…According to Turkish president Recep Erdogan, Turkey’s goal is to create a buffer zone separating Syria’s Kurds from the Turkish border.
But his country’s attack will do much more than that. If successful, it will destroy the most full-fledged democracy the Middle East has yet to see….
The Kurds call their autonomous region in Syria “Rojava,” meaning “the land where the sun sets.”…
Rojava would be an exceptional society almost anywhere.
Rojava’s charter guarantees freedom of expression and assembly and equality of all religious communities and languages. It mandates direct democracy, term limits and gender equality. Men and women share every position in government. Kurdish women have fought the Islamic State in Syria as soldiers in an all-female militia.
In a region where religion and politics are often intertwined, the Kurdish state is secular. Religious leaders cannot serve in politics. Rojava’s charter even affirms the right of all citizens to a healthy environment.
Surrounding countries, including Syria, also have constitutions with eloquent endorsements of political and human rights.
In Rojava, however, the constitution is actually in effect. Syrian Kurds have realized the dream of the 2010-2011 pro-democracy uprisings across the Arab world.
Polling continues to look good, and I keep sending her bits of money.
At the marble arches that stand atop this lower Manhattan landmark, a crowd of an estimated 20,000 people on Monday night wielded signs about “big structural change.” Introductory speakers told the crowd that Democrats didn’t just need the energy of a “blue wave” — but “a plan.” And Warren, invoking the story of the nearby factory fire that set off a wave of feminist activism in 1911 and helped lead to the New Deal, outlined a theory of change that combines movement-driven pressure “from the outside” with the tactical power of a leader working the system “from the inside.”
A poem by Emma Lazarus.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Well worth your time.