood in a modest hall in Erbil and swore an oath to govern a region that, on paper, did not exist. There was no state behind them; Baghdad had withdrawn its administration and sealed the roads south. The UN embargo on Iraq applied to us too, so we were blockaded twice over, once by the international community and once by the capital of the state that we lived in. The ministries these men were about to lead had no budgets and, in some cases, no buildings to operate from. What they had was a mandate from an election held six weeks earlier, in which people who had survived the Anfal and Halabja campaigns and the exodus of 1991 walked to polling stations and dipped their fingers in ink as if it were the most natural and patriotic thing in the world to do.

The following year I joined the prime minister’s office under the second cabinet, young and convinced, like everyone around me, that we were building something permanent. I remember salaries paid in Iraqi dinars so devalued that we counted them by the brick rather than by the note. I remember ministers sharing cars. And I remember the strange, hopeful machinery of the arrangement that made the whole thing possible: the 50/50 system.

It is worth recalling how it came about, because the details of that arrangement have softened with time. The election of 19 May 1992 gave the Kurdistan Democratic Party (KDP) a narrow lead over the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan (PUK). Each side accused the other of election fraud. In most places on earth, in that era and in ours, a disputed election between two armed parties can only end in one way. But not for us, at least not exactly then. The KDP conceded a seat so that both parties held fifty each, and they built a government on that symmetry. Every ministry went to one party with a deputy from the other. Every decision, in theory, was made twice. It was inefficient, duplicative, and occasionally comical. It was also, given where we had just come from, close to miraculous. Two movements that had spent parts of the previous decades fighting each other, in addition to fighting the Baath regime, in the mountains chose, at the moment of maximum uncertainty, to share rather than to win.

I have been thinking about that choice constantly these past months because we are now twenty months past the election of October 2024 and the tenth cabinet still does not exist. The parliament elected that autumn has convened to swear in its members and little else; in theory, the first session remains open. The KDP won 39 seats to the PUK’s 23, and the two parties have spent nearly two years arguing over what those numbers should mean. The PUK insists on what it calls an effective partnership, which in practice means something close to the old parity: real shares of the sovereign ministries and joint control of the levers of governance that matter. The KDP points at the arithmetic and asks why a party with barely more than half its seats should govern as an equal. The dispute has run through the interior ministry, through the question of a unified candidate for the Iraqi presidency, and lately through the PUK’s open flirtation with forming a government alongside the New Generation Movement and leaving the KDP out altogether, a proposal that would have been unthinkable to the men of 1992 and is spoken of casually now.

So the question I want to ask, as someone who served in one of those early cabinets and has spent the decades since watching from progressively greater distances, is an uncomfortable one. Is the deadlock of 2026 the child of the compromise of 1992?

Political scientists have a name for what we built back then, though nobody in Kurdistan was reading Arend Lijphart at the time. They call it “consociationalism”: government by grand coalition, proportional shares, and mutual vetoes. It is the standard prescription for divided societies, and it has a decent record of stopping wars. However, it has a much poorer record of ever ending. Lebanon fixed its ratio of parliamentary seats to a census taken in 1932 and then declined, for decades, to count its people again because everyone understood that the formula could not survive contact with reality. Bosnia froze the battle lines of 1995 into a constitution, and thirty years later a country of three million people maintains three presidents. The pattern is consistent enough to be a rule. Power-sharing deals are written as emergency measures, and emergency measures never include their own expiry date. The parties that benefit from the formula develop an interest in the formula, not in the state it was meant to produce.

Kurdistan followed the script with dispiriting fidelity. The fifty-fifty government of 1992 could not survive its own contradictions, and by 1994 the two parties were at war with each other. By 1996 there were two administrations, one in Erbil and one in Sulaymaniyah, each with its cabinet, its own revenues, and its own armed forces. The Washington Agreement of 1998 stopped the fighting, and the administrations were formally reunified in 2006, but the reunification was itself another fifty-fifty in spirit: the strategic agreement of 2007 divided posts, revenues, and commands between the parties rather than surrendering them to institutions. What never happened, in all those years, was the thing that would have let the formula retire gracefully; the peshmerga were never fully unified, the party payrolls never merged into a neutral civil service, and the ministries remained, beneath the letterhead, party property. And so, losing an election never became safe; that is the heart of this dilemma. In a normal system the losing party goes into opposition and waits, protected by institutions it trusts. Here, a party that surrenders its share of government metaphorically surrenders its shield. Nobody disarms first. Economists call this a commitment problem, and it explains our politics better than any theory of ideology or personality.

Seen this way, the deadlock is not a betrayal of the 1992 arrangement but its inheritance. The fifty-fifty taught us that governments in Kurdistan are formed between parties, not within parliaments. Elections here have never really decided who governs; they decide the opening bids of a negotiation conducted elsewhere between two organizations that each keep their own forces and their own geography. Every cabinet since the first has been a treaty wearing the costume of a government. The tenth cabinet is late because the treaty has become harder to write, not because the costume size or design has changed.

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And yet I cannot bring myself to say the PUK is simply wrong to resist majority rule, however much the numbers favor the KDP. Thirty-nine to twenty-three is not parity, and pretending otherwise insults the voters. But majoritarianism assumes the institutions of a state, and we have not built them. Handing unified control of interior, finance, and the security file to a single party, in a region where the other party still commands its own forces, is not democracy; it is asking one side to trust what has never once been trustworthy. The honest answer to whether it is reasonable to expect fifty-fifty in 2026 is no. The equally honest answer to whether it is reasonable to expect the PUK to accept its abolition, with nothing built in its place, is also no. That is what a thirty-four-year-old temporary measure looks like when it comes due.

The way out is not a cleverer ratio; it is the slow, unglamorous work that both parties have postponed since I was a young man in the prime minister’s office: a peshmerga answerable to the ministry rather than the politburo, revenues published rather than partitioned, and a civil service that survives elections. Make losing safe, and the formula can finally die of natural causes. Refuse, and we will renegotiate the treaty every four years while generations that have never seen a government formed on time conclude that voting is nothing but a theatrical performance.

What moves me about the fourth of July 1992 is not the fifty-fifty system itself. The formula was a crutch, and everyone knew it and worked back then. What moves me is that two rivals, fresh from betrayal and war, decided that the region mattered more than the ratio and took an oath together in a hall with no money and no guarantees. Their successors, some of them sons of the same people who inherited the seats, dispute a far smaller gap in a far richer Kurdistan, and have so far found the distance uncrossable. The ratio was always negotiable. The willingness was the miracle. It is the only part of 1992 worth restoring exactly as it was.

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Two hundred and fifty years is a long time for any nation. But anniversaries have a way of making you think not about the country’s age but about your own relationship with it and when exactly that relationship became real.

For me, it became real over a ticket.

I was working as a manufacturing engineer at ICON Health and Fitness in Logan, Utah. The company made treadmills and ellipticals, and I spent my days on the production floor troubleshooting assembly lines, doing what engineers do. It was my first engineering job, which I had taken just a few months after finishing my bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering. I had arrived in the United States in 1997 as a political refugee, processed through the UNHCR in Ankara, Turkey, and Logan came later, a small city in northern Utah that I had ended up in because of that job. I was, as far as anyone knew, the only Kurd in town, which made me a kind of rare specimen in the eyes of my colleagues. They were curious, mostly kind, and overwhelmingly Mormon.

The warmth of Mormon communities often surprises people who have never spent time among them. It surprised me too, but in the best way. These were people who genuinely believed in looking after their neighbors, and they extended that to me without hesitation.

In 2003, after years of paperwork, appointments, and waiting, the agency that was then the INS, the Immigration and Naturalization Service, made it official. I was an American citizen. I had an alien number that had defined me for years, and now I had something more. When I came into work after the ceremony, my colleagues and management congratulated me warmly, sincerely. Many of them told me they had never known anyone who had gone through naturalization before. They did not quite know what the process involved, but they understood it mattered.

The event was only a couple of years after September 11th. My colleagues had witnessed something during that period that stayed with me. Someone had gone through the Yellow Pages, picking out foreign-sounding names and calling to threaten people with death in their voice. That kind of ugliness exists everywhere. But the people I worked with in Logan were nothing like that. They were the ones who had stood by me when it happened, and they were the ones now shaking my hand and asking what it had felt like to finally become a citizen.

The Herald Journal, Logan’s local paper, had come to interview me around that time. The story they ran was titled “Escape to Utah,” and it felt like an accurate description of what had happened, even if the word “escape” did not quite capture how much I had come to love where I had landed.

The following Fourth of July, the first one I would celebrate as a citizen, the management at ICON did something I did not expect. They gifted me a ticket to the town’s Independence Day celebration, held at a large stadium. The celebration was something you normally paid to attend, and they handed me a ticket without me asking, without any fanfare, just as a gesture. You are one of us now. Come celebrate with us.

