Men, women, and children from various backgrounds clutch their personal belongings while balancing cups of steaming-hot chai and coffee. 

The atmosphere is relaxed, and many Syrians who fled to Germany now return home to visit their families, some for the first time in more than a decade. A young girl with a wide smile and braids, around seven years old, plays with her dad, who is testing her on basic math problems. 

She moves between answering in German and Kurdish without hesitation, and her father and the other passengers smile and nod as she gets the problems right, and laugh when she cheekily makes up the wrong answer. 

This once heavily militarised zone was a vital crossing for the Kurdish volunteer forces during the offensive against the Islamic State (ISIS) between 2014 and 2017. Now, the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF), a Kurdish-led coalition of militias and rebel groups, use the bridge regularly. 

Passing checkpoints

The military presence in the region is still visible. But given that the Kurds now control the majority of the territory on both sides of the crossing, it’s also just another day at the office for the border guards. 

Once you pass through the routine security checkpoints and have your documents inspected by officials behind clear plastic PVC windows, you’re free to begin the winding journey through the northern desert region. 

Low rolling hills mark the landscape through Kurdish-controlled oil fields, littered with so-called “donkeys” that bob up and down as they extract the valuable black gold from the earth’s core. 

The landscape shifts quickly from dry, sandy gravel to wide, flat green pastures where scattered flocks of sheep and goats, along with their shepherds, roam. 

After passing through various checkpoints along the way, it takes just over two hours to reach the town of Al-Qamishli, or Qamishlo as the Kurds refer to it. Many consider it the capital of Rojava in Western Syria, though this is contested by many in the Arab population. 

The two most important Kurdish strongholds in the region are Qamishlo and Hasseke, about 80 kilometres apart. Jinwar, or the women’s village, lies roughly in the middle, further north, almost hugging the Turkish border. That is where I meet Yesmin, a 36-year-old woman, who lives in the village with her 13-year-old daughter.

The birth of a village

Jinwar officially opened in November 2018, but the process of establishing it began years earlier. 

The idea of building a women’s village emerged from books and teachings, such as Jineology, a form of feminism and gender equality championed by Abdullah Öcalan, the long-imprisoned founder of the Kurdish Workers’ Party (PKK). 

The Kurdish women’s movement had also discussed the idea of an all-women’s village for years. But serious plans to construct the village began in 2016 through an initiative of several women’s organisations, including Kongra Star, the Free Women’s Foundation, the Jineolojî Academy, and the Martyr Families Council. The agricultural cooperative of Aboriya Jin, the women’s economic committee, once cultivated the land before donating it to the new project. 

Construction of the village began in earnest in 2017. The houses are simple, made of bricks of earth, water, and straw. Some of the buildings feature murals that reflect the spirit and message of the Kurdish struggle. Women in Kurdish society are widely respected as life-givers and protectors, which is why they have become symbolic figures in women’s struggles worldwide.

Some women choose to enter the military, joining the Women’s Protection Units (TP) in Syrian Kurdistan or the Peshmerga forces in Iraqi Kurdistan. 

However, such progressive views on women’s rights and role in society contrast with more conservative traditions in parts of the region. Even though there are roughly 60 million Kurds in Turkey, Syria, Iraq, and Iran – roughly the population of the United Kingdom – leaders in the region generally reject their political aspirations.

Gardens and diesel

Today, Jinwar sits on several acres of dusty, dry land. Around forty small homes lie in a crescent. Each dwelling has its own small garden where families plant crops.

At the centre lies a larger communal garden where residents grow vegetables such as cabbage, carrots, lettuce, and tomatoes. A small building topped with solar panels sits nearby, while many more panels line the outside of the property. As we walk along the main pathway in the midday sunshine, we see a group of elderly women, on their hands and knees, cleaning and maintaining the garden.

The smell of burning diesel fills the air as the bakery churns out weekly supplies. The number of residents fluctuates with need, but currently the village houses around thirty families, some with children and some without. Residents say they have never turned anyone away. If no home is available for a new resident, they simply share. 

A small homoeopathic clinic serves the community, and a bakery produces traditional Kurdish

tannour bread once a week on Fridays. Nearby stands a tiny classroom with three or four desks for younger children, which a confident young girl named Shílan proudly shows off. There are also optional Kurdish language classes for adult women who do not speak the language. 

As we sit in the communal area, a room lined with patterned cushions on all sides, Yesmin, who has sallow skin and shoulder-length black hair that keeps falling in her face, lights a long, slender cigarette, sips traditional coffee from delicately decorated ceramic cups, and begins to tell me how she arrived in Jinwar nearly six years ago.

