Since the United States-led invasion and occupation of Afghanistan and Iraq in 2001 and 2003, followed by the Arab Spring in 2010–2011, there has been a resurgence of interest in the arts imagining the Southwest Asian and North African (SWANA) region ‘otherwise’. Amidst these political upheavals, creative moments and movements have emerged, shaping new imaginaries and practices in political, public and personal spheres – from Cairo to Baghdad, and from Beirut to Kabul.

Başur, or South Kurdistan, has been entangled in this regional turmoil. However, due to its historical placement between empires and its distinctive political configuration as a non-state nation or a ‘would-be’-state¹, this region and its artists and women activists find themselves in a liminal space. Historically, they have had to navigate their active engagement in Kurdish national liberation movements while also challenging the patriarchal structures within them – and later balancing the benefits of Kurdistan’s post-2003 development with critiques of its dependence on neoconservative donor agendas.

As Kurdish feminist writers and ethnographers, we immersed ourselves in both the historical and contemporary burgeoning artist community, collecting oral histories and documenting particularly but not exclusively women’s work. This exploration has prompted new questions about women’s artistic history in South Kurdistan, how artists and activists have navigated socio-political ruptures and how young artists take up questions around gender, body politics and sexuality in the post-2014 era, following the onslaught of the so-called Islamic State – Daesh.²

Historically, women played important roles in both the Iraqi Communist Party and the Kurdish national liberation movement. Particularly since the 1950s and 1960s, women writers and poets such as Hêro Goran, Ahlam Mansour and Rewas Banikhelani have balanced being intellectuals with their involvement as clandestine or armed activists in the Kurdish resistance. In this dual role, they often received an education in Baghdad, Iraq, before joining the political struggle. Some later returned to their artistic practice, many in exile.³

Before the Kurdish uprising in 1991, which led to the ‘no-fly zone’, along with South Kurdistan’s semi-independent status, the region endured two decades of forced Arabisation and genocidal campaigns under Saddam Hussein’s regime. During this period, it was very difficult to create art, especially for women. a renowned Sulaymaniyah-based painter and educator, recounts in our interview that: “In our time, men had more access to public space; for example as women artists we could not go to the nature, to tea houses, the Bazar, or other places for inspiration”.⁴ A significant portion of Kurdish art and literature in the 1980–1990s was centred on depicting and documenting the violence perpetrated against Kurds, along with themes of resistance, peace and the beauty of Kurdish nature. However, issues concerning women, such as gender equality and the violence suffered at the hand of the Iraqi state, were largely overlooked and considered less significant compared to the broader pursuit of Kurdish self-determination.

The year 1991 marked a political turning point for the region, which came to the fore thematically in artwork. In its aftermath, artists started problematising topics such as genocide, war, freedom and gender-based violence (GBV). Women artists in Kurdistan may not yet have explicitly identified with the term feminism – and some may still approach it cautiously today – but they used art as a means to convey the injustices and violence they had endured due to their gender and ethnicity.

Despite decades of wars, sanctions and oppression, Kurdish artists have always maintained connections with other parts of Kurdistan (in Turkey, Iran and Syria), wider Iraq or Europe. However, it was after 2003, with the United States-led invasion and occupation of Iraq, and the opening of South Kurdistan, that artists became increasingly exposed to more diverse knowledge and methods of art making. Their work began incorporating new mediums such as video and installation, stylistically embracing abstract art. Starting from the mid-2000s, artists such as Rozhghar Mustafa, Poshya Kakil, Avan Omar, Kani Kamil, Sakar Sleman and Rezan Betullah, amongst others, began using public performances to address issues such as freedom, the plight of female prisoners during Saddam’s regime, poverty and the male gaze. In 2008, Poshya Kakil staged a performance in front of the Emergency Hospital in Erbil, which treats burn victims. Poshya’s act marked the first instance of using art as a form of public protest and intervention, expressing despair and opposition to the rampant violence against women in Kurdish society.

Between 2008 and 2014, Kurdistan experienced what is often referred to as the ‘Golden Years’ economically and culturally. The surge in oil exports led to a booming economy, attracting foreign investment and opening the region to new opportunities. In the cultural sphere, significant investments were made in translation, publishing and art galleries. However, this period of rapid neoliberal development was stalled by the emergence and attacks of Daesh, resulting in unthinkable violence and atrocities. This crisis was further exacerbated by the economic downturn after 2014 and the political crisis that followed the independence referendum in 2017.