I went. I sat in that stadium and watched the fireworks and listened to the music and felt something I had spent most of my life not feeling. I felt like I belonged somewhere.

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That probably sounds simple to someone who has always had a country. But I had grown up a Kurd in Iraq, which meant growing up as something the country around you does not quite recognize, a foreigner in the only place you have ever known. When I left in the 1990s, I was not leaving a home. I was leaving a place that had never really claimed me.

America claimed me. Not through the document the INS issued, though that mattered too. It claimed me through a ticket handed over by people who had decided I was worth celebrating.

Two hundred and fifty years in, that is still what this country is capable of. I have not forgotten it.

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October 19, 2005. I was in Baghdad when history walked into a courtroom, and I was watching it on CNN.

I had been offered a seat in the observer’s box. I turned it down, not for lack of access, and not out of fear. The day before, I had been part of an official inspection team that toured that same courthouse inside Baghdad’s Green Zone. I had sat in the very seat they were offering me, looked through the bulletproof glass that separated the observers from where the accused would stand, and taken it all in. I knew the room. I just couldn’t bring myself to be inside it for that moment.

I am a Kurd, born in what is now the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, and the regime facing judgment that day was not some distant political chapter for me. It had shaped my life directly and had cost my people enormously, in blood, in displacement, and in a generational grief that doesn’t have a clean ending. By the time I reached Baghdad, I had spent months sitting with survivors in Portland and Seattle, listening as they described what happened to them, and I wasn’t sure I could hold all of that together in the same room as the man responsible for it. So I watched from a distance, on CNN, and let the moment land the way it needed to.

What I haven’t shared until now is the full picture of why I was there at all.

I arrived in Baghdad in September 2005 on a 90-day mission that was, in scope, much broader than any single role. I was there as part of the U.S. government’s wider effort to support the stabilization of post-invasion Iraq, a mission that touched everything from institutional reconstruction to legal accountability and that placed people with specific expertise inside a web of agencies working, often under considerable pressure, to build functioning structures from the wreckage of a collapsed state. One significant part of my mission was embedded within the Regime Crimes Liaison Office, the RCLO, a unit established by the U.S. Department of Justice to support the Iraqi High Tribunal in prosecuting Saddam Hussein and the senior architects of his Ba’ath regime. But the RCLO was one thread of a much larger tapestry, and it’s important to say that from the start.

Within the RCLO, my role was as a language and cultural analyst. That title understates what the work actually required. Yes, I was translating documents, but much more than that, I was helping investigators understand what they were looking at. The geography of specific military operations. The cultural logic behind how Ba’athist forces moved through Kurdish territory and why certain villages were targeted in the sequence they were. The meaning carried by particular words and phrases that only someone who had lived inside that world could accurately read. I had that background because I had lived it. I came to the United States in 1997 as a political refugee from Iraqi Kurdistan. The regime I was now helping to document was the same one that had made leaving the only viable option.

The groundwork had begun before I ever set foot in Iraq. In Portland, Oregon, and Seattle, Washington, cities that had become home to large Kurdish refugee communities, I spent time sitting with survivors of the 1988 Halabja chemical attack and the Anfal campaign. These were people who had lived through events that the world has still not fully reckoned with. Halabja remains the largest chemical weapons attack on a civilian population in recorded history, with mustard gas and nerve agents dropped on a city, killing up to five thousand people within hours. The Anfal campaign, the broader military operation of which Halabja was the most visible atrocity, killed an estimated 180,000 Kurds. In those rooms in the Pacific Northwest, survivors walked me through maps, pointed to where their villages had stood, and told me what they saw and heard and smelled on the days that changed everything. What came out of those conversations didn’t stay in those rooms.

There is something I want to say here that has not been said publicly before. The Kurdish genocide cases, Halabja and Anfal, were the strongest cases in the RCLO’s arsenal. Everyone inside the process knew it. The evidentiary foundation was overwhelming, and a conviction on those charges alone would have determined the outcome of the trials. But they were not the first cases brought to trial. The deliberate decision to open proceedings with the Dujail case, concerning the killing and torture of Shia Arab civilians following an assassination attempt in 1982, was not purely a matter of legal strategy. It was a political calculation and one I was aware of through my position. The reasoning was that prosecuting an Arab Sunni leader first on charges of Kurdish genocide risked inflaming ethnic and sectarian fractures in an Iraq that was already dangerously unstable. Justice was being ordered around political survival. I understood the logic. It didn’t make it easier to sit with.

But 2005 was not where my story with this regime began, and that’s what I’ll leave you with for now.

In the mid-1990s, I was part of something that was covert and that has only ever been partially surfaced in public. Former CIA officer Robert Baer touched on it in his book See No Evil. I was not the architect. I was not the one giving orders or setting strategy. But I was there, in a role that mattered, one whose absence would have been felt. That story is for another installment, when I’m ready to tell it fully.

What I will say is this: by the time I landed in Baghdad in September 2005, more than a decade of my life had been quietly pointed in that direction. I watched the opening of the trial on CNN, from a room in the same city where it was happening, and it felt like the only honest place I could be.

This is the first in a series of personal accounts from inside efforts that shaped one of the most consequential chapters in recent history. Future installments will go deeper into the 1995 covert operation, the Anfal evidence process, what it meant to walk through places in Baghdad that almost no one else had seen, and what carrying all of these memories looks like when you’re a Kurd who once had no choice but to leave.

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In early April 2026, Donald Trump made a striking allegation during a Fox News interview: the United States had sent weapons to Iraqi Kurds to pass along to Iranian protesters, but the Kurds, he claimed, had kept them. Casual and unverified, the remark landed like a proverbial bomb in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, igniting an inter-party crisis that exposed the fault lines running just beneath the region’s political surface.

What Was Said and What Wasn’t?

Calling Trump’s statement an “admission” is itself contested ground. Fox News’ Trey Yingst reported the allegation after a phone call with the president but shared no recording, and Trump himself, on tape at the White House Easter Egg Roll, referred only to “a certain group of people” keeping the guns, without naming the Kurds directly. Whether this statement constitutes a genuine disclosure of a covert operation, an exaggeration, or a deliberate manipulation remains an open question. More accurately, it was an unverified claim, relayed second-hand, never officially confirmed, and disputed by every party it indirectly implicated.

What the statement alleged was blunt enough: “We sent guns to the protesters, a lot of them. We sent them through a group. And I think the group took the guns.” Secretary of State Marco Rubio, when pressed by a Kurdish reporter, retreated into vague language about “symbolic support for Iranians,” carefully avoiding any confirmation of an actual arms transfer. Iranian Kurdish opposition groups across the board denied receiving anything.

The statement should not be seen as a policy disclosure but as political communication performance working on several levels at once, one of which may have been a calculated, if counterproductive, attempt to manage the Kurdish exposure to the ongoing regional conflict.

Trump had been pulling back from Kurdish entanglement well before the Fox interview. He had drawn a visible line between US military objectives and Kurdish ambitions, framing the Kurds as outside the scope of American commitments. As recently as March, he had explicitly told Kurdish leaders not to enter the war and walked back earlier enthusiasm for a Kurdish offensive into Iran. Blaming them for a failed weapons handoff, rather than crediting them with active participation, could, in that context, serve to lower their profile, giving Tehran less grounds to escalate strikes against Iranian Kurdish bases in northern Iraq.

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The irony is that the statement achieved exactly the opposite effect. Kurdish leaders warned immediately that the claim could invite Iranian retaliation, and Tehran wasted no time using it to reinforce its narrative that the protests had been foreign-backed, a justification it had already deployed for mass arrests, executions, and cross-border strikes on Kurdish opposition bases. By publicly linking Kurdish groups to a US covert arms operation, however dubiously, Trump handed Tehran a propaganda tool that landed with real consequences on the ground.

The other motives layered into the statement are more familiar. For his domestic base, it cast the US as a covert actor boldly arming Iran’s internal opposition while simultaneously painting Kurdish allies as opportunistic and unreliable, a framing consistent with Trump’s longstanding skepticism of foreign partners. Shifting blame to the Kurds also insulated the administration from accountability regardless of whether any operation had actually taken place.

In the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, the statement did not register as abstract geopolitics; it widened the pre-existing fault lines. The KDP and PUK, the region’s two dominant parties, historically rivalrous, immediately turned on each other, each accusing the other of having received and withheld the weapons. The cycle escalated to the point that another Kurdish reporter directly confronted Trump to ask whether the weapons were being held in Sulaymaniyah, PUK territory. Trump remained silent, just as Rubio had remained silent with a different reporter. The silence on both ends fed the speculation rather than settling it.

For KDP supporters, the story implied that the PUK, with its alleged closer ties to Iran and its geography near the Iranian Kurdish opposition bases, had received weapons and concealed them. For PUK supporters, the denial of their party president was evidence of innocence and proof that the KDP was trying to score political points by blaming others. Neither side showed much interest in the underlying question of whether Trump was telling the truth. The statement had become a mirror, reflecting existing suspicions back at whoever was looking.

