As a Peshmerga fighter, she had an advantage: The enemy fears being killed by a woman.
If you get to know someone in a war, they might well die much sooner than you’d prefer. As a foreign correspondent, I’ve buried many people over the years. True, it’s not really me who buries them. More likely, I am sipping a beer in Cairo or Budapest when I get the news.
My latest such loss was Rengin Yusuf. She was, like me, in her 30s. She was a mother. I met her among other Kurds this summer in a military training camp in Sulaymaniyah, Iraq, where she served in a women’s regiment in the fight against the radical Islamists of ISIS. I interviewed her and her fellow officers over tea and then took their pictures. They asked me not to call them “women Peshmergas” because, they said, there is no such thing. A Peshmerga is a Peshmerga, or, in Kurdish, “someone who confronts death.”
The regiment’s youngest woman, Rengin Yusuf was strikingly attractive, with long black hair and a furtive smile. Our conversation didn’t extend beyond what was expected of us. I was the foreign correspondent; she, the Peshmerga. She and the others had been ordered to speak to me to demonstrate that the Kurdish “army” is free of sexism.
As I write these lines, it has been a month since Rengin Yusuf died. The Kurdish PUK Party representative who had been my host notified me via Facebook . “Do you remember this woman?” he asked. “You spoke to her.” “I remember,” I replied. “They killed her,” he wrote, and then asked, “How are you?” I filled him in on how things are back in Europe, and then I paid some bills.