Constanze Letsch
guardian.co.uk, Wednesday 22 May 2013
Paramilitaries reviled by compatriots face losing their livelihoods and possibly their lives if Ankara cuts them adrift at end of war. Sitting in front of a small stone cabin on top of a hill overlooking green valleys, with the snow-capped Hakkari mountain range in the 
background, two men in camouflage uniforms are busy making tea. An AK-47 leans against the wall.
“We are optimistic about the peace process, but we are worried about what will become of us,” said Mustafa Can.
His anxiety stems from his 12 years as a foot soldier in Turkey’s “village guard” system, a huge force of mainly Kurdish paramilitaries created almost 30 years ago by the Turkish state to patrol Kurdish settlements of the south-east.
With the conflict winding down and a young and fragile peace process under way between Ankara and the rebel fighters of the PKK, the Kurdistan Workers’ party, the fate of the units is one of the biggest issues in the long-running Turkish-Kurdish conflict.
There are huge numbers of them – 50,000 on the government payroll, and half as many again who serve as unpaid volunteers. Few have any certainty as to what the future holds for them. Many fear they will lose their livelihoods. Some speak of retribution that might follow if they are disbanded and disarmed.
Can said he had little choice but to become a guard. “Most of the men in our village became village guards in the 1990s. There were no jobs here, and the Turkish army threatened those who didn’t want to take up arms against the PKK.”
In April, the pro-Kurdish BDP party proposed the abolition of the system as part of efforts towards the settlement of the Kurdish issue, but so far the government has not addressed the problem. Despite the ongoing peace negotiations and the start of a PKK withdrawal this month, the militiamen are still standing watch in the mountains and alongside roads in Hakkari province.
Yildirim Öztepe, head of the units in the Yüksekova region, said that he wanted to serve as an armed guard to protect his family and his property, but underlined that the vast majority of those in his 2,000-strong association took up the job for economic reasons.
“There is no industry here, and agriculture died during the 30-year-old conflict,” he said. “We need to feed our families, too.”
Paid guards earn about 820 Turkish lira (£295) a month, but do not receive any social security benefits and only limited health care. Many, being Kurds, are seen as traitors and opportunists – as enemies worse than the Turkish security forces. The PKK reportedly hanged some of the paramilitaries, their mouths stuffed with banknotes. “Other Kurds call us donkeys and say that our blood is dirty. The government ignores our demands for more social rights,” Öztepe said. “We are the stepchildren of this country, and of this conflict.”
Some have also been accused of human rights abuses.
“Village guards first wounded and then burned my son alive, dragged his dead body behind a car and left it to the dogs,” said a Kurdish woman from a mountain village close to the Iranian border.
“I hate the village guards more than I hate Turkish soldiers, and if I could find those who did this, I would kill them myself.”
Since the peace talks between Turkey and jailed PKK leader Abdullah Öcalan began last October, village guards have repeatedly expressed their concerns about possible retaliation.
According to the Turkish Human Rights Association, units have often prevented displaced Kurds from returning to their villages. More than 5,000 guards have also faced charges of aiding the PKK, kidnapping, smuggling, theft and rape, since the system was put in place in 1985. Criticism increased when a group killed 54 guests at a wedding in Mardin province four years ago after a family dispute, with weapons supplied by the Turkish state.
Vahit Demir, a former PKK member from a village close to the Iranian border, thinks that the system made the Kurdish-Turkish conflict bloodier. “The state pitched brother against brother. If it hadn’t been for the village guards, this conflict would have never reached this intensity,” he said. But he insisted that there would be no attempts at revenge: “All we want is peace. Nobody has an interest in prolonging this war.”
In a mountain village in Hakkari, a group of men voiced their worries about the future. “We would be happy to put down our arms,” said Necati Yildiz, a guard since 1998. “But we need to receive the social security and pay that other state employees receive. Nobody in Hakkari would employ a former village guard. How are we supposed to support our families?”
Yildiz added: “We were used as propaganda tools by the Turkish state. It looked good to have Kurds fighting against the PKK.”
He admitted that militias had been involved in human rights abuses, but said they were caught between a rock and a hard place: “The army ordered us to fight against the PKK. When we refused, they accused us of being terrorists. For fear of government reprisals, we accepted.”
According to official figures, nearly 2,000 village guards have been killed since 1985, fighting the PKK. At the height of the conflict in the 90s, armed rebels often targeted whole families and villages. Kidnappings were common.
“We are talking about an enormous paramilitary force, an irregular army in a sense,” said Emma Sinclair-Webb, senior Turkey researcher for Human Rights Watch. “And the village guards are probably the most unaccountable force in this conflict. It’s a system that pits one part of the population against another.
“In addition to being involved in counter-terrorism operations, they have often also exploited their position as guards to occupy land that has been evacuated [as part of Turkey’s scorched earth policy].”
The Hakkari men agreed that lasting peace was now the most important goal, but added that their rights should not be disregarded.
“We, both as Kurds and as village guards, paid a high price for this peace. After all these years, we need to be part of the peace process also,” Yildiz said. “The government cannot just ignore us. They need to realise that a hungry man is a hundred times more dangerous than any PKK fighter.”