IN A DESERT TOWN in east-central Syria, two prisoners sat on the ground,

guarded by about a dozen Kurdish men. The two had surrendered to

the mostly Kurdish defense force, YPG, as it routed ISIS fighters from

Baghouz, their last stronghold in Syria. The prisoners awaited transport

to a detention camp that already held tens of thousands of ISIS loyalists

and dependents. The guards stood over them, their triumph palpable.

A few hundred feet away, female Kurdish fighters with AK-47s over their

shoulders guarded women and children, presumably militants’ wives

and offspring. As these fighters, known as YPJ, chatted, several took long

drags on their cigarettes (it had been forbidden for women to smoke under

ISIS). Others adjusted their hair using their cell phones as mirrors (under

ISIS, a woman who hadn’t kept her hair and face covered would have been

whipped). Occasionally a YPJ woman spoke to the veiled women, a sea of

black cloth punctuated by wary eyes and filthy children.

As the morning dragged on, some YPJ fighters decided to see the enemy

up close. The women approached the two prisoners almost casually at first.

Then, slowly and deliberately, they walked a tight circle around the men,

staring straight at them. Not long ago in this town, a woman could have been

executed for such behavior. But ISIS had fallen, and the female defenders of

Kurdish Syria were claiming equal footing with their male comrades. They

were on the front lines together, savoring victory.

From the desert of Syria and the grasslands of South Sudan to the war-

torn jungle in western Colombia, growing numbers of women are serving

on the front lines of military conflicts. Their uniforms and circumstances

differ, but they cite similar reasons for joining armed forces. They want

to serve their country. They want to show confidence, competence, and

strength, setting an example for their children while proving something to

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