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Exile and loss: A Kurdish commander's vow
Shaho Bloori, a 53-year-old Iranian Kurdish commander, lives with the weight of both living relatives and buried ones in Iran. Two sisters remain under the regime's rule, while 18 family members, including a brother executed at 21, lie in Iranian soil. The Revolutionary Guard not only hanged his brother-a protest singer-but also forbade their mother from grieving as she prepared his bullet-riddled body for burial.
"When she went to wash his body, there were 16 bullet holes. They told her: 'You must not cry. If you do, we will not let you clean him and bury him.'"
Shaho Bloori
Bloori advocates for justice, not vengeance, if the regime collapses. "We must stop the hanging," he says. "Even if someone is guilty of killing my brother, I don't want them executed. We need freedom, not another regime like the Islamic one."
Training a new generation of Peshmerga
In a remote mountain camp in northern Iraq, Bloori trains young Iranian Kurdish fighters, known as Peshmerga-"those who face death." Perched on a boulder under spring sunlight, the white-haired, soft-spoken commander leads Komala of the Toilers of Kurdistan, a dissident group allied with other Iranian Kurdish factions opposing Tehran.
"Thousands of fighters are organized in the mountains, ready to go home," he says. "That will be soon." Yet U.S. support remains uncertain. President Donald Trump has wavered on backing Iranian Kurds in a potential conflict with Iran, making their role unclear.
Stateless but determined
The Kurds, the Middle East's fourth-largest ethnic group, are spread across Iraq, Iran, Syria, and Turkey. Despite shared persecution and internal divisions, their resistance persists. Iraqi Kurdish authorities, wary of provoking Iran, have sought to keep Iranian Kurdish fighters out of the public eye.
After two attempts, reporters reached Bloori's camp-a cluster of tents ringed by snow-capped peaks. Days earlier, drone strikes injured fighters nearby. The final ascent, steep and rocky, left reporters breathless under the weight of body armor.
Chants of resistance and vigilance
Dozens of Peshmerga, men and women, lined up to greet visitors, chanting "Woman, life, freedom"-a Kurdish slogan now central to Iran's protest movements. Sentries stood watch on hilltops, using low-tech methods to detect drones. One fighter scanned the horizon with his dog by his side.
Reporters carried drone-detection equipment, a precaution in war zones like Ukraine. Safety advisers instructed them to drop to the ground if no shelter was available. "Get down on your belt buckle," they were told.
Calls for U.S. intervention amid skepticism
Amjad Hossein Panahi, a senior Komala official and Peshmerga fighter, has awaited the regime's fall since its 1979 inception. While airstrikes weaken Iran, he argues ground forces are needed. "The Kurds can play an important role," he says, urging a U.S.-enforced no-fly zone.
Yet with rising oil prices straining global economies, Panahi doubts Trump's commitment. "I don't trust Trump," he says. "I feel he may decide to stop the war. But whether or not Trump stops, the Islamic Republic is in its final days. It will fall-by him, Netanyahu, or the people."
Drone threats force sudden evacuation
Panahi's phone interrupted the interview with news of a drone attack on a Komala camp in Sulaymaniyah, near the Iranian border. "We have to leave now," he warned. "The Iranians are attacking with drones. They could strike here."
He shouted orders to the gathered Peshmerga: "Spread out! Drones and ballistic missiles are coming. Hurry!" The fighters scattered, and reporters followed. Though the skies remained clear, the threat underscored the constant danger.
The Peshmerga stayed in the mountains, as they have for decades. If they enter the conflict, the cost could be high-not just for them, but for Iraq's fragile stability.
