Ecologist Agit Özdemir emphasized that the ecological destruction in Kurdistan is intertwined with political and social genocide. Özdemir said: “The fire, dam, mine, ban quadrangle is a chain of eco-genocide, operating together to displace the population, make return impossible, and dismantle points of social resistance.”
Özdemir, a member of the Union of Chambers of Turkish Engineers and Architects (TMMOB), spoke to ANF about the Turkish state’s plunder of nature and ecocide in Kurdistan and the reasons behind it.
How far back does the plunder of nature in Kurdistan go?
Explaining the destruction of nature in Kurdistan only through today’s issues would be a major deficiency. The roots of this devastation go back to the founding years of the Republic. Since the 1920s, together with the denial of the Kurdish people, Kurdistan’s nature has also been systematically targeted. In documents from that period, such as the Eastern Reform Plan, the Sheikh Said and Agirî (Ağrı) uprisings, and the genocides in Zilan and Dersim, you always see phrases in military reports like “burning the mountains, destroying the forests.” In other words, mountains, forests, and rivers were stripped of their identity as ecological beings and coded as “tools to be used against the enemy” and “targets” to be destroyed.
The most intense and systematic example of this approach was witnessed in the 1990s. Around 4,000 villages were evacuated and burned. Forests were turned to ashes through deliberate fires. This was not only a “security policy,” but also an attempt to sever the Kurds’ ancient bond with nature. Anyone familiar with Kurdish sociology knows that a village for Kurds is not just a collection of houses. A village is an entirety that includes vineyards, gardens, water sources, and pastures. Therefore, burning a village also meant the destruction of the cycle of life, memory, and culture. The total annihilation of a valley in Zilan, the burning of forests in Dersim in 1938, and the village evacuations of the 1990s all demonstrate the continuity of the same mentality.
What are the current forms of these policies?
These policies continue today in different forms. Mount Cudi is a striking example. It was both a target of conflict and, after the clashes, turned into a site of economic exploitation through mines, stone quarries, and logging. The forest fires and forced displacements of the war years are now pursued through other means. Today we see this in tree cuttings, the declaration of entire mountains as mining zones, and the construction of military outposts in every region. This picture demonstrates the continuity of environmental destruction. I define this as eco-genocide, because nature, culture, and people are being destroyed together. What is being destroyed is not only the heritage of the past but also, tragically, the hope for the future, deliberately erased.
Since the 2000s, and especially after the 2010s, the plunder of nature has continued through different tools. This time, village evacuations were replaced by dams, hydroelectric power plants, mining licenses, “national park” declarations, and special security zones. The Cilo-Sat Mountains were simultaneously designated as a national park, a tourism area, a military base, and a mining site. In other words, under the name of “protection,” a new encirclement was created. After the 2013–2015 peace process, a different method was pursued: forests were first cut down under the pretext of “cleaning” or “rejuvenation,” and then these areas were handed over to mining companies. Today, nature is not only integrated into capital accumulation through dams and mines. Under the names of solar power plants (GES), wind power plants (RES), and geothermal projects, villagers’ pastures and living spaces are also being transferred to companies.
What does this picture show us?
This entire picture tells us the following: the logic of the “geography of punishment,” which began in the 1920s, reached its peak in the 1990s with the policies of burning and evacuating villages. Today it continues with a new order of plunder, in which security and capital policies go hand in hand. Therefore, what we are witnessing is not only environmental destruction, but also the displacement and denial of a future for the Kurdish people. This is why we call it eco-genocide.
What is the link between the plunder of nature, ecocide, and assimilation?
To be frank, I prefer to use the concept of “eco-genocide” rather than “ecocide.” Politically, eco-genocide is much more comprehensive than ecocide. When we look at international literature and legal studies, ecocide is often described as if environmental destruction were merely a technical issue. Eco-genocide, however, emphasizes that both nature and the people who live in relation with it are jointly targeted that ecological destruction is intertwined with political and social genocide.