Yesmin leaves home

Yesmin’s family comes from the city of Afrin, a Kurdish stronghold on the Turkish–Syrian border, but she was born in Aleppo in 1990. She was the eldest among her siblings, one sister and two brothers. They grew up in a small, stable family that faced few problems.

Yesmin did not enjoy school while growing up and often said she wanted to quit. Eventually, at

fifteen, she did. Her family did not oppose the decision, though she would later deeply regret it. 

Yesmin married her cousin, Mustafa, a common decision that allowed them to maintain property and belongings within the extended family. Together, they had two children, a boy named Amid and a girl named Evin.

At the beginning of their marriage, they lived a relatively happy life. But things got more complicated when the war in Syria started in 2011. Their relationship gradually grew strained, particularly as Yesmin’s ideological views began to differ from her husband’s. At that time, she believed that Bashar al-Assad, the Syrian strongman, was a good president who was defending the rights of the Syrian people.

As the situation in Syria worsened, her family decided to relocate to Germany when the opportunity became possible. Her husband was strongly opposed to the idea, and it created a wedge between them. Still, they tried to maintain stability for the sake of their children.

Eventually, however, the couple agreed to separate and ultimately divorce. Yesmin decided it would be best to migrate with her children and join her family abroad. She left Aleppo with her daughter and headed toward Qamishlo, planning to leave Syria for Iraqi Kurdistan and continue onward. Her son stayed with his father. 

A place run by women

When she arrived in Qamishlo, she discovered that the crossings were closed due to the war. With no option to leave, she sought help from organisations that support women in difficulty. 

With nowhere else to go, one of the organisations advised Yesmin to visit the village of Jinwar and stay there temporarily until the borders reopened.

Initially, she was curious about the idea of a place run exclusively for women. She arrived as a guest, intending to stay only a week or two to clear her mind. But she quickly realised that Jinwar was not simply a shelter for women facing danger or threats. It was a fully integrated community – economic, social, and political – where women could develop themselves and improve their skills.

“When I saw all of this, I changed my mind,” she tells me. “I no longer wanted to leave the country. I wasn’t seeking money or luxury. I had lived a comfortable life with my family in Aleppo when our financial situation was good. I wanted to try depending on myself without relying on a man.”

Yesmin’s family was afraid she would not be able to manage on her own. But despite their insistence that she continue her journey abroad, she ultimately decided to stay in Jinwar. 

After speaking with the village authorities and requesting to remain as a permanent resident, she found a new home.

“Every day I live here,” she says, “I discover the importance of this place for women, how it improves their awareness, personality, and lifestyle intellectually, and provides many work opportunities.”

From refugee to community leader

Before arriving in Jinwar, Yesmin had no real work experience. In Aleppo, she had once enrolled in an English-language course but never completed it. In her new community, she discovered many opportunities. 

At first, she struggled with tasks like agricultural work, which she found physically exhausting. But she adapted gradually. 

She began working in the village shop, which required her to learn commercial skills such as buying, selling, stocking goods, and calculating profits.

“It was complicated at first,” she recalls, “but with time it became easier.”

Yesmin built relationships with traders and gradually became successful in the role. Later, she enrolled in a sewing course, and the community opened a sewing workshop. She was determined to participate in every available activity and take on every responsibility.

Eventually, Yesmin took over the village’s financial matters, a role she still manages today. She also became interested in more technical work, such as installing solar energy systems, water pumps, and electricity infrastructure. She completed training courses and learned how to maintain those systems. Her appetite for learning seemed endless.

Recently, she was elected to the village administration and now serves as a spokesperson for the community.

A fragile existence

Despite their successes, the women of Jinwar know their experiment exists in a fragile environment.

Alia Othuman, a woman who moved to Jinwar to deepen her studies in Jineology, admits that life in the village is not without difficulties.

“The mentality of our enemy is not the mentality of an army,” she says, “but that of a jihadist aiming to remove the value of women.”

Alia worries about what might happen if hostile forces were ever to invade the region.

“We have already seen what happened to other women in Syria. This place is a sanctuary, but the security situation is one of our biggest concerns.”

The community does not consider Ahmad al-Sharaa, Syria’s new leader, a legitimate president. They believe he did not come to rebuild the country but to destroy what remains of it.

“Why are women and children always targeted?” Alia asks. “Why were minorities like Alawites, Druze, and Kurds killed? Why are women and children, especially from these minorities, kidnapped by these groups?”

“In reality, they are afraid of the educated, strong woman, because she is the one who builds society and raises children,” she added. 

