Kobani struggles after losing so much
From the door of her modest breeze-block home, Faiza Mohammed recalled what her neighbourhood once was and mourned what it had become.
Her children’s school has bullet holes in the walls and sandbags in the windows. The shops where she once bought groceries are mounds of rubble. The neighbours and relatives who used to live nearby and keep an eye on one another’s children have left.
Other than the elderly couple next door, she said, everyone is gone. Her house and theirs are the only two left on the street, islands in a sea of destruction.
“We have people next door, so we are OK,” said Ms Mohammed, who was widowed before the Syrian civil war began. “But at night we lock the door and don’t open for anyone, because there is fear in the world.”
A fierce battle by Kurdish fighters to repel an invasion by the Islamic State last year rocketed Kobani, an obscure border town in northern Syria, into the world’s consciousness.
But by the time the Kurds prevailed in January, backed by hundreds of US air strikes in what was lauded as a model of international cooperation, the town looked as though an earthquake had struck it. Refugees who came back had trouble even locating their homes.
Kobani, known in Arabic as Ain al-Arab, is trying now to overcome the deep scars of war and rebuild — and there are signs of life.
The challenges the town faces are huge, illustrating the huge toll of driving the Islamic State from urban areas, but also the costly burden of destruction that many Syrian cities will have to bear when the war ends.
Around town, the crash of tractors tearing down damaged buildings resounds through the streets. Fleets of trucks haul off loads of rubble to dump outside the city in ever-expanding fields of waste. Shops selling cellphones, cigarettes and grilled chicken have reopened along a few commercial streets after installing new doors and glass. And thousands of displaced residents are returning each month, local officials say. Many have reclaimed their damaged homes, covering blown-out windows with plastic and plugging holes in walls with bricks to keep out the wind until real repairs can be made.
“The city has become relatively suitable to live in again,” said Idris Nassan, the head of foreign affairs for the area’s new autonomous administration.
When the battle ended, 80% of buildings were damaged and the infrastructure had collapsed, he said. The town had long before cut any links with the central government in Damascus, so local leaders formed the Kobani Reconstruction Board with members from the Kurdish diaspora to solicit aid and oversee rebuilding.
Its first tasks were to restore water and sewage lines, reopen roads, dispose of unexploded ordnance and lay to rest the bodies of more than 100 people found in the rubble, Mr Nassan said.
Also destroyed were the city’s new hospital, most government offices, a number of schools and bakeries, and two large wedding halls.
Kobani sustained yet another blow in June, when Islamic State fighters dressed as anti-Assad rebels sneaked into town before dawn and went house to house, killing more than 250 people before Kurdish fighters killed them, according to Shervan Darwish, a military official in Kobani.
But the administration has kept on, working with international organisations to open clinics and regulating generators so residents can buy a few hours of electricity per day.
Its reconstruction efforts are restricted, however, by limited funds and the difficulty of obtaining building supplies.
The scale of the town’s loss haunts many residents.
Every morning, Muslim Mohammed, 56, returns to his damaged home and sits alone outside, drinking tea and thinking. The surrounding apartment buildings are all damaged and empty, now nesting grounds for birds.
“I don’t like to see a lot of people,” said Muslim Mohammed, a mechanic. “It is psychologically taxing.”
He and his wife had fled to Turkey when the battle began, but three of his sons had joined the main Kurdish militia there.
Ali, 17, was killed in battle, and Mohammed, 29, was shot dead during the Islamic State’s incursion in June, Muslim Mohammed said. So he sent Ahmed, 15, to Europe by raft, hoping that distance might keep him alive.
“Was I supposed to sacrifice all my sons?” Muslim Mohammed said.
Like many residents, he struggled to comprehend why the jihadis had poured so much into fighting for their town.
“They didn’t leave us anything,” he said. “Not our sons, our money, our homes.”
Others, however, saw the victory as a large step toward empowerment for Syria’s Kurdish minority after decades of governmental neglect. “It was worth it,” said Sherin Ismael, a 26-year-old seamstress. “Now the world knows that there are Kurds.”
Her family members, too, are the only residents left on their block, and her twoyear-old nephew, Osman, still cries at night, saying, “Isis is coming.”
Some of their neighbours recently came to inspect their house and see what it would take to move back in.
“Destruction comes quickly,” Ms Ismael said. “But building takes time.”