When I arrived at the hospital on the outskirts of Suruç the other day, there was a huge crowd. I had decided to go there with my local friend Muslum in order to see the YPG/J fighters who had been wounded in Kobane and who were being treated there. The night before, in the village of Mehser, I had met Ibrahim, a medic from Diyarbakir who had been working relentlessly for the last month since the siege of Kobane had started. He described how he, and countless other medical volunteers from across Turkish Kurdistan, had come to help treat wounded fighters. Previously, before much attention was placed on Turkey’s shady border activities, many reports had come out of Turkish soldiers refusing wounded guerrillas to cross at Murşıtpınar border gate to get treatment in Suruç, which subsequently led to their death.

Ibrahim had explained to me how the Turkish military did not allow their ambulances to cross into Syria. “We take the ambulances to the border, and from there, we have to walk over into Syria and carry the wounded back into Turkey.” He told me how there is only one ambulance vehicle in Kobane which brings the wounded to the border, and is then taken by Ibrahim and other medics to Suruç hospital. I asked him whether the Turkish authorities mind wounded guerrillas being treated in Suruç, which he quickly rebutted by claiming “they would but they don’t know.”

So I decided to see for myself. Much has been written about IS jihadists being treated in numerous hospitals inside Turkey, most notably in Gaziantep (about 100km west of Suruç). But what about the Kurdish guerrillas fighting IS? However, as I arrived at the hospital, there was a huge crowd gathering outside. I was told it was “cenaze”, a funeral procession. Outside, hundreds had gathered to show their respect, chanting “Martyrs do not die”. As the procession began to leave the hospital towards the graveyard a few hundred metres away, the sadness gave way to anger. Anger at the Turkish state’s complicity. Anger towards the continued death of YPG/J guerrillas (these funerals take place every day). Anger towards the continuing tragedy.

Once we arrived at the masalık (graveyard), the four bodies from the previous days fighting were buried. As Kurds carried the bodies to their burial site, chanting continued. Many carried the YPG or PKK flags. Others simply made the V sign with their fingers, which to Kurds symbolises resistance. After the rites were given, Ayşe Effendi, the wife of Salih Muslim (leader of the PYD administration) and an important figure in the Kobane canton, gave a speech full of emotion where she called on youths to help their comrades in Kobane. Such a call to arms, spoken with such ferocity and emotion, appeared to affect the crowd deeply, bringing home the reality of the war in Kobane.

Having been to a few different funerals now, I can easily say that they are the most moving thing I have witnessed since arriving at the border. Whilst staying in the village of Mehser close to the border, I would hear the continued gunfire, explosions and airstrikes landing in Kobane city every night. Some nights, I would be woken by a particularly loud airstrikes, causing the windows of the room to shake violently. Others have described having nightmares of the conflict spreading to the village.

But whilst I feel very close to the war zone of Kobane, it also feels strangely distant. However close I get, I cannot imagine what it’s really like inside Kobane. One journalist inside Kobane described how they get no sleep out of fear of explosions hitting their houses, whereas I sleep relatively soundly every night, tired from the endless intensity of the situation. It is as if the border, this artificial border which separates Kurdish families (families from Kobane are direct relatives of most people on this side of the border) creates a separation. It creates a distance, a barrier between a dreadful war and people mourning such a war. The flow of jihadists seems only to take place one way, of people crossing into Syria. Because Turkey is aiding the jihadists, Kurds say, people don’t fear the threat of ISIS invading Turkish land, despite the close proximity.

In the village of Mehser, my home over the last week, many have gathered in solidarity and anxiety. Anxiety because their children have decided to go and join the Kobane resistance. One such mother is Süreya Abak.  Süreya arrived to the village one week ago after she found out that her son had left to join the YPG three weeks ago. To this day, she has not heard any news from him. Her son is 37 years old and left his wife and three children behind in Mardin. He didn’t inform his family of his decision, probably out of fear at how they would react. Süreya found out that he had gone to Kobane through a friend who confirmed her fears that he had gone to Kobane.

When I asked if she understood or was proud of her son’s decision, she said, “Of course. But a mother’s first duty is to worry for her son’s future. If he becomes a martyr over there, he will leave his wife and family with nothing.”

Of the other fallen martyrs in Kobane, she said, “every martyr feels like one’s own. We mothers are all together and the death of one is like losing something inside you as I know that somewhere a mother will feel that pain deeply. Nobody wants to lose their son to these murderers.”

Another woman whose daughter joined the struggle arrived in the village a few days before. Her daughter had not returned home a week ago in Diyarbakir. She had gone to the school to enquire, who had told her she had left school at the normal time. Afterwards, she went to her relatives house who checked her daughter’s facebook status which read, “I cannot stay at home when my brothers and sisters are over there fighting for my rights. Please support me in my decision.” She was 17 years old, and her mother does not know whether she managed to cross into Kobane or not. Such a incidence is one of many, and shows what is at stake here: whilst IS are enslaving girls as sex slaves, many Kurdish girls feel the only solution to stop this is to themselves become guerrilla fighters on the battlefield.

I also met a 90-year-old woman who had come to the village during my stay. Originally from Siirt, but now living in Mersin, she determinately told me her story. Her son had been in prison for five years in Antalya for “fighting for Kurdish rights” and she had decided to join because she knew that if her son was free, he would be in Kobane. For this reason, she explained to me, “I consider all the guerrillas fighting in Kobane as my children.”

Part of the problem surrounding families whose children have gone to join the struggle is the relative secrecy that they have to keep this information. As Turkey has equated the PYD and YPG/J as a terrorist organisation alongside the PKK, parents cannot publicise information regarding their children as it puts them at risk. If the authorities found out, they could face imprisonment when these guerrillas return back to Turkey. Once the media over Kobane eventually subsides, Kurds fear that the repression of the Turkish state will come down hard on those who have joined the YPG/J. So for this reason, parents come and quietly ask about their children’s whereabouts, hoping that they have more chance of hearing news close to the border. The designation of the PKK as a terrorist organisation will continue to haunt Kurdish families across Turkey. We, in solidarity with the Kurds, must demand to take the PKK of the terrorist list. It acts as a direct obstacle in the fight against the Islamic State as it gives the Ankara the power to arrest, harass or obstruct civilians wanting to resist and prevent the atrocities of the Islamic State.