The episode fits a recognizable KRI pattern: external statements, particularly from Washington, get rapidly domesticated into the KDP-PUK frame, stripped of their original context, and repurposed in the ongoing competition for regional legitimacy.

Trump’s April 2026 weapons claim is most honestly characterized as a manipulative statement built on overlapping motives, base-rallying, pressure on Tehran, distancing the Kurds from direct entanglement, and headline-grabbing, with little verifiable substance underpinning any of them. What it was, most plainly, was an unverified allegation deployed for political effect, with the Kurds absorbing the cost. In the KRI, it was consumed by partisan media outlets, magnified beyond the intentions of Trump. In essence, it functioned as an accelerant poured onto already-smoldering inter-party tensions, turning an ambiguous American boast into another chapter in the long KDP-PUK rivalry.

The lesson here, especially for Kurdish media patrons and managers, is that political communication is a double-edged sword; handle it carefully. The weapons story faded in Western media within days. In KRI, the accusations it stirred took considerably longer to settle, and that asymmetry, between how briefly a statement registers in Washington and how long it echoes elsewhere, is its own lesson in how American political theater travels.

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For eighty years, the United Nations has functioned as the world’s most prominent advocate for gender parity, yet its own leadership record remains a list of nine men. As the 2026 selection process gains momentum, the institution faces a clear irony: it cannot continue to preach equality to the world while perpetuating a century-long streak of male leadership at the top. The question for 2026 isn’t whether qualified women exist—the current field of candidates has rendered that excuse obsolete—but whether the Security Council is finally ready to retire the Velvet Veto.

This invisible barrier isn’t a loud, public rejection; it is a soft, structural exclusion where gender bias is often disguised as geopolitical necessity. Historically, the five permanent members (P5) of the Security Council have prioritized a specific leadership archetype: the technocratic “Secretary” rather than the assertive “General.” This preference has often left women in a double bind. A female candidate that is assertive is labeled as confrontational by powers like Russia and China, who prioritize sovereignty and non-interference. If she is collaborative, she is often dismissed by Western powers like the US or UK as lacking the spine required for global reform.

Today, however, the merit argument has no legs to stand on. The two leading contenders from Latin America—the region widely considered next in line for the presidency post—bring resumes that dwarf many of their predecessors. Michelle Bachelet, a two-term president of Chile and former UN Human Rights chief, represents the “General.” Her candidacy is a direct challenge to the status quo; she has the political gravity of a head of state and a proven record of speaking truth to power. On the other side is Rebeca Grynspan, the current head of UN Trade and Development and a former Vice President of Costa Rica. She is the institutional mastermind, a candidate who knows the UN’s internal machinery so well that she could arguably bridge the gap between Western demands for reform and the East’s preference for administrative pragmatism.

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If in 2026 the UN bypasses these figures, it won’t be because a viable woman couldn’t be found. It will be a sign that the P5 are still adhering to the patriarchal power structure that prizes predictability over progress. There is also the cynical possibility of the “glass cliff”—the idea that the UN is only considering a woman now because the institution is in a state of paralysis over conflicts in Ukraine, Gaza, and more recently, Iran, looking for a new face to manage its potential decline.

Ultimately, the 2026 race is a referendum on the UN’s soul. If the Security Council continues to rely on a patriarchal power structure that prizes predictability over progress, the Velvet Veto will remain the institution’s most enduring tradition. For the UN to remain credible in the 21st century, it must stop treating half the global population as a diversity goal and start treating them as the crisis managers the world clearly needs.

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The 16-month political inaction in Erbil is becoming harder to ignore. Since the elections of October 2024, the Kurdistan Region of Iraq (KRI) has been trapped in a unique political purgatory. The voters did their job, the ballots were counted, and the international observers went home, yet the seats in the parliament remain effectively unused and the ministerial posts remain empty, albeit still filled by the same officials that the election was supposed to replace. As we move through 2026, the frustration has shifted from quiet grumbling in tea houses to a serious, high-stakes debate: Is it time to shake up the deadlocked political system and, by extension, dissolve this parliament and simply start over?

Dissolving a parliament is considered the nuclear option, and for good reason. It is a drastic step that could either propel a stalled democracy into action or leave the region’s hard-won autonomy in dire straits. To understand whether a political reset is worth the risk, we have to look past the emotionally charged slogans and examine what another election would actually mean for a region already pushed to its limit by internal head-butting and the more serious regional conflict.

The Case for the Reset

The primary argument for dissolution is simple: the process is at an impasse. For decades, the political landscape has been dominated by a nominal 50/50 power-sharing logic between the Kurdistan Democratic Party (KDP) and the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan (PUK). This arrangement that varies with little adjustments as a result of election dynamics often feels less like a democracy and more like a permanent contract between two sides that have already decided how the story ends.

A snap election could deliver a real shock to this system. It would force a public reckoning with the 16-month failure to form a government, potentially punishing the parties seen as the obstructionists. It also gives real oxygen to the third way. For those who believe the KRI governance system needs radical change, another trip to the ballot box is the only way to force the obstructionists to either come to their senses and lead or get out of the way.

There is also the question of how the situation looks on the international stage. The US, the EU, the UN, and many other countries have invested heavily in the KRI as a beacon of stability in a volatile neighborhood. A parliament sitting idle for over a year chips away at that image, and KRI’s reputation as the success story is slowly eroding. A successful, decisive election would at least signal that the region is still a functioning entity—capable of managing its affairs without needing Baghdad or outside powers to step in to fix it.

Why a Reset Could Backfire

But there is a reason many are hesitant to pull the trigger on the dissolution of the current Parliament. Dissolving the parliament isn’t just about printing new ballots; it’s about opening a legal and economic door that may allow in the unknown.

Start with the economics of elections. Elections cost millions—logistics, security, staffing, all of it. In a region where civil servant salaries arrive late more often than not, and where the economy is still reeling from the halt of oil exports, spending that kind of money on a political do-over is a genuinely hard sell. To the average teacher or healthcare worker who hasn’t been paid on time in months, a multi-million-dollar election isn’t just wasteful—it’s insulting. It tells ordinary people that there isn’t enough money for their dinner tables, but there is plenty for the political system to roll the dice one more time.

Then there is the legal mess. The KRI has no formal, unified constitution — it runs on a patchwork of older laws that the Federal Supreme Court in Baghdad is increasingly willing to challenge. If KRI moves to dissolve its parliament without a solid, well-studied, legal basis, it is essentially risking a federal-level intervention. And history is pretty consistent on what happens when Baghdad’s courts get involved in KRI’s internal affairs: the region ends up with less than it had before. A snap election, badly handled, could hand the keys to the region’s constitutional existence to groups and entities that have never shown much interest in protecting Kurdish semi-autonomy.

Then there is the question nobody wants to ask out loud: what if the numbers come back the same? Which is a great possibility. Spend the money, take the legal risk, and weather the public distrust—and end up with the same arguments over so-called sovereign ministries and the same stalemate. Only now with a more depleted treasury and a public that has completely run out of patience.

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Democracy or Apathy?

Even if the legal and financial hurdles are cleared, there is a human problem sitting underneath all of this. Between the regional elections of late 2024 and the national Iraqi elections of 2025, Kurdish voters have been to the polls more than once in a very short window of time. That has consequences.

In 2024, turnout was high because people genuinely believed something might change. That belief hasn’t aged well. If a snap election is called today and 30 or 40 percent of the electorate shows up, the resulting parliament carries no real mandate—it is in essence a ghost parliament, easy to ignore by both domestic rivals and foreign powers. For younger voters especially — those under 30 who have the most to lose and the least patience — another election without a guaranteed outcome isn’t an opportunity. It’s a reminder that the system wasn’t built with them in mind.

The other necessity is a constitution-first approach. The current crisis has proven that the KRI cannot survive on gentlemen’s agreements between however many powerful political parties. The region needs a written constitution that mandates strict timelines for government formation — one that makes a 16-month delay legally impossible in the future.

Kurdish citizens have held up their end of the bargain—they showed up, they voted, they waited. The political process, meticulously managed by those who benefit from the status quo, has responded by spending 16 months proving they are more interested in protecting their positions than in service-based governance. That is the core of this crisis, and no election, technocratic cabinet, or legal framework fixes it unless the people at the top actually decide they want it fixed.

Dissolving the parliament might be necessary. It might even work. But it is a high-risk move that could just as easily bury the region’s remaining autonomy under a pile of debt and legal chaos as it could save it. The silence coming out of parliament right now is not neutral — it is the sound of a system actively failing the people it was built to serve. If the politicians and policymakers don’t find a way to sit in the seats the voters gave them, they shouldn’t be surprised when the people — exhausted, broke, and thoroughly unconvinced — decide that the seats aren’t worth filling at all.

