Suffering on the fault line of war
Anger and fear brew in border towns caught in fight between Turkey and Kurdish separatists
REYHANLI, TURKEY— It is around midday when the day’s third explosion echoes through this small Turkish border town, scattering birds across the sky and bringing the streets to a nervous standstill.
As pedestrians bunch together under storefronts, there is quiet for a moment, and then the ambulances begin to wail.
For Fatma, a Turkish mother of two waiting quietly beside the greengrocers, the explosions were starting to feel as familiar as they did ominous. “This is happening every day now,” she said. “I’m just waiting for it all to be over.”
As Turkey presses its long-anticipated offensive against Kurdish militants across the border in northern Syria, frontier towns such as Reyhanli have found themselves along the fault line between the region’s warring rivals. Mortar strikes apparently launched by Kurdish forces are landing daily, setting communities already transformed by Syria’s war on edge and hardening support for Turkey’s military operation.
Syria’s seven-year conflict has provided an opportunity for that country’s Kurdish separatists, known as the People’s Protection Units, or YPG, to establish themselves as a major territorial actor. With U.S. backing, they have captured land the size of Indiana.
Turkey has watched those gains with rising anger, viewing Kurdish consolidation on the Syrian side of the border as a national security issue. Ankara has been locked in a decades-old war with the militants’ Turkish arm, the Kurdistan Workers’ Party, or PKK, and Turkey is framing its nearly three-week-old offensive in the Kurdish enclave of Afrin as a fight against terrorism.
In Reyhanli and Kilis, another border town, the streets have been quiet, as residents spoke of anxieties and anger at the cross-border attacks from Syria. Where the midday mortar landed, a small crowd was not far behind, some cursing the attackers, others wondering whether another mortar would soon land in the same place.
“That building was a smithy. They’ve taken the blacksmith and the butcher’s son to hospital,” said one man, who declined to give his name as plainclothes policemen looked on. “I hope they finish off those terrorists soon. It’s the only way to bring peace around here.”
Popular support for Turkey’s military operation appears widespread, and front pages here are a riot of nationalism. With the organs of the state swinging behind a common message, Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s government has shown little tolerance for criticism, ar- resting hundreds who dared to do so.
As Turkish troops and thousands of allied Syrian rebels edge through the mountains surrounding Afrin, cross-border shelling has killed seven people and wounded 113 more across Kilis and Hatay provinces since the operation began, according to local media.
Fatma Avlar, a17-year-old girl, was killed last month as she slept in her sky-blue house on Reyhanli’s southern edge. On the wall, a sign announced her memorial. In the street, mourners gathered, clutching cups of tea, and in the corner, alone, an old man sat with his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking.
There are also Syrians among the dead, displaced first from a war zone and now caught in the teeth of a new battle.
In Kilis, the name of 27-year-old Tarek Tabbak, a Syrian refugee, is listed on a placard displayed outside a 17th-century mosque, which was pierced by a rocket late last month. The name of Muzaffer Aydemir, 72, appears in the same list. Both are named as “martyrs.”
Turkey hosts more Syrian refugees than any other country, and many have settled in towns and camps along the border. The newcomers have transformed the area, setting up businesses and lining the pockets of enterprising landlords who turned the influx into opportunity. But their presence has also brought tensions. Turkish residents often view their new neighbours — many of them unable to return home — as a nuisance or a strain on resources.
The casualty count for both nationalities is rising. In Afrin, monitoring groups say dozens of civilians have been killed.
Standing in the doorway of his sweet shop, Fadel al-Masri, a Syrian from Aleppo, scanned the street as he described how the attacks had made his son too fearful to sleep. Then, nodding curtly to a reporter, he ducked back inside: “Goodbye,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble.”
But next door, Adil Ibanoglo was holding court in his cake shop as the television blared songs and triumphant footage of Turkish tanks rolling through Syria. “Those bastards will get a shock if they think they can break us. Turkey is a NATO military — those PKK terrorists are going to be smashed,” he said.