High in the remote Qandil mountains of Iraqi Kurdistan — long considered impenetrable terrain and the heart of the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK) insurgency — an extraordinary shift is underway. For the first time in decades, hundreds of fighters have descended from hidden mountain tunnels to openly celebrate the PKK’s anniversary, signalling a dramatic turn after the group’s leadership called on its armed wing to disband and embrace a ceasefire with Turkey. Times UK, granted rare access to the rebel stronghold, describes scenes that would once have been unthinkable: music echoing through valleys formerly stalked by drones, civilians dancing alongside guerrillas, and fireworks replacing gunfire.
Founded in 1978 as a Marxist revolutionary force seeking independence for Kurds across Turkey, Iraq, Iran and Syria, the PKK has waged a 40-year guerrilla war that has killed an estimated 40,000 people. Designated a terrorist organisation by the UK, US and EU, the group once led deadly attacks across southeast Turkey, its bases stretching from Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley to the mountains of northern Iraq. But in May, its imprisoned leader Abdullah Ocalan issued a historic call for a ceasefire and urged followers to lay down arms. Within weeks, the PKK’s political umbrella group, the KCK, held a weapons-burning ceremony — a symbolic break from the movement’s militant past.
In Qandil, where steep ridges and cave networks have sheltered PKK fighters since the early 1990s, the atmosphere has shifted from clandestine survival to cautious anticipation. Times UK reporters describe bustling checkpoints where rebels mingle freely, supply trucks rumble through, and herders armed only against wolves wander the high passes. Hidden tunnel entrances — reinforced by cinderblock and rebar — still dot the landscape, but for the first time in years, militants are emerging openly from these mountain warrens.
Officially, both the Iraqi federal government and the Kurdish regional authorities reject the PKK’s presence in Qandil as illegal. In practice, political fragmentation has left the mountains in a diplomatic limbo — a grey zone where the group has built a de facto sanctuary. Thousands of fighters and civilians now reside in the highlands, many of them displaced from Turkey by renewed military pressure. Previous peace efforts — most notably the 2013 ceasefire facilitated through secret talks with Ocalan — collapsed into bloodshed, culminating in what the International Crisis Group called one of the conflict’s deadliest chapters. Yet this time, local authorities have allowed civilians to join the celebrations, signalling a sense that the ceasefire might hold.
Signs of hope, however, exist alongside deep scars. Kurdish distrust of the Turkish state runs deep, rooted in decades of displacement, village destruction and documented abuses. Still, political winds appear to be shifting. The day after the anniversary festivities, Masoud Barzani — the powerful Kurdish Democratic Party leader — travelled to Turkey to affirm his support for the peace process, praising President Erdogan and acknowledging Ocalan’s role. Turkish officials have also voiced cautious support, recognising the changing strategic realities in a volatile Middle East.
Inside the rebel enclave, security remains tight. Drone paranoia persists, and jammers block all phone signals. Visitors are required to surrender all electronics. Even the buzz of a trapped bee can trigger alarm — a reminder of years spent under the constant threat of surveillance and airstrikes. Yet despite the tension, fighters pose eagerly for photographs and talk openly about the future, a stark departure from decades of secrecy.
Times UK journalists were driven deep into the mountains to meet Bese Hozat, co-leader of the KCK. From a makeshift diplomatic table at a secluded farm, she outlined what she calls the movement’s new paradigm: ecology, democracy and women’s liberation. The PKK, she said, has withdrawn all remaining forces from Turkey and shifted its focus to political struggle. She insists past peace failures stemmed from Ankara’s inaction, though Turkish leaders have long blamed the PKK for broken agreements and continued violence. Even so, Hozat believes regional instability has opened an opportunity: in a Middle East reshaped by conflicts from Syria to Gaza, she argues Kurds remain indispensable actors. “Whoever allies with the Kurds will win,” she said.
The PKK’s ideology has evolved over the decades — from militant Marxism to a broader vision of social ecology and gender equality. Its feminist principles are evident throughout Qandil: women command both mixed and all-female units, and leadership is shared between male and female co-chairs. The mountains themselves have become a conservation refuge, dotted with signs declaring “No hunting,” a rare sanctuary in a region scarred by decades of conflict.
Many fighters say they are ready to leave the mountains if a true peace emerges. Tekosin Cudi, a 41-year-old guerrilla who has spent twenty years in Qandil, speaks with optimism about reintegration. She performs in the camp’s band, writing songs about the life she hopes to live. The movement’s greatest achievement, she says, is planting “the seed of a free mind” in Kurdish society — something she believes will endure long after weapons fall silent.
Others, however, speak with a blend of hope and guarded realism. One guerrilla, Botan Farhat, descended from his tunnel hideout to attend the festivities. Raising a cigarette to his lips, he reflected on fifteen years of combat and the friends he lost. If Kurdish identity is respected, he says, there will be no need for fighters. But if not, “a new war will come, and I’ll return to the mountains.”
As night envelops the peaks and civilians depart, the fighters remaining in Qandil celebrate in a final burst of defiant ritual. Hidden tunnels open, militants spill out, and the valley echoes once more — not with the shriek of drones, but with jubilant gunfire into the cold mountain air. The future of peace remains uncertain. But for the first time in a generation, the PKK’s mountain fortress is no longer merely a place of hiding — it is a place daring to imagine what comes next.