April is the month in which many nations and people commemorate acts of genocide committed against them on the basis of ethnic, religious, and/or political differences. Kurds, Jews, Cambodians, and Armenians all share this fateful month to reminisce about the calamities that came upon their past generations. On April 14, Iraqi Kurds commemorated the Anfal genocide campaign. Jews all over the world commemorated the horrors of the Holocaust on April 15/16; Cambodians commemorated their Killing Fields on the 17th. Armenians commemorate the 100th anniversary of the first documented genocide of the 20th century on April 24th.

As we humans commemorate past foolish collective actions, other parts of the world are boiling with ethnic, racial, and religious hatred at alarming levels.

The 20th century witnessed many large-scale genocides; some gained more notoriety than others, leaving us wondering if the 21st century is going to be any better. Although this young century hasn’t witnessed large-scale genocide campaigns, there have been many small-scale ethnic cleansing acts by irregular groups and forces. With most of the Middle East on the edge of sectarian wars, conditions are ripe for a wide-scale genocide to crown this century. Unless we make peace with our ugly past, acknowledge the mistakes of our ancestors, and shun all kinds of genocidal acts, we are bound to witness more acts of violence aimed at wiping out certain groups of humans based on perceived differences.

Defining Genocide

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines “genocide” as the deliberate killing of people who belong to a particular racial, political, or cultural group.

And the United Nations defines genocide and ethnic cleansing in Articles II of the 1948 Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of Genocide as the mass expulsion or killing of members of an unwanted ethnic or religious group in a society.

Background

History tells us that on or about April 24, 1915, the first group of intellectuals and community leaders of Armenian descent, about 200 total, were expelled from the capital of the Ottoman Empire, Constantinople. The discrimination against Armenians was based on ethnic as well as religious differences. The Ottoman Empire was the guardian of the Muslim world, and it subjugated all other religious minorities, including the Christian Armenians. The systematic prosecution continued until the fall of the Ottoman Empire and its replacement with the present Republic of Turkey in 1923. By then the reported two million strong Armenian population in Turkey had shrunk to almost zero. Half of the population had become victims of the oppressive Ottoman rule and lost their lives, and the rest were able to, or were forced to, leave the lands ruled by the Ottomans.

To date, only several countries have recognized the blatant acts of ethnic cleansing of Armenians as genocide. The world’s only superpower, the United States, is not one of them. When the issue was put before the House of Representatives in 1975, President Ford was concerned that such a recognition would affect the strategic relations with the US’s strongest ally in the region at the time, Turkey.

Genocide Chronicles

Since the years of genocide against the Armenians, humanity has been witness to many similar shameful acts. Some were planned out and implemented by governments and superpowers, and some were the actions of groups against smaller or less powerful groups. Nevertheless, the definition of genocide can be applied to all of them regardless of their source and the scale of the atrocities.

The Jewish Holocaust (1941 – 1945)

One of the largest campaigns of ethnic cleansing and genocide in history is the Nazi-German-led Holocaust to wipe out the existence and identity of the Jewish population in the world. In this campaign, it is estimated that a total of 6 million Jews were killed, including close to a million children. The Holocaust is the most known and the most studied act of genocide in the world, due to its horrific scale and the number of accomplices; close to 500,000 individuals are believed to have been directly involved in the planning and execution of this act of genocide.

Khmer Rouge Killing Fields Genocide (1975 – 1979)

On April 17, Cambodians commemorate the genocide that is known worldwide as the Khmer Rouge Killing Fields. During the rule of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, close to a million Cambodians were killed. The mass killing was considered part of an organized government campaign. The communist Khmer Rouge-led government, in essence, arrested and killed anyone suspected of ties of allegiance to the former government. A United Nations-sponsored investigation estimates the number of civilians killed as a result of the Khmer Rouge’s policies, which included starvation, deprivation from health services, and denial of employment opportunities, close to seven million.

The Anfal Campaign (1986 – 1988)

Named after a verse from the Muslim holy book of the Qur’an, the government of Saddam Hussein and his ruling Baath Party set out on an ethnic cleansing campaign to wipe out the Kurdish population in northern Iraq. This state-sponsored campaign included arresting adult and young men, killing them in groups, and burying them in mass graves. Close to 90 percent of all villages in northern Iraq were leveled to ground. Children and women were placed in camps, the women frequently sexually raped and sometimes sold as prostitutes. The campaign reached its peak when the government used chemical gas against the town of Halabja and killed 5000 civilians. It is estimated 500,000 civilians were killed in this campaign.

Bosnian Genocide (1992 – 1995)

The Bosnian Genocide is in reference to the systematic and targeted killing of the Bosniaks, meaning the Muslim Bosnians, by Bosnian Serb forces during the Bosnian War. An estimated 8 to 8.5 thousand Bosnian men and boys were killed, and close to 3000 civilians were forcefully removed from their homes and the regions they had lived in for generations. This genocide was mostly religion-based, with an ethnic influence.

Rwandan Genocide (1994)

The mass murder of members of the Tutsi tribe as well as some moderates from the Hutu tribe was committed by the majority Hutu in a period of about 100 days. An estimated 500,000 to 1,000,000 Rwandans lost their lives as a result of this mass ethnic cleansing. This genocide was the byproduct of the Rwandan Civil War between the Hutu-led government and the Rwandan Patriotic Front, mainly Tutsi, that began in 1990.

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Darfur Genocide (2003)

The Darfur genocide was carried out by the Sudanese government against the non-Arab population in Sudan. In February 2003 the Sudan Liberation Army and the Justice and Equality Movement began taking action against the government of Sudan as a result of the alleged oppression by the Sudanese government of non-Arabs in the Darfur region. The Sudanese military and the Janjaweed militia, made up of Arab tribal fighters, responded with an ethnic cleansing campaign of non-Arabs resulting in the death of hundreds of thousands of civilians.

Yazidi and Christian Genocide (2014–2015)

In June of 2014, the world had a rude awakening to a new genocide aimed at terminating the ethnic Yazidi Kurds and converting Assyrian/Chaldean Christians to Islam or facing death. The Islamic State in Iraq and Sham (ISIS or ISIL) had expanded its territory, crossed the border from Syria to Iraq, and occupied the second largest city in Iraq, Mosul. On the western side of the city of Mosul lie the town of Sinjar and Mount Sinjar, home to the Kurdish Yazidi minority that practices a form of Zoroastrian religion known as Zardashti, named after their prophet Zardasht. The region also houses a large number of Iraqi Christians who have been inhabitants of this region for thousands of years. ISIS applied the zero-tolerance policy towards the Yazidis and began killing hundreds to thousands of them, forcing children, women, and old men and women to flee to Mount Sinjar for refuge. Those who failed to escape in time were subjected to slavery, rape, and death. The cleansing campaign against the Yazidi Kurds was the fiercest and a priority because, to ISIS, the Yazidi were the true infidels who were idol worshipers. Then ISIS turned its attention to Christians and offered them three options: conversion to Islam, paying tax, or death. Many Christians managed to buy back temporary safety by paying the levied taxes, leaving their homes and belongings at the mercy of looting ISIS thugs, and left for safer places under the control of the Kurdistan Regional Government.

SIS continues to target Christians and Yazidis, as well as Shiites living in the territories they presently control and the new places they occupy on regular bases.

Outlook

It is hard not to sound like an alarmist when all the signs point to a future that holds more genocidal action. For example, in Iraq the levels of hatred among the many different ethnic and religious groups are at their highest. The rift between Shiite and Sunni Arab groups is only getting wider and deeper. Kurds and Arabs are fighting it out on a daily basis on college campuses, social media, and satellite TV channels. Yazidi Kurds accusing other Kurds of failure to protect them. Christian Iraqis feel betrayed by the rest of the Christian world for standing by as they were ousted from their ancestral homes and lands. The introduction of the Iran-backed Popular Mobilization Front to the Iraqi mess frightened and angered Kurds as well as more of the Sunni Arab population, Christians, and other minorities. In Iraq, all the above constitute indicators for a possible collective action of one group against one more of the other groups in the form of a genocide. The possibility of such events is magnified by the absence of a unifying message from the central government. The Iraqi government itself is so divided it is incapable of delivering a message of unity.

Saudi Arabia and Iran are fighting proxy wars all over the Middle East; Yemen is the latest battlefront. Egypt is executing Muslim Brotherhood members right and left. Turkey is fighting for its past glory, at times acting like a rebellious teenager on the world stage.

In Africa, the Somali militant group al-Shabaab has been consistent in committing genocide, albeit on a relatively smaller but more effective scale, against Kenyan civilians. The recent attack on a college campus in Garissa, Kenya, prompted the Kenyan government to request the closure of the largest refugee camp in the world, Dadab, which is used to house Somali refugees. Al-Shabaab has a strong base of sympathizers in the camp and has managed to pull recruits from the young men living in the camp.

In Nigeria, Boko Haram is waging a war against the Christian majority, kidnapping and enslaving women based on their religious affiliations.