The women of Jinwar say they want to build a democratic society based on equality between men and women.

“This way, there will not be problems between husband and wife,” Alia explains. “Families will be

built on a correct foundation, leading to a healthy society.”

A bittersweet reunion

Yesmin has learned many skills since arriving in Jinwar and is now one of the village’s most experienced members. Alongside two colleagues who arrived around the same time, she helps guide new residents as they settle into the community.

One day, she would like to return to the wider society. But for now, she considers it her responsibility to support new members and offer them the same kindness she received when she first arrived.  Her greatest hope is that her daughter will complete her studies and eventually attend university.

Soon, her mother will visit her in Syria from Germany. 

“We haven’t seen each other for sixteen years,” Yesmin says. “When I think about it, it’s painful.

When I see my mother, I know I will remember all the difficulties I went through here alone.”

Many of the passengers on the bus back to Syria once found refuge in Europe. Not long ago, Europeans watched on their phones and television screens as barrel bombs fell, decimating Syrian cities. One of the most widely reported events was the Battle of Aleppo in 2012, when Yesmin was still living there.

Today, more than a million refugees from conflicts around the world call Europe home. But the continent’s attitude toward refugees has since cooled amidst uncertainty and political fatigue. Some European governments say they are ready for Syrians to return home. 

Soon, Yesmin’s mother will bounce along that same pontoon bridge over the Tigris, filled with excitement as she finally returns to see her daughter again. It will be a reunion full of joy and pain. 

James Forde is an Irish freelance photographer based in London. His work focuses on long-term documentary projects that investigate under-reported socio-political issues. His photography has been featured in numerous publications, including the Washington Post, El País, VICE, and the Irish Times.

The post Inside Jinwar: The All-Women’s Village in Syria Where Refugees Are Rebuilding Their Lives first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

I had been invited to spend several days at an orphanage in Idlib, a city in northern Syria that had become a stronghold for rebel forces. The “association,” as they called it, was a large, grey compound not far from downtown. Behind tall walls and light security, it felt like any other school: asphalt playgrounds for running and football, metal frames for climbing, and classrooms filled with wooden desks. The floor was littered with scraps of paper and class notes. 

Arriving at the Little Hearts Foundation

Just over two years earlier, I was walking down a road in Adana, in southern Turkey. I had arrived to cover the devastating earthquake that claimed more than 100,000 lives. As I walked,  focused on my phone and following a Google Maps pin I had been sent, the loud growl of a performance engine grew louder. The sound and my path were about to converge. The tinted window of a brilliant white Honda Civic lowered slowly, and a hand emerged. I’d been looking for a translator in Turkey, and someone had given me the contact info of Mahmood al-Rawi, an Iraqi man from Fallujah who spoke almost perfect  English. Mahmood worked with a charity that helped rehouse Syrian refugees and supported their children, many of whom suffered from blood cancer and aggressive tumors and needed urgent medical care. Through our work together, Mahmood and I became friends, and he offered to bring me to Syria to show me his work there.

Fast forward to today, and I’m sitting in the back of a Kia Mohave SUV—favored in Syria for its durability—speeding through the night at a steady 160 kilometers per hour with Mahmood in the passenger seat,  a man named Omar behind the wheel, and a loaded Kalashnikov resting on the floor. 

Omar al-Omar is a tall, stocky man—6’3″—with shoulder-length black hair, a thick beard, and a disarming smile. He frequently cracks sharp jokes with his friends in Arabic. Omar began doing humanitarian work when he arrived in Idlib in 2017. His charisma and online presence attracted many donations. He worked with a French-Syrian NGO for a year before discovering they were misusing funds. After leaving, he founded The Little Hearts Foundation, a school and community center serving nearly a thousand children orphaned by war. They attend the school by day to study and play. Today, this place is a rare sanctuary for many children who have never known peace. However, it took a great deal of work and hardship to build it. 

The road to Idlib

Years ago, on a cold, snowy morning in Deir Muqaran, a mountain village in the Wadi Barada Valley northwest of Damascus, 200 green buses lined the local streets. It was January 29, 2017, and the buses were ready to relocate rebel forces to Idlib, closer to the Turkish border. The rebels, largely from Jabhat al-Nusra (previously the Free Syrian Army), had reached an agreement with Russian and German negotiators, the former representing the Assad regime. Either the fighters would relocate or face full-scale bombardment that could endanger all families in the area. The regime was eager to reclaim the region because of Ein Fajja, a vital water source that supplied over six million people in Damascus.  

