[EGY] Opportunity For a Homeland

[Kelly the Mad]

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To: The Kurdistan Freedom Hawks
From: A Friend < Encrypted >

Subject: A United Kurdistan

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To whom it may concern,

We have been monitoring the actions of the Freedom Hawks for a time now, and to be frank, we see little being done to bring about a lasting change. This is not a criticism of your group, but simply a recognition of the lack of effective change in recent years. The Kurds are clearly proud people, and it can be assumed that you are the proudest among them. Sunni, I am sure, and proud of that as well. I think it goes without saying that the current regime in Turkey poses a grave threat to the Kurdish way of life.

Their government is fragile, racked with infighting, and clearly at odds with both Sunni and Kurdish ways of life. Socialism is not compatible with a proud people seeking autonomy, nor with a religious and spiritual population. The current government, too, has supported importing secular foreign armies into Kurdish lands to further oppress your people. It seems clear that this government cannot stand.

I have a solution for the qualms of the Kurdish people.

My solution would include an eventual integration of East, West, and South Kurdistan with North Kurdistan. An independent, Sunni Kurdish state. The only ask would be a degree of loyalty and military support in exchange for global legitimacy and a guarantee of independence. I would like to hear what your group thinks of this proposal. I will soon be in Kurdistan; I hope you will meet with me to discuss.

Best,
A Powerful Friend

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Jay

 

[Jay]

The internet café sits near the edge of town, tucked between a shuttered pharmacy and a cell phone kiosk advertising expired SIM cards. The neon sign outside flickers in Arabic and Turkish, though neither language offers much comfort to the young courier. He orders tea he won’t drink, then inserts the USB drive and watches the loading bar fill as his eyes flicking now and again to the back corner, where a pair of plainclothes Gendarmes linger, pretending to read the Sabah.

They are always there, like mold in the walls. The boy waits until they are distracted, slips out the side, and takes the long way toward the hills.

It takes two days to reach the foothills east of Cizre, longer still to cross the patrol lines undetected. The last stretch is on foot, up broken trails and past goats with no shepherd. He arrives at night, escorted by two masked sentries with Kalashnikovs.

The cave is cold and sparse. A lantern burns low, casting long shadows on the walls. Three men sit around a fold-out table, boots muddy, rifles slung casually nearby. One of them, older wears the fatigue jacket of a long-dead peshmerga. Another speaks in low tones with the Kurdish laced with Syrian dialect. All of them quiet as the message is read aloud, translated, passed between them like a strange fruit.

“A powerful friend,” mutters the older man, his voice laced with acid. “They always write like that. Powerful men don’t speak plainly.”

“It smells like Ankara,” said another one leaning against the rock wall, arms crossed. “Or worse, Langley. No name, no country, just promises. Integration? Military support? For whom? Against whom?”

The third, quiet until now, adjusts the burner under a chipped teapot and says, “It could be real. The PKK has gone soft, parliament seats, and handshakes with Ankara ministers. Maybe someone else has seen it too.”

There’s silence again. The memory of the camp still fresh, bodies burned and riddled with bullet holes above Amedi, smoke visible from the villages for hours. It was a betrayal, they were sure of it, and the scars have made them cautious.

The old man finally nods. “Give him something. Not everything, just enough. If it’s a trap, we’ll know. If it’s not…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. They all know what is meant.

The courier is handed a folded paper. Inside are GPS coordinates, buried in a block of Arabic poetry and an innocuous set of code words known only to the old networks. A place not far from the border but hard to reach, watched from above, but not too closely.

He leaves before dawn as the email is set to autosend in a few hours, well after he was away from the prying eyes of the Turkish intelligence operatives.

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From: cemurmal@gmail.com
To: Return Address
Subject: RE"
Security Clearance: Personal; Private

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Your message was received. We agree that the time for illusions has passed.

If your intent is genuine, you will meet us in the place we name, with no entourage and no devices. You will speak plainly, and we will listen.

But understand this, we are not aligned with those who compromise the blood of martyrs for parliamentary pensions or headlines. We lost brothers to fire, dropped from drones and planes alike. We do not forget.

Your “solution” will require more than maps and poetry. Bring truth, or do not come at all.

Coordinates attached.

—H.
37.57022, 44.17615

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Kelly the Mad

 

[Kelly the Mad]

The Turkish Airlines flight was fine enough. Black coffee in a paper cup held Abdelaziz over from Cairo to Antalya Airport, where he hopped on a domestic flight to Siirt Airport. Strolling out into the simple streets of Siirt, Abdelaziz bopped his head to the 80s pop in his headphones, his dress shoes clicking on the sidewalk as he made his way slowly through the city. When he hailed a cab, his sunglasses stayed on, and he paid in the local currency.

"Take me to someone who sells trucks. Doesn't matter where, but make it cheap. I tip. Go as far as you need."

Relaxing into the back of the cab, Abdelaziz watched the Kurdish city blow by the window as the driver worked in silence. His small briefcase held only a few things: an old laptop he had used at work for years, his authentic Egyptian identification papers, business documents from his middle-man construction equipment acquisition company, and a not insignificant sum of cash, both Egyptian and Turkish.