Pope Francis, possibly inadvertently, angered the Turks by referring to the Armenian ethnic cleansing as a genocide. Turkey, a country that has denied that the killing of Armenians was a genocide and has failed to make peace with its past to allow for wounds to heal, recalled its ambassador to the Vatican and requested an explanation for the Pope’s remarks. In Turkey also, the neo-Ottomans angered the secular Turks and other non-Muslim Turkish minorities by allowing Islamic Friday sermons and Qur’an recitation at the Hagia Sophia mosque in Istanbul for the first time in 85 years.

There are other hot spots around the world, such as Ukraine, but since my focus is on the Middle East and North Africa region, I will suffice by mentioning it for the record.

Conclusion

The human race has the obligation to condemn and ban all acts of genocide. Wars are inevitable; it has been proven throughout history. However, genocide should not be an inevitable part of wars. Treaties and agreements won’t stop rogue states and groups from committing genocide. Countries should reconcile with their past to enable the affected countries and peoples to get closure. Perpetrators should be dealt with in the harshest way possible to show that we as humans have evolved and we no longer have an appetite for such barbaric acts. The United Nations should dedicate a day to anti-genocide. A day in which school children all over the world are reminded of the horrors of such group actions against groups that are different from them. Maybe by being more upfront with ourselves and our future generations, by talking about what we as humans have allowed to happen in the past, we can have a chance to stop future genocidal acts.

This article was first published on a personal blog in 2015.

On paper, the Iraqi Constitution is the guide. Article number 67, of 2005, defines the president as the symbol of the nation’s unity and the protector of its sovereignty. Interestingly, while the document provides the framework for the office, it does not explicitly mandate that the president must be a Kurd. That allocation is born out of a “Muhasasa” or sectarian-ethnic quota system, that has become an ironclad tradition. What is perhaps most remarkable is that this entitlement is rarely, if ever, challenged by the Arab majority or other ethnic components within the Iraqi society and the political players. There is a broad, quiet consensus across Baghdad that the presidency belongs to the Kurds—a vital gesture of inclusion for a federal Iraq that ensures stability.

The real drama isn’t between Arabs and Kurds; it’s an internal Kurdish tug-of-war. Since 2005, a “gentleman’s agreement” has existed between the two powerhouses of the Kurdistan Region: the PUK and the Kurdistan Democratic Party (KDP). The division of responsibilities was simple: the KDP would helm the presidency of the Kurdistan Region of Iraq (KRI) in Erbil, while the PUK would represent the Kurds in Baghdad as the president of Iraq.

Yet, like clockwork, every four years the KDP tests the limits of its reach. They launch a bid for the Baghdad post, attempting to consolidate power across both capitals. And yet, every four years, they fail to affect change in the well-established political norm. Realizing the importance of the balance of power and constitutional representation, a fascinating course correction happens within the halls of the Iraqi Parliament. Despite the KDP’s influence, the system eventually tilts back toward the PUK, honoring the original power-sharing spirit.

This isn’t just about political math; there is a deep sentimental value attached to this seat for the PUK. The seat of the president of Iraq, post-2003, was first occupied by the late Jalal Talabani, or “Mam Jalal,” a figure whose shadow still looms large over the Green Zone and the Iraqi political scene. Talabani wasn’t just a president; he was a master mediator who could speak to all sides of the mosaic of Iraqi people. To many in Baghdad, the presidency “is” the house that Talabani built.

There exists a subtle honor system among the political blocs in Baghdad. Even amidst the cutthroat maneuvering of modern Iraqi politics, there is a collective memory of Talabani’s role as a bridge-builder. Granting the post to the PUK is, in many ways, a nod of respect to Talabani’s legacy. Of course, this election isn’t purely the result of good luck or sympathetic voting to honor traditions; the current PUK leadership has proven to be remarkably adept at political maneuvering in Baghdad, navigating the complex landscape of Shia and Sunni alliances to ensure a winning run for their candidate crosses the finish line.

With the election of Nizar Amedi, we see the culmination of these dynamics. The KDP challenged, the PUK maneuvered, and the honor system held firm. Amedi’s election serves as a reminder that even in a fractured political landscape, some traditions—born of both respect for the past and the necessity of the present—are simply too risky to be uprooted.

Twenty-one years ago, Iraq broke a thousand-year-old mold. The election of Jalal Talabani as the nation’s first non-Arab, Kurdish president wasn't just a win for a political party; it was a seismic shift in the identity of the nation of Iraq. It signaled that a man who had spent decades as an outsider—a revolutionary from the fringes—was now the person responsible for holding the country together.

What always struck me as most profound about Mam Jalal was the duality of his life. Here was a man with a sharp, sophisticated legal education, yet he chose to spend the prime of his life as a Peshmerga. He didn't just study justice in dusty textbooks; he fought for it on the jagged mountains of Kurdistan. That transition from law to the mountains, and eventually to the halls of politicking and presidency, shaped a leader who was uniquely capable of understanding both the power of a pen and the weight of a rifle.

His background as a diplomat was his greatest weapon during his presidency. He wasn't just a politician; he was a bridge builder. His legal mind allowed him to navigate the complex, often fractured constitutional landscape of a post-2003 Iraq, while his decades in the high-stakes diplomacy of the Kurdish freedom movement gave him the patience to sit with rivals and find common ground. He had this rare ability to make everyone at the table feel heard, a trait that turned him into the safety valve of the entire country.

To me, Mam Jalal will always be the ultimate guiding light. He is my mentor in absentia, a constant reminder that diplomacy isn't about being soft—it’s about being principled, prepared, and deeply human. He proved that you can carry the strength of the mountains into the highest halls of power without ever losing sight of who you are and where you have come from.

In the global conflict landscape, the use of drones has become a hallmark of modern warfare, begging for comparison to conflict zones like Ukraine. However, a crucial distinction must be made to understand the specific weight of the situation in the KRI. In Kyiv or Kharkiv, when sirens wail, they signal a threat to a population that is already in a state of war and is fully mobilized. Ukraine is a party to an existential war; its citizens, while suffering immensely, are operating within a framework of national defense and recognized conflict, albeit being involuntary. KRI, by contrast, is not a party to the ongoing war between the US and Israel on one side and Iran on the other. Yet, its residents are forced to endure the trauma of an active war zone atmosphere. Essentially, KRI has been turned into an involuntary frontline—a civilian population caught in the crossfire of a regional shadow war.

This unique situation creates a profound sense of disharmony. There is a specific acoustic signature to life in Erbil right now. It begins with the low, mechanical drone—a sound that vibrates in the ears and creates bodily chaos. Then comes the response: the unworldly, rupturing staccato of the C-RAM systems or the blindingly fast streak of interceptor projectiles. Finally, there is a blast, which might be the dull thud of a successful interception or the bone-shaking explosion of an impact. For a few seconds, the city holds its collective breath. And then, the most surreal part of the experience begins: life simply resumes.

This is often called resilience, but that term is becoming increasingly insufficient. There is a fine line between resilience and an involuntary curbing of the human spirit. When a society begins to treat the sound of incoming munitions as background noise, it isn’t necessarily because they are brave; it is because the human nervous system cannot sustain a state of red alert, a status of fight or flight, indefinitely. People are training themselves to live in a permanent state of high alert, effectively normalizing a level of threat that would be considered an international crisis anywhere else in the world. This braced state is exhausting, and it drains the creative and social energy of a city, replacing long-term aspirations with short-term survival instincts.

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Traditionally, conflict happened on fronts, battlefronts. But the drone ignores the walls of our houses and the gates of our residential complexes. Social media in the KRI is peppered with footage of living rooms showered in plaster, gardens littered with twisted burnt metal, and the jagged remains of interceptors that failed upward only to rain down on the roofs of sleeping families. When the ceiling of your home is no longer a protector against external violence, the fundamental concept of urban safety is shattered. This transforms the home from a sanctuary into a place of vulnerability.

The generational impact of this environment is that we will accumulate the greatest debt. We are currently raising a generation of children who can distinguish between the hum of a motorcycle and the motor of a suicide drone even before they have learned a second language. This is a skill no child should possess. Children are like sponges absorbing the atmospheric tension of their parents; they see the quick, silent glance toward the window when a loud car backfires. They learn that safety is conditional and that the sky is a source of potential threat. By normalizing this for them, we risk creating a generation that prioritizes uncertainty over trust and survival over curiosity. This toxic stress doesn’t just result in negative memories; it shapes the way a developing mind perceives the world’s reliability.

Ultimately, we must resist the urge to frame these attacks as mere security incidents or geopolitical ripples. To do so is to concede that civilian life in the KRI is inherently less deserving of peace than life in any other place. The comparison to Ukraine serves to highlight the unique grievance of the Kurdistani people: KRI is enduring the symptoms of a war without being a participant in the fight.