For this reason, the concept of eco-genocide allows us to see that flooding villages with dams, systematically burning forests, destroying sacred sites, and implementing forced migration policies are not separate incidents, but parts of the same chain of political liquidation. The concept does not treat the plunder of nature as “collateral damage” or “secondary issues.” Instead, it exposes this plunder as a fundamental element of the strategy to erase identity and displace peoples. In short, eco-genocide makes visible the political targeting of the historical bond between people and nature, showing that ecology is also a struggle for identity and existence.
Forced displacement did not only mean a change of place. It also broke the ancient bond that created and developed identity, language, and culture. The human-nature relationship carried the memory of these peoples. Culture and language, when banned, could still preserve themselves in this natural environment. But for those forced to migrate to the outskirts of big cities, especially Istanbul, it was extremely difficult to maintain this bond.
This issue should not be seen only through the lens of the Kurds. For example, the Chaldean and Assyrian villages around Mount Cudi that were forcibly evacuated saw their churches and cemeteries destroyed. Today, while these villages remain closed under the status of “special security zones,” roads and infrastructure are being built for mining companies. During this work, not only new roads are built, but gardens, churches, houses, cemeteries, and settlement remain that were burned and destroyed in the 1990s are also being erased. This regime of “forbidden to the people, open to the company” eliminates the spatial carriers of memory, deepening assimilation.
Are the Cilo-Sat Mountains another example of these policies?
Of course. On the one hand, they are declared a “national park” under the discourse of protection; on the other, they are framed as a military zone, a mining site, and even a festival ground. In recent years, the festivals held there have served as a tool of ideological normalization, using the metaphor of “the conquest/victory of the mountain.” While thousands of people and military units are able to enter these mountains, they remain forbidden to the local population. The high pastures have been rendered unusable, and people are forced to obtain permits, sometimes for days, just to visit the graves of their relatives. All of this shows that security-oriented and assimilationist policies continue through different means and methods.
To what extent are dam and hydroelectric projects really energy investments?
Dam and hydroelectric power plant (HPP) projects do more than alter the flow regimes of rivers. They also destroy sacred sites and geographies of memory. On the one hand, they submerge villages under water; on the other, they create new spaces that can be monitored, controlled, and surveilled. The slogan voiced by the people of Munzur, “Dams are the second ’38”, expresses that water policies are not seen as energy investments, but rather as tools of assimilation and security politics.
In the Zilan Valley, where a massacre took place in 1930, today’s HPP and dam projects show that the valley is once again being targeted, this time through ecological destruction intended to erase social memory. In Dersim, the burning of forests and the destruction of sacred sites in 1938 are being repeated today through dam and “national park” projects, reflecting the same mentality. In the Botan Valley, despite its designation as a national park, dams and HPP projects continue to shrink the living spaces of local communities.
In conclusion, assimilation is not limited to the banning of culture and language. This process also operates through turning mountains, forests, and water resources into spaces to be “conquered” or “split apart.” These are policies designed both to forcibly displace people and to sever their ancient relationship with nature, while at the same time increasing controllability through newly created spaces. This is why we say that eco-genocide policies are the material infrastructure of assimilation.
How are “depopulation” policies linked to attacks on nature?
In the 1990s, around 4,000 villages were forcibly evacuated or burned; forests, pastures, and agricultural infrastructure were directly targeted. This did not only create migration; it also caused lasting destruction that eliminated the possibility of return. Take Şırnak (Şirnex) as an example. In 2022, the governor’s office announced that 40 of the 47 villages forcibly evacuated in Cudi and Gabar had been reopened. Yet in practice, and according to local testimonies, no infrastructure or housing was provided to enable people to return. Even visiting cemeteries requires days of permission procedures; those wishing to go back to their villages still face bureaucratic and security barriers.