Since then, a new generation of young artists and women’s activists has emerged in South Kurdistan. Through their artistic work they confront questions surrounding body politics, (religious) conservatism and intimacy. Artists and curators based in Erbil, Duhok and Sulaymaniyah, such as Rooz Mohammed, Luna Darwesh, Niga Salam and Bala Ahmed, keenly recognise the intersections between imperialism, militarism, consumer capitalism, corruption and (religious) conservatism, and their impact on body politics for both women and men – and their work. Aside from an engagement with prevailing power structures, there are also a number of artists, like Naz Ali Aula, who put the emphasis on rediscovering Kurdish traditions, colours, patterns and women’s mythology, or everyday encounters in cities, as seen in Sabat Ebbas’ work.

However, creating, exhibiting and circulating art is challenging in South Kurdistan, not just because of conservative backlashes but also due to inadequate art education, a lack of funding and an absence of wider interest. This limitation extends beyond artists to encompass young people more generally, as avenues for complaint or engagement are restricted. Nawras Hadi, an Erbil-based poet explains that: “[o]ur young people give up easily, and I don’t blame them, in school, at university, at home and everywhere they are turned hopeless. All government institutions, they are making young people hopeless”.⁵ This sense of anxiety, isolation and exclusion is also reflected in the art made by the ‘post-2014 generation’, which often portrays women, crying in despair, gazing out of the window longingly, suffocating, curled up in pain or muted.⁶

Most of the artists with whom we collaborate work from their gendered subjectivities as women,⁷ though many would not call themselves ‘feminists’ or their work ’feminist interventions’. Liberal feminism in particular faces significant challenges in the SWANA region and has been criticised for its involvement in colonial projects, invasions and occupations⁸, as well as later alignment with neoliberal donor and development agendas, often – and particularly evident post-2001, following the United States-led invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq – intersecting with artistic endeavours.⁹

Currently, we find a sense of ‘feminism fatigue’ in South Kurdistan. This sentiment is shared by a younger generation of women who do not relate to liberal notions of feminism, alongside a pushback from more conservative and reactionary forces, who perceive it as a set of ‘Western values’ incompatible with local culture and norms. Many of the artists view the prevalent liberal ‘2003 donor-led feminism’ in the region as disconnected from the people, ineffective and associated with a corrupt elite. Recent research on young people in South Kurdistan, encompassing not only artists and feminist activists but the wider population, reveals a prevailing sense of disillusionment and discontent with the authorities, and with affiliated women’s and civil society organisations, especially since 2014 and the onset of the economic recession.¹⁰

Despite branding the region as ‘the Other Iraq’; a bastion of stability, prosperity and gender equality, the Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG) offers limited avenues for political engagement. The government’s failure to address corruption, violence against women, high unemployment rates, financial crises and political rifts has left many feeling stagnant and stuck, waiting for improvement in an independent Kurdistan that is ‘not yet’. Meanwhile, many young artists, like their predecessors in the 1970s and 1980s, experience isolation, undervaluation and a lack of funding. Currently, the cultural sector is severely underfunded and mainly runs on political affiliation. Or in the words of Hardi Sabah, a Sulaymaniyah-based painter: “For artists who are not part of the political parties, or are not part of any institutions in this region, their living conditions or their art work is not supported. […] This has created a situation where if you have a different voice, or a resisting voice, they treat you as an enemy, or a traitor. Unfortunately, in Kurdistan and Iraq, this is a problem for all artists”.¹¹

As a result, the artistic and cultural initiatives in South Kurdistan rely heavily on international donors such as the Goethe Institute or the French Institute, whose criteria determine which works gain circulation and which artists receive regional, national and international visibility and mobility through exhibitions or visas. Consequently, many young artists create in their bedrooms, self-curate and largely self-finance their exhibitions and organise their own reading groups or film screenings.

Art as a way of imagining a ‘Kurdistan otherwise’, or as a tool of feminist organising is not something we currently observe in South Kurdistan. Instead, a new generation of artists focuses on refining their skills in design, painting, illustration and poetry to revisit and archive past atrocities committed against Kurds. Much art also serves as both an act of complaint and a rejection of the notion of women as markers of ‘honour’, refusing to allow their bodies to be canvases for violence. Rather than overt organised resistance against the ‘here and now’, in which many feel stuck, we observe a more subtle shift towards a gradual reimagining of space, intimacy, body, and sexuality, alongside a broader reflection on what power the word ‘feminism’ might still wield.