As we go about our daily lives—drinking our teas and coffees, going to work, or walking in our parks—we must acknowledge that resilience should not be a justification for the continued presence of the abnormal. We owe it to ourselves, and specifically to our children, to remember what a quiet sky actually feels like and to refuse the idea that living on edge is simply the price of residing in this part of the world

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Since the start of this conflict in late February 2026, the Kurdistan Region of Iraq has been subjected to a continuous and unprecedented wave of asymmetric violence. As the broader regional hostilities between state and non-state actors have escalated, the KRI has endured over 450 drone and ballistic missile strikes. Despite consistent, explicit declarations of neutrality from the Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG) and the leaders of the influential political parties, reiterating that the Region is a factor of peace and not a belligerent in the wider conflict, the human and structural toll continues to mount.

On March 24, 2026, this vulnerability was tragically underscored when a barrage of ballistic missiles struck Peshmerga bases in the Soran district of Erbil province. The attack, which external aggressors later characterized as a “mistake,” resulted in the deaths of six Peshmerga personnel and wounded roughly 30 others. In total, the violence of early 2026 has claimed over 20 lives and wounded dozens more, including civilians, security personnel, and displaced persons.

This violence presents the following paradox: how does a nonbelligerent entity, one that has actively distanced itself from participation in regional conflicts, become a theater for cross-border aggression? The answer doesn’t lie in the agency or actions of the KRI but in its structural ambiguity. The KRI exists in a state of partial sovereignty. Under the umbrella of Iraq’s federal system, the region possesses administrative autonomy but lacks the independent military tools necessary for a sovereign state to defend itself.

To understand the KRI’s exposure to asymmetric violence, one must examine the legal foundation that governs its existence. The Iraqi Constitution of 2005 establishes a federal system that grants the KRI, currently the only federal entity within Iraq, significant self-governance yet fundamentally restricts its capacity for self-defense against external threats.

Articles 117 through 124 of the Iraqi constitution form the bases of the KRI’s legal status; it recognizes the region and its existing authorities and grants it broad legislative, executive, and judicial powers over its internal affairs. This framework resulted in a relatively stable and prosperous substate entity. However, this autonomy is strictly internal.

Article 110 of the constitution delineates the exclusive authorities of the federal government in Baghdad. Crucially, these include formulating foreign policy and diplomatic representation, formulating and executing national security policy, and managing the armed forces to secure the protection and guarantee the security of Iraq’s borders and to defend Iraq. Therefore, while the KRG can govern its internal population, it possesses zero legal authority to engage in binding diplomatic treaties, with some exceptions that have caused outrage in Baghdad, or with neighboring states to secure its borders, nor can it legally procure the advanced military hardware—such as integrated air defense systems—required to deter ballistic missile or drone attacks.

This constitutional ambiguity is most evident in the status of the Peshmerga forces. The constitution recognizes the Peshmerga as the legitimate regional security apparatus of the KRI, responsible for internal security. However, they are structurally subordinate to the federal defense apparatus. They do not control sovereign airspace, and they are reliant on Baghdad for most defense acquisitions, including advanced air defense.

When external actors launch ballistic missiles at Peshmerga bases in Soran or deploy suicide drones against infrastructure in Erbil, the KRG is structurally paralyzed, and the targets are sitting ducks. It cannot launch a military counter-offensive without violating the federal constitution, nor can it independently summon the United Nations Security Council or other international bodies to address such infringements. The KRI is trapped: it is visible enough to be targeted by regional, state, and non-state actors seeking to project power but constitutionally restrained from defending itself. The KRI must go through Baghdad to summon diplomats and file protests—a process that is often too slow or is heavily influenced by the central government’s own complex alignments with the very actors attacking the KRI.

The repeated targeting of the KRI is not a random byproduct of proximity; it is a strategically calculated choice by external actors. Traditional International Relations (IR) theories, particularly Realism and Neorealism, emphasize that the state is the primary actor in an anarchic international system, focusing on balancing of power and survival. However, when these theories are applied to the substate level, they elucidate why federal regions like the KRI become preferred battlegrounds for proxy conflicts.

In the geography of proxy aggression in the anarchic regional order, especially in the context of the Middle East, states and powerful non-state actors seek to balance against their adversaries, project power, and test red lines. A direct engagement of state-on-state warfare is highly costly and carries the risks of catastrophic retaliation. Striking a sovereign capital like Baghdad, or engaging directly with rival superpowers, crosses established international thresholds and may trigger severe diplomatic, economic, or military responses.

Alternatively, striking a substate entity with vague status offers a low-risk, high-reward alternative. External aggressors can launch hundreds of drones and missiles into the KRI to signal displeasure, retaliate against perceived adversarial presence, or project domestic strength, knowing that the structural limitations of the KRI prevent a reciprocal response. This is the essence of asymmetric spillover violence. The asymmetry is not only limited to military capability but also to legal status. In such cases as KRI’s, the aggressors utilize the tools of a sovereign state or state-backed actors, while the victim is bound by the constraints of a region with substate status.

Through this theoretical lens, the KRI is not a participant in the broader regional war of 2026 but rather a geographical mechanism for external actors to communicate with one another. When neighboring states claim to be targeting foreign intelligence assets or opposition groups within the KRI, they are leveraging the region’s incomplete sovereignty to conduct operations they would not dare attempt in fully sovereign, uniformly defended territories. The deaths of the six Peshmerga on March 24, and the civilian casualties preceding them, are the ultimate manifestation of this unsolicited collateral damage. They are victims of a structural void where the protections of statehood are absent, but the consequences of regional geopolitics are acutely present.

While the constitutional and theoretical frameworks provide the “why,” the data from the first quarter of 2026 provides the “how”—a grim catalog of asymmetric aggression. Between February 1 and late March 2026, the KRI has faced a sustained campaign of aerial bombardment that defies the definition of traditional low-intensity conflict. The scale, frequency, and precision of these attacks indicate a shift from sporadic harassment to a calculated exploitation of KRI’s defenselessness.

The volume of ordnance deployed and the frequency of the attacks against a nonbelligerent substate are staggering. Data aggregated from local security sources and international monitoring groups (such as the CPT and regional health directorates) confirms over 450 separate strike events in less than 60 days. These are not merely mortar rounds across a border; they include sophisticated suicide drones and ballistic missiles.

The untold toll extends beyond the casualty list. The KRI’s economic stability—built on energy exports and foreign investment—is being systematically eroded. Attacks on the Khor Mor gas field and proximity strikes near the Fishkhabur pipeline have forced multiple temporary shutdowns. This does not just hurt the KRG; it weakens the entire Iraqi federal energy grid, yet the KRI bears 100% of the physical risk.

In cities like Erbil and Sulaymaniyah, the persistent hum of unidentified drones has created a state of perpetual trauma. Unlike sovereign states that are able to declare war and mobilize their defenses, the KRI exists in a state of limbo—aware of the threat but legally barred from the tools to mitigate it.

Perhaps the most damaging aspect of the KRI’s current crisis is its invisibility in the global information and media space. A content analysis of major international news outlets (including CNN, BBC, and Al Jazeera English) during the February–March 2026 period reveals a profound substate blind spot.

When a sovereign state in the Persian Gulf or the Levant is targeted by a single drone, it frequently triggers “Breaking News” banners and emergency Security Council sessions. In contrast, the 450-plus strikes on the KRI are routinely buried within broader headlines that depict a rise in regional tensions or address the deterioration in Iraq’s internal stability. By aggregating the violence into generic Middle Eastern or Iraq-focused narratives, the unprovoked nature of the attacks on the KRI is lost in the coverage.

This gap in media coverage is driven primarily by three factors:

The Sovereign Bias: International journalism is structurally geared toward state-on-state interaction. Because the KRI is not a member of the UN, its narrative is filtered through Baghdad. If Baghdad chooses to downplay an attack for diplomatic reasons, the international media follows suit.

Exhaustion of Narrative: The KRI has been a theater of conflict for decades. News editors and media outlets often fall into the mundane routine of normalized violence, where the death of Peshmerga personnel in 2026 is treated as a status quo, a continuation of the old narrative, or an event rather than a breach of international norms.

Complexity vs. Clicks: Explaining the constitutional nuance of a nonbelligerent federal substate is difficult for 24-hour news cycles. It is far easier to frame the strikes as part of a proxy war between major powers, effectively erasing the KRI’s agency and its status as an innocent bystander.

This silence is not merely an academic concern; it is a tactical asset for aggressors. When an attack on the KRI occurs without an international outcry, the cost of the aggression remains low. The lack of media visibility prevents the formation of an international shaming mechanism that might otherwise deter regional actors. For the KRI, being “untold” is synonymous with being “unprotected.”

When a sovereign country is attacked, it can go to the UN and demand a ceasefire. When the KRI is attacked, it must wait for a middleman (Baghdad) to speak on its behalf. This creates a protection gap where the KRI is peaceful enough to be a successful autonomy but not “state enough” to be protected by global safety nets. To the average observer, this means that even if you aren’t part of a war, you can be treated like a target simply because the legal shield over your head has holes in it.