The rebels had lived under siege since 2011, defending the valley despite overwhelming odds. Deir Muqaran, nestled among sheer sandstone mountains controlled by the regime, endured relentless barrel bomb attacks. Around 400 fighters were lost over six years. That morning, about 700 soldiers, dressed in winter clothes, boarded the buses with their weapons. Of the 200 buses, only 70 were needed: 40 for the fighters and 30 for their family members. Russian officials were reportedly stunned that so few had held the region so long. 

Al-Omar was 27 then. Driven by rage and a deep longing for a free Syria, he was involved in resistance long before the war officially began. His younger brother, Mustafa, was arrested in 2012  and disappeared inside Assad’s notorious Sednaya prison. His father, Mahmoud al-Omar, was once a soldier in the Syrian military under Hafez al-Assad, Bashar al-Assad’s father, and was accused of aiding rebels. He was dismissed from the military in 1990, arrested in 2006, and routinely extorted by the regime. It was a typical story for Syria. Hafez al-Assad ruled through paranoia and brutality, often punishing entire families for dissent. His son, Bashar, continued that legacy despite initial promises of reform.  

Though he had become a de facto leader of a small rebel faction, Omar didn’t want to leave his village on that frigid January morning. But endangering families wasn’t an option. Armed with machine guns and grenades, the fighters boarded the buses. This was not surrender. It was a tactical shift.  

The trip to Idlib, which usually takes 4 hours, took nearly 24. Assad’s forces rerouted the buses through Alawite strongholds to parade the rebels like trophies, exposing them to jeers and humiliation. What Assad didn’t realize was that concentrating these disparate rebel groups in Idlib would eventually backfire. From 2014 to 2018, the regime implemented similar evacuations across the country, consolidating opposition forces in one location. During those early years, international media flooded screens and newspapers with images of horrific attacks and drone footage of  Aleppo’s destruction. That attention eventually waned, but the conflict only intensified. 

Abdullah’s story

In 2016, a year before Omar arrived in Idlib, Abdullah al-Khalif, another founding member of the orphanage, smuggled his family across the desert, moving from one Kurdish stronghold to another. Born in Deir ez-Zor and raised in Damascus, Abdullah is a tall, gaunt man with a long goatee and somber eyes. He had worked as a policeman and moonlighted as a taxi driver. When the war began, he joined protests by night, but it soon became too dangerous. He fled to Darayya, then under the control of the Free Syrian Army, and joined their ranks.  

Abdullah married just six months before the war began. His wife remained in Damascus for safety. He risked his life to visit her and their newborn. Traveling through Syria was dangerous. In 2013, regime forces massacred 1,800 people in  Darayya in a single day. Hiding on a rooftop, Abdullah watched in horror as a soldier slit a child’s throat and smeared his hand with blood, shouting “Ya Hussein”—a Shia invocation that was burned into his memory after that day.

After escaping to Deir ez-Zor, Abdullah fought alongside the Free Syrian Army for 18 months while supporting his family.  By 2014, Jabhat al-Nusra had established a foothold in the region, and he joined them, citing their discipline and organizational structure. While the U.S.  had labeled them a terrorist group in 2012, the Washington Post reported that they were the most effective rebel force on the ground. ISIS  also grew in power during this time,  threatening to kill or absorb all non-affiliated fighters.  

After his commander was wounded,  Abdullah’s faction moved to Idlib, now a rebel safe zone. He began a quieter life, working in a restaurant and raising three children while enduring frequent airstrikes. Normalcy took on strange dimensions. People would resume their daily routines just an hour after a bombing. In 2017, Abdullah attempted to flee to Turkey nine times in one month but was caught each time. Bilateral relations between Syria and Turkey had long been tense, deteriorating further after a 2011 incident in Jisr ash-Shugur, where thousands fled across the border. 

Turkey’s President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan initially condemned Syria’s brutality but hesitated to call for Assad’s removal.

In 2019, while still working at the restaurant, Abdullah met Omar, who had recently founded his organization and school. Given their shared experience as fighters, they quickly found common ground. Though their focus shifted to humanitarian work, both remained active fighters and were among the first to enter Damascus after Bashar al-Assad’s departure. 

On December 8, 2024, at 6:18 a.m., Bashar al-Assad, members of his family, and some key officials boarded a private jet at Damascus airport. They flew to a Russian airbase in Latakia and then to Moscow, escorted by Russian intelligence. This moment, long in the making, marked the end of a brutal 14-year war. By then, Idlib had become home to an estimated 50,000 rebel troops under Abu Mohammed al-Jolani,  leader of Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), a coalition of Sunni Islamist factions formed in 2017.  

