To Live with a Bullet: 21 Years Since Syria’s Kurdish Uprising
Protesters in Qamishli, Syria, mark the anniversary of the 2004 Kurdish uprising in the “Martyrs of 12 March” Stadium, which witnessed the uprising against Assad. (North Press)
By Abbas Ali Moussa
For 21 years, every time the month of March arrives, time takes “Mohammad Hamza” back to that day which completely and forever altered the course of his life.
Mohammad recalls the morning of that day when he joined an angry and massive demonstration in the city of Qamishli. He was shouting and chanting at the top of his lungs, his voice a mix of demands, rights, frustration, and rage. But he didn’t know that someone was waiting for the moment to fire a bullet.
Mohammad repeatedly watches a video documenting the wounded of that day at Al-Rahma Hospital in Qamishli. The video, about five minutes long, shows him unconscious and delirious with pain at the 3:15 mark.
Mohammad says that every March, he rewatches the video over and over with sorrow and anguish.
A Bullet in the Head
It was March 13, 2004, and his hoarse voice—shaped by the transition from adolescence to manhood—roared alongside the angry demonstrators’ chants. “I was part of the protest near the Silos Roundabout. Suddenly, a military ZIL truck appeared, and soldiers from the riot police disembarked. They started firing live ammunition randomly. I felt something hit my head—I thought it was a pebble or a stone—but when I reached up with my hand, the bleeding was severe. My strength gave out, and I collapsed to the ground.”
Mohammad didn’t awaken from his coma until 45 days later at Al-Rahma Hospital in Qamishli, where he was one of several people rushed for treatment. Meanwhile, dozens of other injured individuals preferred to treat their wounds at home, far from the eyes of the police and intelligence services. Mohammad’s father said that for most of the coma, his son’s hand was shackled to the bed. Mohammad was the last person to leave the hospital, and for much of the time, a police officer was stationed in his room.
After leaving the hospital, Mohammad couldn’t move his limbs, especially those on his right side. Doctors informed him that the bullet, which had struck him in the back of the head, couldn’t be removed. He underwent six consecutive months of physical therapy, which enabled him to move his right limbs again, though not fully or effectively.
But none of this spared Mohammad further hardship. The police demanded that his father send him for mandatory military service despite his deteriorating health condition. They refused to exempt him unless he obtained a document certifying his medical status to be discharged from service.
Mohammad recalls that period with bitterness. He was only granted a medical discharge after traveling between Deir ez-Zor, Hasakah, and finally Damascus to secure the necessary paperwork.
His father realized then that his son was being punished for being one of the injured of “the uprising.” Mohammad’s name had been placed on the “red list”—or, as it’s colloquially said, “there’s a red line under his name”—effectively barring him from employment opportunities. This pushed him to abandon his studies quickly.
Mohammad Hamza, the young Kurdish man injured by Syrian regime bullets during the March 12 uprising
The Spark of Anger
The demonstration in which Mohammad participated—and during which he was injured alongside dozens of others, with more than 30 civilians killed—was part of a massive wave of outrage and protests in Qamishli. It soon spread rapidly to other cities in the Syrian Jazira region, as well as Afrin, Kobani, Aleppo, and Damascus, later becoming known as the “Qamishlo Uprising.”
It all began on Friday, March 12, 2004, during a football match between the Qamishli-based “Al-Jihad” team and “Al-Fatwa,” a team from Deir ez-Zor, as part of the Syrian league. Clashes broke out immediately between the predominantly Kurdish fans of Al-Jihad and the Arab fans of Al-Fatwa, who provoked the former. The confrontations involved stones and knives, but when the police and security forces intervened, their intent was to discipline the Kurdish crowd. They opened fire on them, killing at least six people on the spot. The funerals of the victims turned into angry demonstrations that were not confined to Qamishli but spread across various cities and towns in the Jazira region, Kobani, Afrin, and Kurdish neighborhoods in Aleppo and Damascus.
According to writers and politicians, one immediate cause can be traced to the successive events in neighboring Iraq. The U.S.-led military operation under George W. Bush had toppled the Baath regime there, fueling growing resentment against Kurds, who were blamed for the fall of an Arab capital with deep social and tribal ties to the border province of Deir ez-Zor.
On a broader national level, despite the Syrian regime’s attempts to demonize, downplay, and label the uprising as mere “riots,” Syrian opposition elites regarded it as a shining moment reflecting the Syrian communities’ desire to break free from tyranny. This sentiment has been echoed on various occasions. With the fall of Bashar al-Assad’s regime on December 8, 2024, and the toppling of his statues, memories resurfaced intensely of the first statue of Hafez al-Assad being brought down in Amuda during the uprising. Young people, men, and elites had contributed to that moment, expressing their anger and paying a heavy price: thousands detained, dozens injured, and many killed.
In the Land of Exile
In 2012, Mohammad found himself in Norway as a refugee, like thousands of other Syrians. But for Mohammad, seeking asylum had an additional purpose: finding treatment for his chronic condition—the bullet that never left him. However, doctors there told him that his fate was to live with it.
Mohammad says, “I visit the doctor periodically, and my health has improved.” He no longer suffers from the seizures and limb stiffness that plagued him in previous years. Doctors reassured him that his condition would likely improve with age.
In Norway, where the cold weather persists for months, Mohammad obtained citizenship in 2020. By a twist of fate, he received it on March 12—the anniversary that took him back to the day he was first injured in the demonstration, when border guards didn’t just intimidate protesters but showered them with live bullets.
Mohammad spoke to me about “gloomy, cold Norway.” When I asked him about his only daughter, now seven years old, he said he named her “Lia,” inspired by a character from the famous series about the story of Prophet Joseph. When I asked if he had told her his story in some way, he replied, “Maybe when she grows up, I’ll tell her someday.”
Mohammad doesn’t like sharing his story with others because it saddens him. The reel of memories plays heavily in his mind. His 23-second segment in the video is enough to remind him of a life haunted by that bullet—one that nearly claimed his life alongside the 36 other victims of the uprising, which Syrians remember as a facet of the peaceful popular movement met with gunfire.