The continued attacks do more than destroy buildings; they are quietly dismantling the very idea of federalism in the Middle East. The KRI has long been held up as a successful federal experiment—a way for a specific ethnic or regional group to have its own government while staying part of a larger country. However, if being part of a federal system means you are left defenseless against relentless attacks, the experiment begins to look like a trap.

Each strike on a Peshmerga base—like the one on March 24—widens the gap between the people of the KRI and the federal system that is supposed to safeguard them. If the world continues to watch in silence, it sends a dangerous message to other regions seeking autonomy: Independence is the only way to be safe. To prevent this silent erosion, the international community must recognize that attacking a peaceful federal substate is just as much a violation of peace as attacking a sovereign capital.

The story of the KRI in 2026 is one of a non-belligerent entity paying a sovereign price for a substate status. The casualty toll is staggering. These are not the statistics of a region at war; they are the statistics of a region being used as a geopolitical punching bag because it lacks the legal tools to punch back.

The untold toll persists because the international community allows KRI’s status to remain vague. To protect the future of the region—and the lives of the Peshmerga and civilians caught in the crossfire—the international community must:

A- Support the KRI’s right to defensive tools (like air defense) that do not threaten neighbors but do protect lives.

B- Restructure the international norms; they must evolve to protect non-belligerent federal regions from becoming spillover battlegrounds. The KRI does not want to be part of the conflict. It is time the international community ensures it doesn’t have to be.

C- Demand Media Visibility: Stop burying KRI strikes in general Iraq and wider Middle East-focused coverage of the conflict.

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It is worth mentioning that recently, on this platform, I made several recommendations for the KRG/KRI to approach this new opportunity to guarantee some long-term gains. The details of the agreement between Baghdad and KRI remain unknown at this point. However, the resumption of attacks on KRI in the coming days may jeopardize the implementation of these agreements.

Case in point: we shouldn’t think that these groups are rogue elements acting outside of a general guideline set forth by, or against, Baghdad’s wishes.

For the Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG), the primary challenge now is to resist the temptation of short-term financial relief and instead insist on a comprehensive legislative settlement that has been stalled for nearly two decades.

For years, the bilateral relationship has been defined by a cycle of crisis and concession. Baghdad typically offers temporary liquidity—specifically the disbursement of a few months of public sector salaries—in exchange for immediate operational cooperation from KRG. These are not considered victories; they are merely ephemeral administrative fixes, oftentimes leaving the KRI’s underlying economic rights vulnerable to the next political shift or change of mood in the capital. To break this cycle, the KRG must link the resumption of oil flow through its territory and oil infrastructure directly to the formal ratification of the Federal Hydrocarbons Law at the Iraqi Parliament. Only through a permanent legal framework can the Kurdistan Region transition from a state of fiscal uncertainty to a state of long-term, institutionalized economic autonomy.

Success in these negotiations, reported to take place tomorrow, the 17th of March, will also require a disciplined shift in diplomatic rhetoric. While there is a vast and valid list of grievances regarding Baghdad’s past mismanagement of the oil portfolio and its budget disbursement, harping on these issues now serves little strategic purpose. Pragmatism dictates that the KRG look forward. By focusing on the immediate requirements of a functional federalism—rather than a retrospective accounting of past failures—Erbil can occupy the moral and political high ground as the partner seeking stability and law-based governance.

This stability, however, cannot exist in a vacuum. It is impossible to discuss a seamless energy partnership while Iran-affiliated Popular Mobilization Forces (PMF), by their own accounts, continue to target KRI energy infrastructure, in addition to other establishments, with impunity. A credible agreement must include concrete security guarantees; Baghdad cannot expect the KRI to function as a national economic lifeline while failing to reign in the actors threatening its safety and security.

Alongside these security guarantees, the KRG should also secure a comprehensive, even if temporary, exemption from federal taxes and tariffs on imported goods. Such a measure would provide the private sector in the KRI with the necessary breathing room to recover from the compounding pressures of conflict and fiscal isolation.

Ultimately, the closure of the south’s maritime routes has turned the KRI’s northern infrastructure into Iraq’s most vital strategic asset. If the KRG settles for the mere fulfillment of payroll, it will have squandered a generational opportunity. The goal must be a seat within the federal decision-making architecture that is defined by law and protected from the whims of executive decree and mood changes in the capital. This is the moment to trade temporary oil flows for permanent constitutional guarantees.

Key words: Kurdistan, Kurdistan Region, KRI, KRG, Erbil, Iraq, conflict, Hurmuz, oil, budget, economy, fiscal plan.

The narrative currently being pushed is that the US is considering—or perhaps already executing—a plan to arm Iranian Kurdish opposition groups. The goal? To embed them in Iran’s border regions and turn them loose on a regime that is already reeling from internal dissent and the nonstop air campaign carried out by the US and Israel. There are even conflicting reports, some strenuously denied by Washington, that the US has asked Iraqi Kurds to join this campaign.

To the casual observer of Western media, this might sound like a pragmatic masterstroke of “realpolitik.” But to anyone possessing a rudimentary memory of modern history, this sounds like a terrifying rerun of a movie we know ends in tragedy.

Western media in particular and in some cases Western pundits and policymakers are currently attempting to superimpose the templates they are most familiar with onto a completely different landscape. They are looking at the contemporary Middle East through the dusty lens of the 1980s Afghan-Soviet war and that is a critical error. The assumption that Kurds can be utilized as a simple proxy force—much like the Mujahideen were against the Soviets—is not only intellectually lazy but strategically catastrophic and ethically disrespcting.

We must speak frankly to the Western media driving this narrative: the Kurds are not the Taliban.

Let’s look at the historical parallel that seems to be tempting the lazy, AI-driven, Western media and some so-called strategists in Washington. In the 1980s, Operation Cyclone funneled arms and money to the Afghan Mujahideen to give the Soviets their “own Vietnam.” It “worked.” The Soviets withdrew.

But we all know what happened next. The US took its hand off the wheel. The well-armed, highly motivated factions turned on each other, reducing Kabul to rubble. Out of that chaos emerged the Taliban, who then provided safe haven to Al-Qaeda. The proxy of yesterday became the nemesis of tomorrow. That is the inevitable consequence of viewing local groups not as people with legitimate aspirations, but as expendable tools of foreign policy.

Attempting to apply that “success” to today’s dynamics in Kurdistan is an exercise in profound ignorance.

For decades, Kurdish groups have fought for self-determination, federalism, and basic human and cultural rights within their respective nations. They are political entities with governing experience, not shadowy networks. When you look at the Iranian Kurds of today, you are looking at the people who championed the “Woman, Life, Freedom” movement. They are fighting for a secular, pluralistic future, not a religious caliphate.

Furthermore, the domestic situation within Iran is fragile and complex. The greatest threat to the regime is the homegrown dissatisfaction of its population, not the missiles falling from the sky. The protest movements that have erupted across Iran have been remarkable for their multi-ethnic and non-sectarian unity.

The moment the West, represented by the US mainly and Israel as a guarantor, injects well-funded, ethnically specific armed groups into this delicate equation, they jeopardize that unity. It allows the regime to dust off its favorite propaganda script: that all internal dissent is simply the product of foreign meddling. An armed, US/Israel-backed Kurdish intervention, rather than triggering a general uprising, might actually compel nationalist-minded Iranians, and they do exist outside of the religious circles, to unite with the regime they hate in defense of their country.

Western media needs to stop trying to force-feed the public these outdated narratives. Relying on “reliable sources” in Washington who think in terms of chessboard maneuvers ignores the blood and dust on the ground.

The Kurdish people are not toys in a geopolitical sandbox. They have been betrayed by Western powers too many times to count—most recently in Syria when they were abandoned to Turkish intervention after they did the heavy lifting of fighting ISIS. They are right to be skeptical of any US overture, and the West, mainly the US, should be skeptical of its intentions.

If the West wants to support the people of Iran in their fight for freedom, they must do so by supporting the organic, internal, and political opposition movements. Attempting to manufacture an armed proxy war along ethnic fault lines is not the solution. It is a cynical gamble that ignores the hard-learned lessons of the past.

(This article and all opinions are personal.)

@CNNPolitics @FoxNews @BBCBreaking @SkyNews #media #kurd #kurdistan

When the Axios news of US President Trump’s phone call with the leaders of two major political parties broke today, it was met with utter silence from major Kurdish local outlets. There was a reason behind their refrain from further publicizing the event: distance and denial. Further publication and dissemination of the news would have given validity to a report that was viewed as a public outing.

The timing of the report drew criticism from pro-Kurdish news and content platforms. Some experts questioned the timing of the “leak,” while some analysts drew conclusions that this unsourced information was a sign that President Trump was not successful in convincing the two leaders to execute his plan. Others went beyond mere analysis, using creativity in imagining the nature of the request by the US President.

