Twenty-one years ago, I was opportunistically kidnapped by supporters of the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK). In light of the PKK declaring last month its intention to discontinue its armed struggle against Turkey, I’ve been reflecting back on my involuntary run-in with the struggle for Kurdish self-governance.
As with my kidnapping, the Kurdish cause had always been riven by amateurism, not to mention the petty feuds of the rival Kurdish organisations in Turkey, Iraq, Iran, and Syria. Truces, mass casualty events, kidnappings, and negotiations followed each other haphazardly. The struggle was filled with freelancers, bandits, and entrepreneurs. It embodied contradictory approaches to Americans and Western power in the region.
Steve had come to the Levant for a taste of the exotic. The year was 2004. We were both Fulbright Scholars. After a week in Syria, we were tired of ruins and banquets. We were headed to Beirut for the pleasures of real civilisation – the rooftop bar at the Virgin Mega Store, Haagen-Dazs, and the much-missed company of western women.
I had previously taken a shared taxi from Aleppo to Beirut and thought I knew the drill; cabs would depart after all six seats were sold. We arrived hungover at 9am to the Beirut destination section at the mahatat – a dusty pit filled with large antique yellow Cadillacs. Hours passed and no other passengers showed up.
At 2pm, I negotiated to pay for the four back seats if we would leave post-haste. On the way out, the driver pulled over and a moustachioed man named Soran put a metal pipe in the trunk and then hopped in. My complaints about sharing the taxi we had paid for fell on deaf ears.
I noticed the two men were not speaking in Arabic. Kiyan’s language seemed close to Persian, but less melodic and with more Arabic loan words. Soran explained that they were speaking Kurdish. As we drove, we heard their life stories. Their extended families had risen up after the Liberation of Kuwait in 1991 and suffered Saddam Hussein’s Anfal gassing campaign. They had forgiven the Americans for not supporting them; they backed the 2003 invasion of Iraq and believed that a greater Kurdistan would emerge under an American security umbrella. For years they had driven the Erbil-Aleppo-Beirut route and transported goods to help ‘the Cause’: the salvation of the Kurdish people.
By about 5pm, we reached the Aboudieh Crossing. The Syrian guard demanded Kiyan open the trunk. Then the guard jumped in the front seat and we sped away into the neutral zone. I heard the words ‘illegal pipe’. Numbers were discussed, hands were shaken. The border guard started walking back to the Syrian side. When we got to the Lebanese checkpoint, they looked at our American passports, and waved us straight through. A half-hour later, we saw the Mediterranean glistening below a grey-pinkish sunset.
We sped through Tripoli, but rather than hugging the coast road, we took a sharp left turn and started ascending uphill south-eastward. The sun had just set and streetlights feebly lit the road.
I looked at my phone; there was no signal. We pulled off the road on to gravel tracks. It became pitch black. In the distance, I could see poorly lit primitive drilling rigs. As we drew closer, men with AK-47s came towards us. The car came to a stop. We all got out.
I told Steve it was time to be as docile as possible. The men with the guns came and took away the pipe. Kiyan looked me straight in the eye and told me: ‘You and Steve are kidnapped. Just relax, we are not going to kill you. You are not Turks. You are Americans and you support the Cause.’
It was 9pm and I was somewhere southeast of Lebanese Tripoli on a rocky escarpment surrounded by illicit drilling equipment. I didn’t think the PKK had operations in Lebanon, but I guess it made sense that they did. The PKK was given sanctuary in Syria, but could never get away with illicit mining there. Whereas in Lebanon, anything was fair game as long as you gave a cut to the right people.
The obligatory hyper sweet tea was served by moustachioed insurgents in leather jackets with AK-47s slung over their shoulders.
‘We are sorry about all this fuss,’ Kiyan told us. ‘We know you are Americans on a prestigious Congressional scholarship. We are expecting at least a thousand dollars each.’
I instructed Steve to make a clear gesture turning his pockets inside out, then handing over his wallet. Soran searched the booty. He was disappointed to learn we had under $80 in Syrian Lira and a few hundred dollars in cash.
The Kurdish cause had always been riven by amateurism
Kiyan said we must have more money. I signalled that I had an oration to make:
‘Steve and I have always supported the Kurds. We are only graduate students and we tend not to carry around much cash. These days, Lebanon has one ATM, in the Place des Etoiles in Central Beirut, to the right of the Haagen Daz store. Steve and I each have ATM cards and credit cards. If we can get to this machine, we can use each card to take out $500 per card.’
ATMs were new in Syria with only two in Damascus and none in Aleppo. The word also had a mystical ring to it in colloquial Arabic, jihaz felusiyya – literally the money machine. I banked on the fact that they might not know that Tripoli likely had ATMs and that the fancier areas of Beirut were full of international banks.
More tea was made. Conversation broke out in Kurdish. Kiyan eventually made a gesture bringing the debate to a close. Shockingly, they announced that they agreed to our plan. We were told to get back in the car.
Upon arrival in Beirut, Kiyan parked and Soran followed us towards the Haagen-Dazs store with its prominently placed cash machine to its right. As we approached it, the entrance to the parliament was visible, flanked by armed guards in sentry boxes. I started screaming ‘Help!’ and Steve reluctantly joined in. Five armed men were rapidly running towards us. Soran fled back to the car. We were rescued.
With hindsight, the PKK’s military campaign against Turkey achieved about as much for the Kurdish cause as Kiyan’s kidnapping did for the group’s finances. Kurdish self-government has come about less through armed struggle and more through the geopolitical shifts of the post-Cold War period: the post-1991 No-Fly Zone creating de facto Federalism for Northern Iraq; the US overthrow of Saddam rendering the KRG semi-autonomous after 2003; and Syria’s implosion post-2011 facilitating a period of micro-statehood in Northeastern Syria. Autonomy for Kurds has been achieved by capitalising on external events and forging alliances, not by armed struggle.
So in mid-2025 with the PKK disappearing and the autonomous Kurdish areas of Northeastern Syria returning to the yoke of Damascus, I feel a bit deflated with a pang of nostalgia for the Cause. Or maybe it’s just Stockholm syndrome?
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