For days we have been following the situation of those who fled their home country Afrin to the region of Shehba due to the Turkish occupation. We travel from settlement to settlement, from village to village and are constantly on the move.

Ernest Hemingway once said something like that, the closer you get to the war front, the more beautiful people you get to know. That's really true. We have been experiencing it again for four to five years.

In war, however, there are also destruction and deaths that are unstoppable. Yet you always say that you have to put up with it out of respect for all the good people.

Three days ago, together with our journalist colleague Nûrî Ednan, we left Tal Rifat for Kefernayê. Before we left the city, we saw two women at an old petrol station ruins clinging to shivering children.

We stop immediately and go to them. Children are cold and hungry, women are afraid. Only one of them can talk to us at all. We ask them some questions and the more conversational of them, Doha Îbîş, begins to tell: "We fled from Rajo to Afrin and from there to Tal Rifat. Now they threaten to attack here too. I have to save my children because I made a promise."

"A promise ..." We remember these words to ask later. First, however, we ask where they want to go. Doha replies that they do not know because there is no place to go.

We load their few belongings in the car and drive off to bring them to the camp. On the way Doha tells her story: She has four children. Her husband was a member of the Asayish and died in a Turkish air raid in February. The other woman is her sister-in-law and her husband died from an illness.

There are sometimes shots on the way. In order to know where they are coming from, we opened the car windows. Doha is sitting at the window and we tell her, "You can close the window when you're cold." Her answer sums up what millions of Kurds feel: "When my husband got hit by the Turkish air raid, I went to the hospital. He was burned, only his bones were left. I put my hand on his chest. He was very warm. I used to freeze a lot, but since that day my heart is like a hearth and I'm not cold anymore."

Her words make us freeze. At this moment, we are once again convinced that the Turkish state has set the hearts of innumerable Kurds on fire and this fire will never be extinguished.

After Doha's words, silence prevails at first. Again it is Doha who breaks the silence: "After my husband died, I went to the friends and demanded an armto fight. They refused."

We reach the camp and bring Doha, her sister-in-law and the eight children in a tent. The tent is empty and they do not even have a blanket. We went to Heyva Sor a Kurd, where we were told that many families have arrived today and there are no more blankets left. They gave us their two own blankets. There really was not even enough blankets.

Nûrî says he has relatives in a nearby village who might be able to help out. He starts walking and comes back with some items that we give to the women.

The next day we return to camp and visit Doha and her children. They are a bit better. Doha says the camp administration has registered their names and helped them. Then she adds, "Recently, Russians came to have promised relief supplies. If I see them, I'll put two fingers in their eyes. Everything has happened only because of them. They allowed the warplanes to kill my husband. Now they want to repent here... "

Doha listens to the recording of a song her husband sang, and her eyes fill with tears. I remember the promise she made on the drive here. I ask to learn what it is. Doha replies, "When I saw the body of my husband, I made a promise to him. I promised him that I would tell our children about their father and educate them to honorable people. They will grow up and avenge their father."

Once again, we note that as long as the Turkish state remains hostile to burning the Kurdish hearts, the fire of revenge will burn in those hearts as well.