I am not questioning the validity of any of the aforementioned statements. Being familiar with the culture of politics in Washington, DC, I do want to take the leap of faith and make the assumption that this US government official who spoke under the condition of anonymity has had a green light to quietly whisper in the right ears. Based on that educated assumption, I would like to set the stage for the dilemma that Kurdish leaders in the Kurdistan region of Iraq find themselves in.

Crisis of Trust

While the US-Kurdish history is riddled with examples of uncertainty in the nature of the relationship going back to the 1970s, I will focus on two examples in the past decade that highlight the nature of the relationship between Kurds and the US administrations under President Trump.

In December 2018, Trump unilaterally decided to withdraw 2000 to 2500 US troops who were stationed in Syria as part of the US-led coalition fighting ISIS. These troops were stationed in Northeastern Syria, a region known to Kurds as Rojava (in reference to West Kurdistan), and had been working shoulder to shoulder with the local regional authority, the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF), in combating the threat of proliferation of radical Islamic ideology espoused by the Islamic State. The decision came as a big surprise to most observers and hit the Kurdish community hard, as they considered it an irresponsible act of feeding their partners, the SDF, to the wolves. SDF was in control of the prisons that housed thousands of imprisoned ISIS fighters and their families, which included citizens of European countries.

Under advisement from his military, fearing the creation of a security vacuum that could be filled by terrorists, and in response to the outcry from the international community and Kurdish communities across the world, President Trump modified his decision and decided some 400 US troops would stay behind in Syria. This contingency remained in Syria through the fall of the Assad regime and continued to work closely with the Autonomous Administration in North and East Syria led by the SDF.

Fast forward to January of this year, 2026. After a full year in office, the unelected president of Syria, Ahmad Al-Sharaa, began his overtures to expand his authority to the enclave long governed by the SDF. Following the sectarian clashes between his forces and the Druze and Christians in various areas across Syria, he began eyeing the majority Kurdish-populated areas in the northeastern part of the country. He was emboldened by the support he was receiving from the newly designated US Special Envoy to Syria and Lebanon, Tom Barrack. Initially Sharaa promised the integration of the SDF into the ranks of the Syrian military, granting self-rule to the SDF in its area. He later rescinded his offer and demanded full control of the region previously ruled by the SDF.

It was at this critical juncture that Tom Barrack facilitated a major shift in US foreign policy by completely sidelining the SDF and pivoting to Damascus after framing the SDF’s role as an anti-ISIS group as having “largely expired.” This move drew wide criticism from Kurds around the world and generated a popular movement of demonstrations in major Kurdish cities, world capitals, and even on social media platforms demanding that the US stand by its Kurdish allies in Syria. The US was reminded through official and public channels of their obligation to the Kurdish people and the SDF, their only ally in Syria against ISIS.

What to Do Now?

These fresh memories of the US’s vague stances and lack of long- and short-term commitments must be on the minds of the Kurdish leadership, both in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq (KRI) and those of the Kurdish opposition groups from Iran, who are mostly based in the KRI. What are the guarantees that the Trump administration offers to lure Kurds, once again, into a bloody battle with no clear endgame and no clearly defined gains for them? Had the US government had a better track record of honoring its promises and keeping its relationship with Kurds as true partners, not as a force to be summoned when needed, the alignment with the US’s goals and objectives would have been more palatable. Do Kurds have the option to refrain from parenting and aligning with the US’s plan? Or would they be damned if they do and damned if they don’t? Or would this be yet another lesson that they will not learn from?

Key Immediate Effects 

The Damascus-SDF agreement explicitly commits the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) to withdraw to the east of the Euphrates, accept Syrian army redeployment in former contact zones, and integrate only as individuals under Damascus, ending its status as a quasi-autonomous army.  

The deal also obliges the SDF to expel non‑Syrian PKK-linked members from Syria, which Turkish officials present as the removal of a major obstacle to Ankara–PKK talks and as progress on their core security demand. 

Ankara’s Incentives and Narrative 

Turkish officials and pro‑government media are framing the deal as a step toward Syria’s territorial integrity and the dismantling of “terrorist” structures, and Ankara has officially welcomed the truce and pledged to support Damascus’ counterterrorism efforts.   

This allows Ankara to claim that its Syria file is being “normalized” via Damascus rather than unilateral incursions, which lowers domestic pressure for new cross‑border operations and gives the government more room to justify continued dialogue with the PKK to its nationalist base.  

PKK/SDF Perceptions and Strategic Adjustments 

For the PKK, the SDF’s forced reintegration and loss of meaningful autonomy look like a strategic defeat of the “Rojava model,” closing off a key hinterland and bargaining chip; the January 18 agreement is described as having ended the SDF’s project of de facto self‑rule.  

PKK figures have already warned that intense attacks on their Syrian counterparts would “sabotage” the peace process with Türkiye, indicating that further perceived betrayal or repression in Syria could push them to harden their line in the talks with Türkiye. 

Structural Risks for the Peace Process (Damascus-SDF)  

The integration of SDF forces into Syrian state structures on an individual basis strips Kurdish armed actors of collective guarantees, which mirrors earlier cases where state–state deals stabilized borders while exposing Kurdish partners to abandonment and coercion.  

If Damascus, emboldened by the agreement, later cracks down on residual Kurdish political autonomy, while Ankara coordinates closely and presents this as “counterterrorism operations,” PKK cadres may interpret the Türkiye–Syria track as a joint containment front, undermining trust in Ankara’s domestic peace narrative. 

Medium‑term Scenarios 

Consolidation scenario: If Damascus actually reins in cross‑border PKK activity and offers limited cultural/political space to Kurds, Ankara can point to reduced threat levels and argue for a controlled, security‑centric peace with the PKK that keeps talks alive but within narrow parameters.  

Derailment/fragmentation scenario: If implementation turns into mass arrests, displacement, or elite co‑optation without real guarantees, the PKK and broader Kurdish networks may shift toward viewing the Ankara–PKK peace process as another state‑centric bargain that trades away Kurdish interests, increasing the likelihood of spoilers and splinter violence.   

Linkage and Decoupling Scenarios (Ankara-PKK Peace Process)  

Looking at the current conditions from Ankara’s perspective, the more likely scenario is that the Ankara-PKK peace process is linked to the ceasefire between the SDF and the Syrian government. This is because Turkish officials have stressed that the deal is part of their plan to create a "terror-free region," which puts more pressure on the PKK to make concessions. Decoupling remains a possibility; however, it is becoming less likely due to Ankara's strategy of securing integrated regional security.  

Linkage Scenario (High Probability) 

From Ankara’s perspective, Syria's SDF integration—expelling PKK-linked members and breaking up the quasi-autonomous military region—is a direct method to ensure the PKK peace talks are effective, claiming that it will make cross-border threats from Qandil and Rojava less likely. This scenario gives President Erdogan more power: the PKK will continue to withdraw due to military pressure, Öcalan's demands are being turned down for being "maximalist," and talks will now be focused on core security issues such as monitored disarmament without actual political reforms.  

Effects on the peace process: This scenario expedites the dissolution of the PKK but could lead to radicalization of certain elements if Syrian Kurds are repressed, short-term stability, and medium-term PKK splintering.  

Decoupling Scenario (Low Probability) 

Türkiye sees the PKK peace process as a purely domestic issue and prioritizes parliamentary commissions and DEM Party mediation separate from Syria-related contingencies. This is to keep outside spoilers or Damascus-SDF agreement implementation failures from getting in the way of progress in the talks with PKK. The PKK's withdrawal from border areas and Öcalan's call for disarmament in February 2025 would keep the momentum going independent of other factors.  

Effects on the peace process: Allows for carefully planned concessions (like limited amnesty and cultural rights) to build trust, which could lead to a "Turkish model" of managed ethnic inclusion. This scenario will offer more stability for the implementation of the peace process if Syria falls into chaos. 

End.

Born in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, I came of age under the shadow of Saddam Hussein’s regime. My early life was shaped by Kurdish nationalism, resistance, survival, and a deep commitment to freedom—values that eventually led me to collaborate with anti-regime CIA operations in Northern Iraq from 1993 to 1996. When my life came under threat, I fled to Turkey and immigrated legally through UNHCR to the United States in 1997, aided by quiet hands and official channels.

In America, I rebuilt from scratch—earning a second engineering degree, becoming a U.S. citizen, and serving for over a decade in various counterterrorism roles, including missions in Baghdad, Berlin, Riyadh, Bahrain, and Kuwait. I worked as a dual-certified language analyst and later as an intelligence analyst, handling high-level terrorism cases with various US-government federal agencies.

Today, I serve as a diplomat for the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan (PUK), one of the leading Kurdish parties in Iraqi Kurdistan and at the same time run a think tank. I interact regularly with U.S. and European diplomats, bridging worlds that once seemed impossibly far apart.

This Substack is my space to write—regularly and candidly—about my life, my experiences, and the lessons I’ve carried across borders, battlefields, and bureaucracies. I write as a patriot, a father, a survivor, and a believer in the power of story to inspire courage and hope.

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