Kurdish Women's Stories

Houzan Mahmoud, Houzan Mahmoud

• Publisher: Pluto Press
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781786806482
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Ethnic Studies
• Index: Social Sciences

'A fascinating, inspiring journey' - Meredith Tax, author of A Road Unforeseen

Kurdistan has had a tumultuous history, and the women who lived there have experienced a life like no other. From Saddam Hussein's reign of terror beginning in the 1960s, to the fight against ISIS today, violence, revolution and questions around identity, agency, survival and resistance have been at the forefront of women's lives for decades.

This book is a collection of these women's stories written in their own words. Each story reveals a tapestry of experiences, including political activism under Saddam and armed resistance in Rojava's PKK and YPG and Komala in Rojhalat. This is in addition to experiences of FGM and overcoming victimhood, life under extreme conservatism, as well as a look into the work of artists, poets, novelists and performers whose work represents a complicated relationship with Kurdistan.

These rich and nuanced insights come from a group of women from a nation without a state, who are now scattered across the world. Collectively, they take the reader on a journey that will inspire feminist, anti-fascist and anti-racist people across the world.

CHAPTER ONE

For the Execution of My Son, I Did Not Cry; There Was Smoke Coming from My Soul

Told by Mother Sabria and written by Amira Mohammed

Sabria Karim was born in 1950 in the city of Sulaymaniyah in South Kurdistan. She told her story to Amira Mohammed, who wrote it on her behalf to be published in this book.

They arrested my seventeen-year-old son in 1988 during a curfew imposed by Saddam’s regime on the city. He was arrested because of his association with the secret underground groups working against the regime. I did not know how his activities were revealed, and I did not know in which of Saddam Hussein’s prisons he was being tortured or whether he had even been killed already. We went from city to city in desperate search of him.

We finally learned that he was in Baghdad, at the General Prison. Of course, he was only sent there after being seriously tortured. Every time I went to visit my son Aram, I visited his friends, who were also being held at the same location. I relayed letters to and from their families. I had become the secret post woman for the political detainees of the General Prison.

Later on, I knew who had told on my son. I knew who had given my son’s name to the regime’s security forces. But I had promised my son that I would not tell this person’s family that his betrayal had put my son’s life on the line. My son likewise promised to not reveal anyone’s name under torture. We were worried that if either of us provided names, people’s lives in the organisation would be placed in jeopardy and many would be executed as a result.

I visited my son many times in Baghdad, and my life became characterised by waiting. One day, there was a knock on our gate, and the local man in charge of our neighbourhood said, ‘On this day, go to Abu-Ghraib prison and you will see your son one final time.’ Abu-Ghraib is a county district located on the east side of Baghdad. It was home to one of the most terrifying prisons during Saddam Hussein’s time. Whoever was sent there received either capital punishment or a life sentence in prison. We were invited for a final visit to see my son Aram. He had remained strong under torture and never confessed anyone’s name.

I did not know what to do with myself until that final day. I finally went to the prison and said goodbye to my Aram, my child. No one can describe that moment. All I knew was that I was overcome with grief, but I did not let those murderers see me shed a single tear. My heart was close to bursting, I was devastated and torn to pieces, but I did not show it. Dear God, with your greatness and glory, what strengths you gave me that day!

Until I left the premises, I did what I had to do to keep myself together. When I got to the prison reception, all those murderers’ eyes were on me. They wanted to see the tears of my grief because it made them happy. To their disappointment, I turned my pain into love for the homeland and sang ‘Long live the Kurds and Kurdistan’. What was I afraid of now?

Some time passed. It was a day before Eid Qurban. It was Arafah.² The local man in charge of our neighbourhood came and told us that the security forces wanted us. So I went, and was taken to the director of the security forces. He said, ‘This is the death certificate for your son. You can take it and pick up his body.’

I kept my reaction in check so that he would not see my pain. I knew they wanted me there so that they could see my misery and feast on my tears. I replied, ‘I will not go yet.’

The man’s eyes were wide with disbelief. He replied, ‘Why not?’

