IDPs from Serê Kaniyê: Endless suffering, hope to return

Amid the scorching summer heat, within the walls of a school turned into a temporary shelter, dozens of displaced people from the Turkish-occupied city of Serê Kaniyê endure dire humanitarian conditions in Hasakaa, NE Syria.

 Displaced within their own homeland, they have lost their homes and possessions due to attacks by the Turkish occupation and its mercenaries. Today, they face illness, hunger, and neglect in dilapidated schools not equipped for living. Among them, Alaa Al-Khalil and Marwan Mustafa share the details of their daily struggles, which encapsulate the pain of displacement and the bitterness of being strangers in their own country.

The Democratic Autonomous Administration in NE Syria bears the burden of providing aid to those displaced from areas occupied by Turkey, amid an absence of international assistance.

In a corner of the “Jan Hajjar” school in Hasaka’s Al-Salihiya neighborhood, Alaa Al-Khalil, one of the displaced from Serê Kaniyê, sits under a faded wall, seeking shelter from the blazing summer heat. It’s not just the heat that has exhausted his body; years of oppression and displacement have left their mark. He ended up with an amputated leg due to complications from diabetes, worsened by exile and lack of care.

With a weary voice mixed with bitterness and sorrow, Alaa says: “The hardship we’ve endured during these years of displacement and the injustice we’ve faced have worn me down. Diabetes first took my eyesight, then my leg was amputated. We’re paying the price for being far from our homes and city. Our only hope is to return, nothing more.” Alaa adds, his words echoing the plight of every displaced person in this neglected school: “This war has set us back decades. We’ve lost everything—our homes, our livelihoods, our stability. We live here in these rooms as if we’re outside of time.”

 He concludes: “ We just want to be treated fairly, without discrimination compared to other displaced people."

 In another corner of the same school, Marwan Mustafa leans against a worn-out wall, surrounded by a heavy silence, as if words have failed him. When pressed to speak, he says: “This school has become a nightmare for us. We don’t want to return to it. We work to stay alive, but life here is unbearable.”

 Marwan adds, exhaustion clear on his face: “All we want is to return to our cities. Life in this exile is extremely painful, especially in the summer. We have nowhere to go but the shadows. We lack all the essentials for a dignified life.” He ends with a final plea: “We want salvation from this ongoing suffering that’s lasted for years. We want an end to this injustice. We just want to return.”

The stories of Alaa and Marwan are not exceptions but part of the reality for hundreds of displaced people in Hasaka’s schools. They suddenly found themselves in the darkness of neglect, surviving on hope, sitting in the shade to escape the summer heat and the bitterness of life.

a.k

ANHA