The second reaction, when an American friend of Lemmon's who had been working with the women's units, urged her, "Come on, you have to see it," was: "No."
But she couldn't shake the questions she had about the women fighting in Syria. Three years of research and interviews and seven reporting trips to northeastern Syria later, Lemmon's book chronicles some of the YPJ's fiercest battles with the Islamic State.
As Lemmon takes the reader along with the intrepid fighters she meets, they rescue trapped colleagues while ISIS fighters taunt them over the radio for being women. They know that those taunts, coming from ISIS, mean death, even beheading, if they are captured. They are wounded. They sustain losses, sometimes heavy ones, sometimes close friends. They kill to liberate their homeland, even though, as Syrian Kurds, they are not permitted by the Assad regime to publish in their own language or celebrate their own holidays. They do not surrender.
Women and girls in the cities they set free come out to hug them, or simply to look, marveling that they exist. In one riveting scene, American soldiers visit a school in Kobani where some of the YPJ had been pinned down. In the basement, they see graffiti scrawled on the wall. It reads: "We will fight to the last person."
"Daughters of Kobani" is a war story for the 21st century, unflinching in its depictions of the violence and kinship that shape the lives of soldiers like Nowruz, Rojda, Azeema and Znarin, who serve and lead on the front lines to liberate the cities of Kobani, Manbij and Raqqa between 2015 and 2017.
Freedom to risk their lives to fight ISIS was a radical change from the lack of freedom many of these women faced in their younger years. Azeema, seeing what things were like for most women around her, had vowed at 13 never to marry; she becomes a sniper and commander in Kobani. Znarin had been denied both a university education and a love marriage she desperately desired before her political awakening sent her off to war; she is later one of a half dozen or so field commanders of hundreds of fighters in Manbij. Of the latter, Lemmon writes, "While the world considered ISIS a movement, Znarin saw it as far less grand than that: for her, ISIS was a group of men who brutalized women and wanted to destroy her and her friends."
These women and their comrades are instrumental to the US-backed Syrian Democratic Forces that ultimately defeat the Islamic State, but since that liberation, they have been thrust into danger again, facing military incursion from Turkey without US support.
While not aligned with the Turkish Kurdistan Worker's Party (PKK), which Turkey, the US and the EU consider a terrorist organization, the YPJ and other Syrian Kurds follow the teachings of the PKK's jailed leader, Abdullah Ocalan, about grassroots democracy and gender equality.
Their Kurdish identities and association with Ocalan place the women of the YPJ, their families and their comrades in an uncertain position militarily and diplomatically against Turkey and in their relations with the US. As Lemmon puts it in her book, "The future of northeastern Syria remains a question written in invisible ink in a language no one can yet decipher."
When we spoke, Lemmon told me that for now, the women she came to know while reporting her book are living with "a fragile stability that's holding." She reports that fortunately amid their other precarities, they have also been relatively unscathed by the Covid-19 pandemic.
Near the end of our interview, Lemmon described a conversation she had with Nowruz, in which she asked what she wants a girl born in Syria 20 years from now to understand about the war she and her sisters in arms fought against ISIS -- especially now that things have again become volatile in northeastern Syria.
She told me that Nowruz said: "I'm doing this for my nieces and nephews, so they can speak their language, they can publish in their language, they can name their children what they wish. So that they can live in peace." Nowruz wants the yet-unborn-girls to know their own power, to understand "that we did this for them. For the next generation, so they wouldn't face this."
The following interview has been lightly edited for clarity and flow.
CNN: I was really struck from the beginning by the way that you described what it is to report on and tell a war story. What makes telling a war story different from other kinds of storytelling? And what made you want to tell this one in particular?
Gayle Tzemach Lemmon: Every great story starts with a question you can't answer. And this story struck me immediately. How in the world did the world's most far-reaching experiment in women's equality come to be built on the ashes of the ISIS fight, brought to you by women who fought the Islamic State, house by house, room by room, and town by town, for a half-decade? How was it that the Islamic State, which put the buying and selling of women right at the center of its ideology, was defeated by women who had women's emancipation and the quest for equality right at the center of their ideology? It was almost Shakespearean.
To me, there is no difference between this story, among the stories I've had the privilege of telling. Because to me, they are all stories of communities of women underestimated from the outside, at the outset, who rise to the moment in service to something greater than themselves. And I think that we all want to see more stories of women's lives in all their glorious complexity.
CNN: You do lay out in the early part of the book the multiple questions this story raised for you. What questions did writing it answer for you and which remain unanswered?
Lemmon: I wanted to know what it meant for women to win a war. And I will say that I have never seen women anywhere in the world more comfortable in power, and less apologetic about exercising it. And it stays with you because it looks different. And I wanted to show that. I think the thing that struck me is we all have mothers and sisters and daughters and friends in our lives who are just resilient and full of courage, and full of bravery. And it's wonderful to be able to see on the page, the story of women, maybe far away geographically, maybe in a very different context. But bringing all that courage, and all bravery to the fore every single day to stop the men who devalued women.
CNN: How did you connect with the women who became your main characters?
Lemmon: This whole story started because one of the women from "Ashley's War" (Lemmon's last book, about a special team of women soldiers working and fighting in Afghanistan) called me in 2016 when I was actually in the middle of school pick up. I was hiding in the bushes at preschool to take the call on WhatsApp.
She was calling from Syria and she said, "You have to come see this. This looks completely different from anything we've ever seen. Not only are women leading in battle alongside US Special Operations, but they are leading men in battle. And they have the full respect of the men they fight with and the men they serve alongside and lead. And of the US forces, with whom they work." And she also said "That's not all of it, you know. They're really focused on women's rights and equality and emancipation."
And I thought: How in the world did this come to be?
CNN: It's striking how these women remain aware of and deploy their gender, even on the battlefield. There's Rojda, who goads ISIS fighters she's up against into giving up their location by going after their masculinity. And when an American commander meets one of the young YPJ fighters and she trash-talks him, saying, "I bet I killed more ISIS than you did" --
Lemmon: Oh, I know. The guy on the US side told me that story himself. Multiple times.
CNN: That's amazing. Did you get a sense when you were working on this story that these women were developing strategies to weaponize misogyny against itself?
Lemmon: They were fighting inhumanity with humanity. And they're really funny. They truly thought it was obvious that women were equal. And they didn't care what other people would say to the contrary (laughing) because they had this very strong self-possession. They just knew that they possessed the right to choose the path of their lives. And weren't actually interested in what other people thought about that. On the other hand, you know, I think they deeply cared about other people, I think they were ferocious in trying to take care of their people. Their forces, their fighters. You know, every loss they took very personally. Even if it wasn't somebody they knew personally or well, if they were commanding and their forces took losses, of course they took it to heart.
I think what they focused on most was ending the notion that this kind of mentality could exist -- the mentality that said women had no value, women could be enslaved, women could be bought and sold. They wanted to end that. And they truly believed that they were doing this for women around the world.
CNN: That comes through in the book, especially when you describe the Social Contract of