I said, ‘There is no need. I will come back next week to pick up his body.’

He said, ‘How can you tolerate this?’

I replied by telling him that I knew from the beginning that they were going to execute him.

He looked at me and asked, ‘What is your name?’

I replied, ‘Sabria.’

He then asked for my identification.

I gave him my identification card. It was as though he did not believe that I was the mother of the boy whose body was left with them. Then he looked at Aram’s identification card. When he saw my full name on Aram’s identification as his mother, he hit the table with his hand in rage and said, ‘You are the true mother of Aram Nadir?’

‘Yes’, I replied.

‘So why won’t you take his body?’ he replied.

‘I will not ruin Eid for my family, relatives and neighbours’, I added.

To spite me because I refused him the satisfaction of seeing my pain, he yelled, ‘If you are the mothers of this nation, your revolution will continue!’

When I went home, I did not let anyone know what had happened until Eid passed. After Eid, I made all the necessary preparations for a funeral and said, ‘I will bring home the body.’ When I said this, everyone in the family cried. I said, ‘Listen, when I bring home Aram’s body, do not cry and beat yourselves because the security forces will be with us. And they will love to see that. Hold your heart, and do not let the enemy take any satisfaction of that kind.’ Quietly and calmly, we brought home my son’s body, and we did not let any of the Baathist murderers see our tears. But ever since that final visit, my heart is still broken.

This is the memoir of Sabria, Aram Nadir’s mother. Every time she prays, she says, ‘Dear Lord, please do not let anyone’s heart break like mine.’

____________ 

2. Arafah is the second day of the Hajj pilgrimage and the day after is the first day of the major Islamic holiday of Eid al-Adha.

CHAPTER TWO

The Last Cigarette Butt before Execution

Told by Nazanin Hasan and written by Amira Mohammed

Nazanin Hasan was born in 1953 in the region of Sharbazher in South Kurdistan. She told her story to Amira Mohammed, who wrote it down to be published in this book.

When I got married, my husband told me, ‘My brother and I are students and political activists. Don’t be sad. Help us.’ We lived in a village, and they studied in Sulaymaniyah. We were poor farmers, and I had three children. Family members who were political activists fell into the hands of Saddam Hussein’s regime. My father-in-law was the first to be captured. We looked everywhere but did not hear anything about him. After eight months, we learned he was in Samawa, and we were told to go and visit him in what is called a muajaha, or prison visit. Each time we visited, we took all the necessities for him, including clothes.

In 1977, they arrested my husband. Now two members of my family were gone. I searched for him, following every lead. Even if we could get the smallest clue to what had happened to him it would have been a relief. I searched so much I became exhausted. One day, a man of the regime said, ‘If you want news of your husband, bring a beautiful girl with you next time.’ I replied, ‘Even if they execute my husband, it will be better than dishonouring myself or other people’s daughters in this world and the next.’

Some time passed. One day, the local man in charge of the neighbourhood where I lived told me that my husband, Ahmed, was in Abu-Ghraib prison and that I could visit him. When I visited him the first time, he had become so thin and pale that I would not have recognised him if it were not for his voice. I asked what had happened to him. He answered, ‘In Al-Hi’a al-Khasa [Special Security], I was tortured quite violently.’ He later added, ‘You are still young. If you want, get a divorce. You are free. You are even free to take the children or leave them.’ I replied, ‘Apart from you, I see all men as a brother or a father. Don’t say such things.’

Following my husband’s arrest, they began focusing on my brother-in-law. He quit university and contacted the Peshmerga forces. After a while, he came back to our village. Near the water spring, his sister and I created a hut for him. With the excuse of needing to use the water for washing our household things, we gave him food and other items he might need. We took letters from him and delivered them, even giving back replies.