Abdelaziz was, truly, an Egyptian businessman. Now, did he have ties to Egyptian intelligence assets? Maybe. But he's just a businessman. His company has purchased Turkish-made construction equipment before, and his commercial flight into the country would raise no flags. He was a businessman, doing business, as was his right. There was nothing suspicious here.

Not when he stepped out of the cab, leaving a businessman's gracious tip. Not when he walked into the shoddy, dusty lot on foot and left with a beat-up Toyota with 300,000 miles on it and less cash to spend. Not when he blazed down the canyons of highway 370 from Siirt, heading for Yüksekova.

Stopping at a gas station for water, gas, smokes, and some coolant for the leaking Toyota, Abdelaziz again checked the directions scribbled on a sheet of paper in Kurdish. Simple enough.

He went ahead with no weapons, much to the chagrin of his handlers. But he was a businessman after all. Not a secret agent. He did not plan on having to fight. No wires, no gun, no knife, no GPS tracker, no encryption device, no falsified documents, nothing criminal, nothing suspicious. Just a businessman carrying a potentially geopolitically shattering amount of sensitive information in his mind, going to see people shunned by society at large.

Abdelaziz pulled up to the house as the sun was readying to set. Shutting off the radio, he let the truck hiss as its weary engine cooled. Slipping out the door, he walked right up to the ramshackle building and rapped his fist on the door. Checking his watch, he hoped whoever greeted him would be professional. But he knew what he was getting into.

Jay

 

[Jay]

The door creaked open an inch when Abdelaziz walked through the door. The house was empty as Abdelaziz walke through. Then a single, dark eye could be made through the sliver of space. No greeting. No questions. Just a long look.

Then, without a word, the door opened wider, revealing three men, broad-shouldered, dust-caked, grabbed him. Offering no resistance one of them held a black hood in his hand which they pulled over his head.

They guided him back down the stairs. Abdelaziz could hear the groan of the Toyota’s engine as one of the men climbed in to move it, likely to strip it or dump it elsewhere. No tracks. No trails.

They pushed him into the back of a different truck/ He was surrounded on one side by a man who said nothing. The doors slammed shut. The engine roared to life, and they were moving.

He kept count of the turns at first left, then a steep incline, then right again, but it became useless once they hit gravel. It felt like a few hours before they were climbing uphill.

The air grew thinner. Windier. The hum of the tires became a crunch. He guessed they were nearing the higher passes north of Cizre, maybe even approaching the Iranian borderlands. Nothing out here but smugglers, ghosts, and the silence of forgotten wars.

Then the truck lurched to a stop.

Doors opened. Hands gripped his arms. Abdelaziz was hauled out roughly and spun around. He could smell snow in the air. Then came the sharp crack of a voice, Kurdish, commanding. Another voice responded.

He felt fingers unbuttoning his jacket. Then others patting him down methodical. His laptop was removed. His documents. His wallet. He felt the flutter of pages being examined, one by one. Someone clicked on the laptop. Another muttered something low. He could hear the door closing in another vehicle and the car turning around and driving away.

His hands were then tied as he was led through what felt a mountain pass. The only thing to keep him company was his own thoughts. It had been over twelve hours and no doubt his stomach began to churn in hunger.

The next thing he knew, he was being half-guided, half-carried. The air changed; the world narrowed. They’d entered the mountain. He could feel the drip of moisture from stalactites above, the echo of footsteps on smooth stone, the narrowing claustrophobia of walls closing in. His fingers brushed rock—cold, damp, and ancient. The smell of earth thickened. Mold, gun oil, burned kerosene.

They turned, then turned again, descending deeper into the mountain. Finally, they stopped. A blade whispered against rope as his wrist bindings were sliced.

The hood was yanked off.

Torchlight danced wildly across the cave walls, casting long shadows that swayed like spirits. Smoke from oil lamps coiled in lazy spirals near the ceiling. The space was cavernous but intimate, with flickers of orange light catching in pools of standing water on the floor. Several weather-beaten wooden doors were set into the stone like something out of a forgotten world.

Abdelaziz blinked. His eyes adjusted.

One of the escorts, his face weathered and wrapped in a dark keffiyeh, gave him a hard shove between the shoulder blades. “Go in,” he said, his English laced with a thick Kurdish accent.

Abdelaziz stumbled forward and pushed open the heavy wooden door. It groaned as it swung open.

The room inside was smaller, warmer—walls lined with old rugs and stacked sandbags. A single propane lamp hissed quietly in the corner, casting shadows that danced around a low table. At the far end stood a man, middle-aged, bearded, wrapped in simple, faded Peshmerga fatigues. An old AK-47 rested casually across his back, resting on his thighs.

He turned, one brow lifting.

“Mr. Abdelaziz…” His voice was calm “You’ve come a long way from Cairo.”

He gestured toward a silver tray on the table, its surface worn and dented. Upon it was a bowl of steaming beans laced with cumin and olive oil, and wedges of nanê sêrek traditional Kurdish flatbread still warm, slightly charred from a fire.

“Please, eat something,” the man said, stepping back. “I imagine you’re hungry.”

Kelly the Mad