Excerpted: Children of Fire

Jin, Jîyan, Azadî:
A Revolutionary Feminist Hope
Shahrzad Arshadi

The slogan “Jin, Jîyan, Azadî,” inspired by the Kurdish women’s struggle in Bakur, spread throughout Iran after the murder of Jina Mahsa Amini in Tehran.

Jin. Woman. We know we cannot rely on capitalism and the state.

Jîyan. Life. We are against all wars and the arms trade.

Azadî. Freedom. We oppose dictatorship, colonialism, and any form of oppressive government.

Once, a few years ago, when I returned home after a few months in the Middle East, and after visiting Kurdistan’s Qandil Mountains, my grandson Kayon asked me, “Grandma, why are you going so far for so long? Daddy said the places you go are not only far but also very dangerous. Don’t you think I will miss you?”

I hugged him tightly and said, “My dearest, of course I miss you very much. I am sorry, my love, if I make you uncomfortable and worried.”

Being a grandma, I just couldn’t finish there. I had to use this golden opportunity to explain to my gorgeous half-Iranian, half-Jamaican grandson who we are. Holding him, I continued: “I came to Canada a long time ago with my two-month-old son, your father, as a political refugee.” Of course, I explained to him what the words political refugee mean. “We had nobody here — no family, not even your grandfather yet! On top of that, people in Canada knew nothing about us. About our life, who we were, and our history. Or the reason why we were forced to leave our home and country to come so far away to be safe. Coming here wasn’t pleasant at the beginning; good-hearted people would feel sorry for us, and the other kind didn’t want us here at all — didn’t want us on the land they themselves had occupied or stolen from the original people of North America. This land had no memory of our past, and this land had a complicated history of its own. One of its names is Tiohtià:ke, Turtle Island, land of Indigenous people. All they knew was the simple information I first gave to the kind immigration officer on a cold Christmas night when I arrived at an almost empty Mirabel Airport in Montreal. I was in my very early twenties with a tiny son and a green suitcase.”

Many years have passed since our arrival and, more and more, I feel the responsibility to tell our story. Instead of witnessing our story misrepresented by mainstream media, or by others who don’t know much and don’t want to learn deeply, I feel the responsibility to say what happened to us and what is really happening in our parts of the world. I did not tell my grandson that, to be honest, I am tired of some people’s reactions toward me as soon as they learn I am from Iran. I can’t stand their pre-judgments about us, and their idea of us as powerless women from the Middle East. Their image of screaming, crying, weak women has nothing to do with the idols I grew up with. Women like Qamar-ol-Moluk Vaziri, Táhirih Qurrat al-’Ayn, Laila Khaled, Marzieh Ahmadi Uskui,¹ and many more brave and powerful role models who taught me to stand tall and never give up.

I didn’t see myself going to fight in the mountains. But I decided to become like my namesake, Shahrzad, the brave woman after whom my father named me. Shahrzad, the great storyteller. She who told stories in order to save the lives of others. Stories to bring change. Art gave me the opportunity to find different ways of expressing my thoughts, a way to highlight memories and stories that are otherwise difficult to explain.

I also decided that, besides telling my own story and the story of my generation every chance I got, I would travel to the mountains of Kurdistan to live with Kurdish guerrillas. I would devote myself to recording their stories, their struggle, their sacrifices. Stories of young women and men who chose to fight for a better world. Stories I can relate to so deeply, with all my heart, after all these years of being away.

As my dear friend Peyman Viyan said, “In the history of Kurdistan, Kurds were not allowed to write their own history, so we taught our history to the next generation through songs. We sang about our pain, oppression, injustice, and our heroes. For us it is important to sing, write poems, create art, and at the same time, to fight.”

So many nights, I wished that when I opened my eyes in the morning, I could take a deep breath and say, Thank God, it was only a nightmare! What a relief it would be to wake up in Rasht, my hometown near the Caspian Sea, to be surrounded by the family and friends I left behind after the brutal Islamic fundamentalist regime came to power in Iran. Unfortunately, what has happened to us is a sad reality. To change this world, we must continue telling our stories and talking about our hopes and dreams.

Memory, imagination, and hope: the three things every dictator wants to take away from us.

Here are some stories about the brave fighters I met and loved over the years.

Peyman Viyan

I met Peyman for the first time, in 2015, in Sulaymaniyah, Iraqi Kurdistan. She was a cheerful and kind young woman who introduced herself as a member of PJAK. We quickly became friends and began meeting almost every day, discussing our beliefs and views of the world. The trust between us deepened until, one day, she called me and asked to meet for a chat. I accepted eagerly and headed for the meeting.

There, after much debate and many questions, she asked me, “Would you like to visit Qandil?”

I immediately said, “Of course!”

I did not fit in my skin, and it was as if I was not fifty-five years old. Even my white hair in the mirror could not convince me that I was not still nineteen.

We set a date that autumn for Peyman and me and a few others to go toward the mountains I had read about for years and longed to see. Since that first visit, every time I travelled to Kurdistan, the mountains of Qandil were kindly ready to embrace me. Most of the time, Peyman and Ciwana were the ones who helped guide me to the mountains. They were kind and humorous companions whose heartfelt laughter came from the bottom of their hearts.

During that autumn of 2015, I visited many different camps in the Qandil and Asos Mountains, and spent a great deal of time there. I can never forget those days with so many incredible, humble, brave, and unbelievably kind women.

The commander, Laila, was one of them. I met her at a camp in the mountains near Panjun. She was incredibly calm and kind. It took us less than an hour to become close friends; I still can’t explain how it is possible to become so attached to these women so quickly.

We went for a walk and, even with my little Kurdish, we talked a lot. I didn’t record her voice and, to be honest, I didn’t need to: I remember every single moment of my time with her. We walked toward the roaring river we could hear in the distance.

I asked her, with difficulty, how she had joined the struggle and come to the mountains.

With a beautiful smile, she explained her activism, and at the end she said, “You know, my Kurdish is not very good. Comrades make fun of me because I often use the wrong words.”

“How come?” I asked.

“I learned Kurdish in the mountains with my comrades. At the time, our language was forbidden in Turkey. Even now, we can’t study in our mother tongue.”

Someone called us to return to the camp. The river was wild and beautiful, and with great regret we started climbing. Laila was watching me with great care; she had noticed my bad knees.

Back in the camp, Peyman told me to gather everything I had outside and bring it inside the hidden tent. Without question, I did what she asked me to do.

I noticed Laila was looking at me, worried. I smiled at her and entered the tent.

I asked the other comrades if I could help them with anything. All of them kindly told me they didn’t need my help.

¹ Qamar-ol-Moluk Vaziri was a celebrated Iranian singer. She was also the first woman of her time to sing in public in Iran without wearing a veil. She is known as the Queen of Persian music. Táhirih Qurrat al-’Ayn was an influential poet, women’s rights activist, and theologian, and a brave leader. Laila Khaled was a Palestinian revolutionary, former militant, and member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. Marzieh Ahmadi Uskui was an Iranian poet, teacher, revolutionary, and a prominent female member of the resistance movement against the regime of the Shah. She was a member of the Organization of Iranian People’s Fedai Guerrillas. She died in a shootout with SAVAK in Tehran in 1974. 

Excerpted from Children of Fire: Kurdish Female Fighters and the Struggle for Woman, Life, Freedom by Shahrzad Arshadi & Anna Chatterton © 2026. Used with permission of Book*hug Press.

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