In those times, greedy and self-interested people would even inform on their own relatives. Unfortunately, it did not take long before my brother-in-law was also arrested and his things were taken. Before we knew it, he was sent to Al-Hi’a al-Khasa in Kirkuk and then to Mosul prison, where he was sentenced to death, or as Arabs say, ‘given idam’.³

At this point, all three family members were detained, each one in a different city: Samawa, Baghdad and Mosul. The burden was exhausting. I used to visit each of them and take care of everything at the village alone. I had to continue working, tending to the chickpeas and lentils, in the heat and cold, with three children in my care, three family members in prison and a mother-in-law with a broken heart. I did this all alone in order to save a little for the trips I had to make and so I could buy the things they needed in prison as well as food for my children. I don’t know how God gave me the strength and will to visit all these different places, to accept all their suffering and keep them in my heart and to not reveal the news of my brother-in-law’s imprisonment.

One evening, when I had just arrived home from Baghdad, someone told me that my whole family had fled to Mosul after they received news of my brother-in-law’s execution and that it would be moved to an early date. I immediately got in a taxi, but at the checkpoint, security forces did not let me pass through, informing me that travelling at night was illegal. I begged them to let me through, telling them that it would be the last visit. They took pity on me and let me go. I arrived at the gates of the prison in Mosul, and was told to wait. Dear Lord, how can the soul be so heavy and still not leave the body? There was not a beam of light in my heart that could give me some comfort.

The story I am telling you took place in 1977. Later, I was given permission to go inside the prison’s visiting area where prisoners meet with their relatives and visitors. My brother-in-law and the other men who were going to be executed were allowed outside their cells to the visiting area. I laid my abaya on the floor so we could sit on it. My brother-in-law said, ‘Why do we need a rug? The men inside will execute us, and our bodies will be in their charge for seven years. But later, take us back to Kurdistan and bury us there.’ He gave me some letters and other texts and said, ‘Take care of these well and later, give them to Ahmed my brother. When the right time comes, publish them.’ This was his will, and I did as he asked me.

My mother in-law was also visiting her son for the last time before his execution. That night, she cried and said, ‘I am proud that my sons are freedom fighters, and I am happy that their names will go down in the history of Kurdistan.’ She was truly a brave mother, exceptional in her dignity. My brother-in-law said, ‘My beloved mother, you are right. You don’t need to be sad or to cry. We are six brothers, and now there are four of us left. What should the mother do who has a single son?’

The final session ended half an hour before midnight. To this day, I still keep his last cigarette butt. Right afterwards, my brother-in-law and his friends were executed. Oh, our hearts!

It is a heavy burden. Right after their execution, Saddam Hussein’s men pardoned many in prison, which is when we understood why they speeded up the execution of these brave men – so that they would not receive the pardon. You can imagine how we returned back home that day.

Years passed. It was the middle of 1979 when my husband received a pardon, known as ‘afuat. Shortly after he ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Acknowledgements
• Introduction
• 1. For the Execution of My Son, I Did Not Cry; There Was Smoke Coming from My Soul
• 2. The Last Cigarette Butt before Execution
• 3. A Stolen Childhood
• 4. Run Away: A Vision from a Woman’s Perspective
• 5. There is a Sorrow in My Heart That I Cannot Console
• 6. The Prison Speakers Played Islamic Verses
• 7. Breaking the Bars of Home and Becoming a Peshmerga
• 8. Fighting an Islamic Regime
• 9. Fuchsia Flower of My Brother (Nasiri Khoshkalam)
• 10. The Explorer Who Watched from a School Window
• 11. The Lost Photos of Engagement
• 12. My Story
• 13. At the Red Prison, They Want Workers
• 14. On Art, Womanhood, Being the ‘Other’
• 15. In Search of Kurdishness: Our History, My Life
• 16. ‘To Be Ruken or Not to Be Buket?’
• 17. Life is an Ongoing Struggle
• 18. A Woman of the Homeland of Rojava
• 19. A Handful of Blood
• 20. Except for Poetry, Nothing Else Shields Me
• 21. Once Upon a Time in Rojava
• 22. A Day at Tel-Rafiat
• 23. This is the Story of My Life
• 24. I Struggle for Two Types of Liberation: Gender and Human Liberation
• 25. What Motivated Me to Write?
• Index