I am a girl from Mahabad. For years, I have lived with a wound that is neither visible on my face nor featured in the news. Recently, when I saw the Iranian police take swift action to arrest an abuser after a video of violence against a woman went viral online, I was partly happy. No woman should ever be a victim of violence, and no abuser should ever feel safe. But on the other hand, an old, heavy sorrow settled in my throat once again.
I asked myself: am I not a woman? Are Kurdish girls not daughters of this very same land? Why is it that when it is our turn, everyone remains silent?
I shared the story of what happened to me with the Iranian Kurdistan Human Rights Watch (IKHRW). As I recounted, I spent several years of my life inside the Kurdistan Freedom Party (PAK)—years that still terrify me to remember. My testimony was published, and the video of my interview was reshared across highly viewed channels, where tens of thousands of people watched it. Therefore, no one can claim, “We did not know.”
I filed a formal complaint. My complaint was registered in Iran. I even went to the court in Erbil and filed my case there as well. But what happened next? Absolutely no one reached out to me. Not a single journalist, not a single official, and none of those who speak daily about women’s rights.
When I read in the media that society has become more sensitive to gender-based violence, I ask myself: which society? Sensitive to which women? Sometimes I feel this societal sensitivity is reserved for women living in large cities and the center of the country. But if the victim is a Kurdish girl, and her story involves Kurdish armed groups such as PAK, Komala, the Kurdistan Democratic Party of Iran (KDPI), PJAK, or Khabat, everyone suddenly falls silent—as if our suffering holds less value.
I am only one person, but I am not alone. There are countless boys and girls who admit they have never spoken about their bitter experiences within some of these armed factions. Others have lost their lives and no longer have the chance to tell their stories. And some still choose silence out of sheer fear.
I firmly believe that until these narratives are taken seriously and an independent investigation is conducted into the victims’ claims, justice will remain just an empty word for many of us. I also have deep grievances with the Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG) in Iraq; these groups have operated within its territory for years, and victims rightfully expect greater accountability and more effective legal responses to their formal complaints and allegations.
I do not want to compare anyone’s pain to my own. Violence, wherever it occurs and against whichever woman, must be condemned. However, I wish that the same empathy and demand for justice mobilized for other victims existed for Kurdish youth. I dream of a day when the Iranian people, regardless of ethnicity or geography, demand that authorities listen to the victims of non-state armed groups and pursue their legal complaints with true dedication.
Today, I am not just speaking for myself. I am speaking for all the girls who have not yet found the courage to share their stories. I am speaking for the boys who have lived with the nightmares of their past for years. I am speaking for the families who remain desperately waiting for legal accountability.
If the goal is that no woman in Iran should fall victim to abuse, this standard must apply equally from Tehran to Mahabad, from every major metropolis to every border village. Justice only holds meaning when it does not discriminate between the center and the periphery.
I still hold on to the hope that a day will come when no one asks where I am from; they will only ask what I have endured and how they can help me secure justice.
