HAWBASH

I have only told someone this whole story once before. It is so difficult for me that I can hardly bear it.

On March 13, Iran attacked and bombarded Halabja because there were a large number of Iraqi army forces deployed in the city. It was 1988 and I was in fifth grade.

All the schools and government offices were closed. We went to the basement of our neighbor’s home—they had already fled to Iran. We stayed in the basement for three days.

I saw the Iraqi soldiers run through Halabja’s streets. The soldiers threw down their weapons and asked people to hide them. They asked for food and Kurdish clothes. I was scared of the Iraqi soldiers. I wanted to see them all leave.

Since the situation was very bad, my father and some of our relatives held a meeting. They decided to go to the basement of a government office which was known to be a very strong building. The basement was large and there were three or four hundred people hiding there.

At that time, people knew that Halabja would be conquered by Iran. Later, I saw Iranian soldiers in the city. There was no bombardment that day. The situation seemed normal. There was an atmosphere of calm in the city as if it were covered with the ashes of the dead.

One morning, I went to the fourth floor of the building where we were hiding to look at the city. I wanted to know what was happening and to see if people were fleeing the city. Around eleven in the morning, I saw helicopters flying towards town. I was with a group of other children. We ran downstairs.

The bombardment started before we made it to the basement. Two bombs fell close to the building. I had never heard such a loud sound. The explosion burst a window and some people were injured by the broken glass. Jets continued to bomb the city. Inside the basement, people were crying, shouting, and praying to God.

We were crying. My parents kissed all of us and said, “Don’t be afraid.”

I heard a child shouting. I heard someone say, “I can’t believe the world will end like this.”

We all held each other. I will never forget the shouting and screaming of the people in the basement. It was so loud that no one could hear each other.

My father kept saying, “Don’t be scared. This is nothing. Soon, it will stop.”

Then, the bombing stopped. Suddenly, it grew very quiet.

My father said, “Let’s go outside.”

The wall of the building where we were hiding had collapsed. We walked through the rubble—my parents my brothers, my sisters, and me. My little brother took my father’s hand.

We went to my uncle’s home. His house had collapsed. We went down into the basement. There was no one there.

Then Halabja was hit by more bombs. Some were close to us, and others fell far away. People hid themselves under collapsed roofs and other places where they could hide from the planes.

There was a man named Ahmed who went outside. He fell down the stairs. His body was shaking on the ground like an epileptic. Then, my father and others realized that they were using chemical weapons.

Even now, I can hardly talk about it.

Once we realized that chemical weapons had been used, we thought we’d all die. Ahmed had a sister who was crying. She said “I can’t leave Ahmed, I want to die here with him.” Ahmed’s brothers and sisters stayed by his side. All of them died and became martyrs.

We had three vehicles. Before we went outside, my mother soaked our heads in water and put a wet cloth against our mouths. I had a school handkerchief covering my face. Then, we ran out of the house to the vehicles. I was in the back of a pickup truck.

I saw white smoke rising.

I saw people fall onto the ground and die. I watched people hang onto our pickup, try to climb inside and then fall off and die.

Then, the drivers of our vehicles became confused. The chemicals affected us. My cousin, who was driving the pickup, fell unconscious and crashed into a wall. He died and became a martyr. Everyone inside the cab was injured and unconscious, including my parents, brothers, and sisters.

Another cousin and I were conscious and alive.

My cousin said, “Let’s run to my uncles’ home.”

I said, “I can’t leave my family.”

It was evening and it was getting dark.

My cousin left.

This was a day in which no one cared about anyone else.

I stayed there with my parents, brothers, and sisters. I sat there alone. I touched my parents’ faces and shook them to see if they were alive. I didn’t want to believe that they had died. I kept shaking them and hoping they would start breathing. It was useless.

I got out of the pickup truck. I walked away. I kept looking backwards and thinking of them. I was wondering whether they were alive or dead. Then, I returned to the truck.

I wanted to die. I wanted to be like them, laid out in the back of the truck. I kept thinking that my father and my older brothers were stronger than me, so how could they die and leave me here alive? I thought to myself, “They should save me. It shouldn’t be me here trying to save them.”

I saw people moving, wandering through the streets. I was afraid.

That night, a man came to the pickup. I didn’t know who he was or where he was from.

“What do you want?”

“I need food. I’m hungry.”

I told him to take some of the food we had in the truck. I didn’t know if it was contaminated. He took the food and left. I have no idea what happened to him.

I stayed in the pickup truck for a full day.

I was unable to sleep, even for a second. I just sat there looking at the dead bodies. I also watched the jets bombing the Sazanyan area where the people had fled. I counted the bombs. I felt as if I was dreaming.

Then, I heard snoring. I realized the noise came from my oldest brother. This was one of the most beautiful moments in my life. As my oldest brother gained consciousness, he began shouting. His leg hurt terribly. The gas had done something to him.

Gradually, my family began to wake up. One of my cousins woke up. Then, one aunt and then another.

My little brother gained consciousness for several seconds.

“What happened to our parents?” he asked me, “If they are dead, I ask you to pray for me so that I can die with them.”

After he spoke these words, he died and became a martyr.

I hoped that my parents would also wake up, but they had died.

After the sun rose, my aunt went to my brother’s home and the rest of us stayed near the pickup, hoping some of the others would wake up. There is a well-known photo of myself, my brother, my cousin, and my aunt sitting behind the pickup truck. That picture was published in a magazine.

Then, a group of Iranian soldiers arrived. They said, “Come with us.”

I looked at my parents and my other relatives for the last time. By then, I was sure they were all dead.

They took us to a hospital in Iran. I don’t know where it was. They removed our clothes. We took a bath. They gave us new clothes. I stayed there for a short while and then they took us by helicopter to a hospital in Tehran. We stayed there for several more days.

I was eleven years old. I had never hurt anyone. My family was innocent. We had done nothing. In the space of a few days, my life grew dark and became a nightmare.