Stateless Twice Over: The Story of Meryem Mado from Hesekê
Introduction: The Census That Erased a People
Across the world, an official document, such as a birth certificate, an ID card, or a passport, acts as the key to citizenship. With it, one can attend school, secure a job, open a bank account, cross borders, and claim rights. Without it, life becomes a maze of impossibilities. For the Kurds of Rojava, this reality was brutally imposed by the Syrian state in 1962, when the Syrian regime carried out a "special census" in the province of Hesekê. Officials claimed it was to identify Kurds who had "illegally infiltrated" from Turkey. In reality, it was a political tool designed to weaken the Kurdish presence in Syria's northeast. The result was devastating, and according to Human Rights Watch, more than 120,000 Kurds were stripped of their citizenship in a single day. Kurdish families were divided by arbitrary decisions, one sibling registered as Syrian, another suddenly labelled a "foreigner." Some were placed in an even harsher category: Maktoum al-Qayd. These people were erased from the civil records. Denied nationality, they could not own land, work in the public sector, register marriages, or pass citizenship to their children. Their legal existence was extinguished.
For Kurdish women, the impact of this statelessness was doubly heavy. Denied documents, they were not only excluded from the state's protection but also placed at the intersection of gendered and national oppression. Without identification, they could not legally marry, register their children, own property, or access healthcare. The absence of papers turned ordinary acts of living-sending a child to school, receiving a hospital check-up, applying for work-into battles with endless walls.
This condition created generations of women who were visible in their families and communities, yet invisible before the law. Their lives tell us not just of individual struggles, but of an entire people forced to live without recognition.
It is within this shadow of erasure that the life of Kurdish woman Meryem Mado unfolded, and Shinda Ekrem took the time to sit with Meryem, to share her story and personal items for The Jiyan Archives.
A Childhood Stolen by a Census
Meryem Mado was born in 1942 in the village of Sihal, near Tirbespî in Rojava. As a young girl, she carried in her eyes the spark of hope and in her heart the modest dreams of a simple future. She could not have imagined that a piece of paper, or rather, the lack of one, would later determine the course of her life.
In 1962, when Meryem was twenty, the Syrian regime descended upon her region with its infamous "special census." Families like hers, caught in the bureaucratic trap of not being able to present documents on demand, were reclassified into the category of ‘Maktoum al-Qayd’- the "unregistered," or, as people bitterly called it, the nameless. From that day, Meryem ceased to exist in the eyes of the state; this meant that her identity as a Kurdish woman, rooted in the soil of her village, was erased by decree. She became a young woman without a name in the registers, without papers to prove her existence.
The top half of the official government document handed to Meryem to confirm her ‘Maktoum al-Qayd’/stateless status in Syria in the 60’s.
Marriage, Motherhood, and Loss
At fifteen, Meryem had married Mehmûd Emmarî. She believed that through marriage and family, she could create her own world, one that would protect her from the storms of politics and law. Together, they had four children. Due to the census, their marriage was never officially recognised, existing only within social custom. In 1976, tragedy struck: Mehmûd died due to an expected heart attack, leaving her alone as the head of the household. Now a widow in her thirties, Meryem had to raise her four children in a system that denied them the most basic rights. The absence of papers haunted every step of their lives. After her husband's death, Meryem laboured in the village fields and gardens, often with her daughters by her side. The work brought little income, but it helped her keep the family going, with occasional support from her relatives.
In Damascus, with her daughter and grandchildren in 2006. All of whom remain stateless.
Life within the Boundaries of Lawlessness
Meryem's children grew up surrounded by prohibitions. They could not attend school with ease, could not take on official jobs, and could not legally travel beyond the narrow boundaries of Rojava. For them, as for so many others, doors remained closed not because of their will or abilities, but because of a missing stamp. The questions they asked their mother grew more painful as they aged: Why are we invisible under this false identity? Why is our existence treated as less than others'?
Meryem tried to shield them with hope, to dream for them of a future where they might live freely, but she also knew that her own dreams had been clipped long ago by the very system now choking her children.
Meryem with her brother’s wife and children, together in Qamishlo, 1990.
An Elder's Reflection
Today, at 82, Meryem remains surrounded by her four grown children, who are still stateless and undocumented. Even her grandchildren face the same condition, as if the shadow of the 1962 census stretches endlessly across generations. With calm resolve, she says, "I was raised on this soil. My family grew up here. We belong to this land. But we have been denied the right to be a recognised part of it. Even today, in self-administered Rojava, little has been done for those without papers."
A Story That Belongs to All
Meryem Mado's life is more than the story of a mother raising her children against hardship. It is a witness to the pain endured by hundreds of thousands of Kurdish families who were condemned to statelessness, forced to survive without the rights that should have been theirs by birth.
Her voice, steady despite a lifetime of denial, reminds us that the struggle for recognition is not only about documents; it is about the heart. It is about dignity, belonging, and the simple right to exist as a people in one's own homeland. In 2019, Meryem relocated to Erbil, Southern Kurdistan, where she now spends the later years of her life as a recognised Kurd, in an autonomy that no longer demands papers to prove a Kurd's right to exist. To this day, Meryem, her children, and their grandchildren remain stateless in Syria.
During Ramadan in 2024, Shinda Ekrem (in yellow) sits in Qamishlo with Meryem who is surrounded by her daughter and grandchildren.
Note: While the Syrian government has pledged to restore citizenship to Kurds, many families remain without official documents and await real implementation.
Edited and Translated by Raz Xaidan