Their surprise offensive began with Aleppo, catching Assad’s weakened forces off guard. In just 11 days, the war ended.  Estimates vary, but monitors and the United Nations suggest the death toll from the 14-year war may exceed one million.

Overnight, fighting halted, and focus shifted to rebuilding  Syria’s shattered economy. In a landmark move, Syria’s interim president, Ahmed al-Sharaa—often known by his nom de guerre, al-Jolani—made his first foreign visit to Saudi Arabia in February, signaling a significant realignment in Middle  East diplomacy. 

Manal’s story

Manal Ibrahim, now 34, also works at the foundation. Even beneath her niqab, her wide grin and bubbly personality are unmistakable. Originally from Saraqib, a strategic town in Idlib province, Manal’s family was once wealthy. Her father, accused of having ties to the Muslim Brotherhood, fled to Saudi Arabia in 1980. Their lands were seized, and the family was blacklisted. 

After Hafez al-Assad died in 2001, the family returned to Syria. But when 11-year-old Manal criticized Bashar al-Assad in class, the secret police came calling. The family fled again.  

Between 2002 and 2011, they smuggled themselves across borders, paying bribes. Manal’s mother was imprisoned twice.

In their village, girls were expected to marry cousins by the age of 16 to preserve family land. Unmarried by the age of 20, a girl was considered spoiled. Manal resisted marriage and rejected the hobbies her father wanted her to pursue, such as sewing and religion. She decided to study dance, painting, and singing instead. These choices were unforgivable to her father.  

Manal began to share her artwork on Snapchat, gaining a significant following and a steady income. By 2016, with Idlib under rebel control, she reclaimed some of her family’s land. Her father had remarried and left the family home by then. Barrel bombs were a regular soundtrack to her nights. Manal and her sister counted them as they whistled to the ground before impact.

Defying tradition, Manal eventually married a kind man from Damascus. Her family beat and tortured her, even tried to provoke her husband into violence, but they failed. The couple married in 2020 and had a child.  

Manal applied for a job five times at The Little Hearts Foundation without mentioning her social media influence. She wanted to be hired based on merit. Eventually, she was accepted and rose to become director.  Despite some initial tension, she and Omar developed a mutual respect for each other. She created a new Snapchat account to raise money for the orphanages. Since then, she has raised over $200,000 for the school, which now employs more than 60 staff and provides thousands of meals during Eid and other festivals. 

“A Syria without Bashar”

The perfumed fragrance of shisha smoke wafted through the air as we entered Mr. Black’s restaurant, a popular hangout that opened four years ago on the outskirts of Idlib. Many in the local military brass frequent it for its generous traditional feasts. In my experience, I have never encountered such hospitality as I have in the Middle East, and Syria is no exception. 

The table must be overflowing—variations of lamb and chicken, grilled vegetables, hummus,  flatbreads, and fattoush. Water or juice is passed around. Cigarettes are lit. Conversation flows.  

I was told many times by civilians and officials: “We received our country below zero. We must  rebuild not just from the bottom, but below the bottom.” The new government faces pressure from many countries, each with its own agenda. U.S. President Donald Trump is now meeting with Al-Sharaa and lifting heavy sanctions, a monumental step. The Syrian public watches with bated breath.  

As I observed those around me, and Mahmood generously translated as much of the dialogue as he could, we watched some people in fatigues, others in civilian clothes, united by a single unifying force: a desire to discuss Syria’s future and how to achieve the best possible outcome. Many Syrians are now making the long journey back home from different countries or refugee camps. The organization that Mahmood works for is shifting its focus to building medical facilities in rural areas that lack access. After the main course, chai is served, followed by baklava or kataifi with sweet cheese.  Then comes Syrian cardamom coffee and the shisha pipe. The conversation continues long into the night.  

The next morning, as I stand in the schoolyard, listening to 500 children chant “Allahu Akbar” in unison, I wonder whether the Syria they inherit will be the inclusive future President al-Sharaa has promised—or something more extreme, as critics fear. When I ask Omar what a free Syria means to  him, he replies without hesitation: “To see a Syria without Bashar is enough.”  

“األب الصالح خير من مائة معلم”

James Forde is an Irish freelance photographer based in London. His work focuses on long-term documentary projects that investigate under-reported socio-political issues. His photography has been featured in numerous publications, including the Washington Post, El País, VICE, and the Irish Times.

The post In Syria, Former Warriors Build a New Home for Orphans first appeared on Lazo Magazine.