Armed Syrian Kurdish Women Stand Guard over Precious Wheatfields

A volunteer in the Kurdish Community Protection Forces guards wheat fields from fire or looting around the town of Tarbesbeyeh, also known as al-Qahtaniyah in Arabic, in northeastern Syria's Hasakeh Governorate near the Turkish border on May 30, 2024. (Photo by Delil SOULEIMAN / AFP)
A volunteer in the Kurdish Community Protection Forces guards wheat fields from fire or looting around the town of Tarbesbeyeh, also known as al-Qahtaniyah in Arabic, in northeastern Syria's Hasakeh Governorate near the Turkish border on May 30, 2024. (Photo by Delil SOULEIMAN / AFP)
TT

Armed Syrian Kurdish Women Stand Guard over Precious Wheatfields

A volunteer in the Kurdish Community Protection Forces guards wheat fields from fire or looting around the town of Tarbesbeyeh, also known as al-Qahtaniyah in Arabic, in northeastern Syria's Hasakeh Governorate near the Turkish border on May 30, 2024. (Photo by Delil SOULEIMAN / AFP)
A volunteer in the Kurdish Community Protection Forces guards wheat fields from fire or looting around the town of Tarbesbeyeh, also known as al-Qahtaniyah in Arabic, in northeastern Syria's Hasakeh Governorate near the Turkish border on May 30, 2024. (Photo by Delil SOULEIMAN / AFP)

Holding a weapon in one hand and fixing her scarf with the other, Yasmine Youssef patrols one of northeast Syria's vast wheatfields, a vital source of income in the country's breadbasket.

The 42-year-old is among dozens of volunteers, some of them women, helping the semi-autonomous Kurdish-led region protect the fields near Qahtaniyah, from fires and arsonists.

"Our mission is to serve farmers and protect their crops," Youssef said, adding that the work lasts one or two months.

"If fires break out we are notified directly and we call the fire trucks," she told AFP.

This year the farmers in northeast Syria are expecting an exceptional harvest after heavy rain followed years of drought.

But residents also fear that yearly summer wildfires could destroy their precious crops.

"Agricultural production rebounded in 2023 amid improved weather conditions" after near-historical lows the year before, according to a recent World Bank report.

"Official statistics indicate a doubled wheat harvest for 2023, yielding two million metric tons," it said.

In June 2019, flames swept through wheatfields in the region, killing at least 10 people who were fighting the fires, according to the Syrian Observatory for Human Rights war monitor.

At first, "people didn't trust our efforts. They were saying, 'What are those women doing,'" Youssef said.

"Now everyone agrees on the need to unite to protect" the land, she said.

"The people depend entirely on this harvest ... If we lose it, our conditions will deteriorate."

Nearby, farmers toiled in the scorching heat, plowing the golden fields as Kurdish police also patrolled the area.

Northeast Syrian wheat is a strategic asset for the semi-autonomous administration, providing bread for people who live in the area.

Every year, the administration and the Syrian government, which accuses the Kurds of separatism, compete to buy the wheat harvest from farmers.

Residents and officials in the Kurdish-held region told AFP they believed the fires were often the result of arson.

ISIS extremists have previously burnt crops in areas under Kurdish control after the US-backed Syrian Democratic Forces – the Kurds' de facto army in the area – dislodged the militants from the last scraps of Syrian territory they held in 2019.

"We will not let them do that," she said defiantly, patrolling beside other armed volunteers and wearing a military vest.

"I don't own a single acre of land, but I come here every day so farmers can harvest their crops" without having to worry about fires, she added.

There have already been limited outbreaks of fire in several locations this year, local authorities said.

The volunteers brave high summer temperatures and sometimes surprise attacks by ISIS militants, as well as Turkish strikes targeting the SDF.

Volunteer Renkin Hassan, 50, urged people not to discard cigarettes that could start fires accidentally, but also blamed unspecified parties for "burning the land intentionally."



Residents of Beirut Suburbs Traumatized by Israeli Strikes

Smoke rises from an Israeli airstrike in the southern suburbs of Beirut, Lebanon, on Saturday. Photograph: Hussein Malla/AP
Smoke rises from an Israeli airstrike in the southern suburbs of Beirut, Lebanon, on Saturday. Photograph: Hussein Malla/AP
TT

Residents of Beirut Suburbs Traumatized by Israeli Strikes

Smoke rises from an Israeli airstrike in the southern suburbs of Beirut, Lebanon, on Saturday. Photograph: Hussein Malla/AP
Smoke rises from an Israeli airstrike in the southern suburbs of Beirut, Lebanon, on Saturday. Photograph: Hussein Malla/AP

When Israel began pounding the southern Beirut suburb of Dahiyeh in airstrikes that killed Lebanon's Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah, the blasts were so powerful that a pregnant woman feared her baby could not withstand the force.

"I'm 8 months pregnant. The baby wasn't even moving in my stomach and I was so scared that something happened, God forbid. But finally I felt it," said Zahraa.

"God, the missiles we saw yesterday, the fires we saw. We could hear every single strike. We haven't even slept a wink. There's people sleeping in the streets or sleeping in their cars all around us."

Like other residents of Dahiyeh, the family -- Zahraa, her husband and two sons, aged 17 and 10 - quickly packed what they could and fled for other parts of the capital Beirut. The city shook with each explosion, Reuters reported.

Many of the schools used as shelters in the capital were already full with the tens of thousands of people who had fled southern Lebanon in recent days. Those newly displaced overnight said they had nowhere to go.

Hezbollah confirmed that Nasrallah was killed and vowed to continue the battle against Israel.

Nasrallah's death marks a heavy blow to Hezbollah.

It also brings more uncertainty to the inhabitants of Dahiyeh and those who have left for shelter in downtown Beirut and other parts of the city, after an escalation of the nearly one-year-old war between Israel and Iran-backed Hezbollah.

Ali Hussein Alaadin, a 28-year-old Dahiyeh resident, seemed lost after some of the heaviest Israeli bombardment of Beirut in decades. He barely had enough time to grab his father's medicine. One of the strikes hit a building just beside them.

"I don't even know where we are. We've been going around in circles all night. We've been calling NGOs and other people since the morning," he said, adding that aid groups would make constantly changing recommendations about where to seek refuge.

"We called everyone and they keep sending us around, either the number is off or busy or they would send us somewhere. Since 1:00 a.m. we've been in the streets."

Dalal Daher, who slept out in the open in Martyrs Square in downtown Beirut, said Lebanese lives were considered cheap as Israel carries out relentless strikes.

"If a paper plane flew over to Israel, it will cause endless turmoil. But for us, everyone is displaced and the whole world is silent about it, the United Nations and everyone is silent, as if we are not human beings," she said.