Moreover, many villages evacuated in the 1990s were later submerged by dam and HPP projects. Even if destroyed or burned, there was no place left for people to return to. Many of these villages were further devastated by mining projects, deforestation, and mass logging. As a result, even if return were allowed, the settlements became uninhabitable and unrecognizable. Today in Gabar, oil explorations are drying up village water sources. In a region once rich in water, villagers are now forced to access water by tanker trucks, and in very limited quantities. A similar situation is seen in the Cilo-Sat Mountains, where the local population is forced to wait in queues for permits while the area is opened to festivals under the guise of “tourism.” As soon as the festival ends, the area is closed again. While the state presents this as a form of normalization, local people experience it in very different ways. These events are, in fact, a political choreography reinforcing state control and militarization.
The Ilısu Dam submerged Hasankeyf and nearly 200 settlements, erasing both cultural memory and the possibility of return; around 100,000 people were directly or indirectly displaced. To describe this only as a spatial loss or the submersion of a topography would be insufficient. It was the annihilation of historical ties, sacred sites, and collective memory alongside spatial loss.
In recent years, logging and mining concessions have proceeded hand in hand along the Cudi, Gabar, Besta line. The rapid conversion of deforested areas into mining pits clearly shows how the pretext of “security” merges with profiteering. The same methods are applied in Dersim through forest burnings, in the Zilan Valley through HPP projects, and in Botan through dams. This proves that the issue is not only profiteering, but that all these practices constitute a systematic strategy.
In short, the fire, dam, mine, ban quadrangle is a chain of eco-genocide operating together to displace the population, make return impossible, and dismantle points of social resistance.
The link between spatial attacks and the function of dams…
The function of dams cannot be separated from attacks on space. Take for example the 11 dams built along the Hakkari (Colemêrg)–Şırnak line, which are defined even in official literature as “security dams.” In the eyes of the state, “strategic valleys” are filled with water to cut off movement and access. Yet for centuries, these valleys have been living spaces used by local people for settlement, vineyards, gardens, and pastures. The construction of new roads and military bases alongside these dams clearly shows that these projects were not built for energy but rather serve a hydro-geopolitical function.
The Ilısu Dam is the most striking example. By submerging Hasankeyf and nearly 200 settlements in the Tigris Valley, it dispossessed the region and drowned its cultural memory. Behind the veil of “energy,” what was in fact implemented was a project of elimination and control. Hasankeyf was a well-known site of memory, but even surface-level studies revealed that hundreds of historical and cultural sites in the Tigris Valley were submerged. The waters did not only cover homes, they erased thousands of years of cultural continuity.
Another dimension of these dams is how they obstruct the pursuit of justice. In the Dargeçit JİTEM case, the village where the enforced disappearances occurred was submerged, preventing on-site investigation and leading to the closure of the case. Similarly, in the Zilan Stream, the site of the 1930 Zilan Massacre was buried under a dam. In recent years, when the waters receded and bones surfaced, it became clear how memory and truth were deliberately consigned to the depths.
Is the Silvan Project not similar?
It certainly presents a similar scenario. Comprising 8 dams and 23 irrigation facilities, the project will submerge 175 km² of land once completed; 15 villages will be completely destroyed, and more than 30 others partially wiped out. Settlements that were evacuated in the 1990s and partially resettled in the 2000s are now facing a second wave of elimination. Inkaya village is one of these. The people’s slogan, “Dams are the second ’38”, must be repeated again and again, as it makes clear that dams are not simply energy investments but operate as instruments of spatial assimilation and security policy. The militarization of water resources also targets sites of memory. A recent example is the Nerdüş hydroelectric plant and irrigation dam announced by the State Hydraulic Works (DSI). This project will not only generate energy; it is designed as a multi-purpose mechanism of control. The flow of the Nerdüş Stream will be cut off, its ecosystem dried out, and historic villages such as Shah (Şax) and Hebler will be completely erased beneath the reservoir.
What do all these examples tell us?
All these examples show us that dams and HPPs are not merely about “energy” or “irrigation,” but are part of security and control policies. They are walls that block passage, engineering projects that sever villagers from their land, mechanisms that end traditional agriculture to pave the way for industrial farming, levers that drown memory in water, and tools that open new lands for capital. Attacks on space and the function of dams cannot be separated from one another. A dam is simultaneously an instrument of eco-genocide targeting the ecosystem, society, and memory.