Iraq signed a treaty with the shah of Iran; 8 we were losing our last support. A long letter by General Barzani addressed to Kissinger, begging him to keep his promise, was read over our radio, but Kissinger abandoned us to our fate.
I went to the peshmergasâ baker, but there was no longer anyone there. There was nothing but our clandestine radio station still broadcasting appeals to the entire worldâJesus, Muhammad, Gandhi, Buddha, Abraham Lincolnâto come to the aid of our people. I saw some peshmergas commit suicide in despair. Others wanted to hide in the mountains and resist, but the general understood we were caught in an inescapable net: the choice was between accepting defeat or extermination. We took the road of exile.
Along with other families, we piled into a truck bound for the Iranian frontier; there was no alternative. After several kilometers, we climbed out of the truck, exhausted, our bundles of belongings on our shoulders. We crossed the frontier under the supervision of the Iranian police and were herded up a small hill where we sat on our heels, surrounded by soldiers. I felt as if I were in a cemetery, with all those people around me, the crouching women in their dark dresses, their heads buried in their knees, weeping. We were annihilated, and I started to cry. We were taken to a camp made up of tents. It was a gift from the United Nations. We were refugees.
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Then the men arrived, heads lowered, defeatedâamong them my two brothers and my father, General Barzaniâs personal operator. Out of fear of Savak, the Iranian secret police, we couldnât cry out against the Iraniansâ betrayal of us.
Dozens of refugee camps stretched along the Iranian border. We were forbidden to go out without a Savak safe-conduct. And yet this land, too, was Kurdish; it was one of the quarters of our heart according to the sketch of our young teacher in Nauperdan. I set about looking for Jian, without success. Passing by a tent, I heard a man moan:
it was Timar, one of the Kurdish musicians from Syria. It started to rain; our camp became a field of mud.
The summer went by with its blazing heat, and then winter came, bitingly cold that year.
We were moved to another camp. We now lived in long sheds with small square cells giving out on a central passageway; each family was assigned a cell. Time stood still; we had nothing to do. A few boys and I would leave the shed and walk around and around inside the camp, like dogs. Once, I spotted my brother Dilovan standing apart with some friend. I wanted to go up to him, but he signaled me to keep away; they were getting drunk.
That evening, when I returned, I saw Dilovan stretched out in his cell. He was hiccuping, and tears streamed from his closed eyes. He howled continually: âI want to go back and fight in our mountains.â He threw up in a saucepan and his wife wiped his mouth. Day in, day out, this was a recurring scene, for him and for others.
Classes started again. I still wanted to be a judge or a lawyer, and I was still looking for Jian. But deep down I knew I would never see herâor Kurdistanâagain.
Passing in front of the corner of the shed where my uncle Avdal Khan and his family lived, I heard someone singing and playing the saz , the beautiful Kurdish lute. I went to look, and found Mahmad Shekho, the other singer from Syria with whom Jian and I had recorded songs for Voice of Kurdistan. He was scrawnier than before, but his voice hadnât changed; it was still just as beautiful as ever. He smiled at me, and I went out of the room, haunted by the words of his song: âThe more time goes by, the more my heart beats slowly, my beloved â¦â
My father gave me a bit of pocket money. I and a slightly older friend got passes for a few hours and went to Mahbd: Mahbd, the city that had been the capital of the
Kurdish Republic, where Mustafa Barzani had become general in 1946; but also the city where
I went to the peshmergasâ baker, but there was no longer anyone there. There was nothing but our clandestine radio station still broadcasting appeals to the entire worldâJesus, Muhammad, Gandhi, Buddha, Abraham Lincolnâto come to the aid of our people. I saw some peshmergas commit suicide in despair. Others wanted to hide in the mountains and resist, but the general understood we were caught in an inescapable net: the choice was between accepting defeat or extermination. We took the road of exile.
Along with other families, we piled into a truck bound for the Iranian frontier; there was no alternative. After several kilometers, we climbed out of the truck, exhausted, our bundles of belongings on our shoulders. We crossed the frontier under the supervision of the Iranian police and were herded up a small hill where we sat on our heels, surrounded by soldiers. I felt as if I were in a cemetery, with all those people around me, the crouching women in their dark dresses, their heads buried in their knees, weeping. We were annihilated, and I started to cry. We were taken to a camp made up of tents. It was a gift from the United Nations. We were refugees.
Â
Â
Then the men arrived, heads lowered, defeatedâamong them my two brothers and my father, General Barzaniâs personal operator. Out of fear of Savak, the Iranian secret police, we couldnât cry out against the Iraniansâ betrayal of us.
Dozens of refugee camps stretched along the Iranian border. We were forbidden to go out without a Savak safe-conduct. And yet this land, too, was Kurdish; it was one of the quarters of our heart according to the sketch of our young teacher in Nauperdan. I set about looking for Jian, without success. Passing by a tent, I heard a man moan:
it was Timar, one of the Kurdish musicians from Syria. It started to rain; our camp became a field of mud.
The summer went by with its blazing heat, and then winter came, bitingly cold that year.
We were moved to another camp. We now lived in long sheds with small square cells giving out on a central passageway; each family was assigned a cell. Time stood still; we had nothing to do. A few boys and I would leave the shed and walk around and around inside the camp, like dogs. Once, I spotted my brother Dilovan standing apart with some friend. I wanted to go up to him, but he signaled me to keep away; they were getting drunk.
That evening, when I returned, I saw Dilovan stretched out in his cell. He was hiccuping, and tears streamed from his closed eyes. He howled continually: âI want to go back and fight in our mountains.â He threw up in a saucepan and his wife wiped his mouth. Day in, day out, this was a recurring scene, for him and for others.
Classes started again. I still wanted to be a judge or a lawyer, and I was still looking for Jian. But deep down I knew I would never see herâor Kurdistanâagain.
Passing in front of the corner of the shed where my uncle Avdal Khan and his family lived, I heard someone singing and playing the saz , the beautiful Kurdish lute. I went to look, and found Mahmad Shekho, the other singer from Syria with whom Jian and I had recorded songs for Voice of Kurdistan. He was scrawnier than before, but his voice hadnât changed; it was still just as beautiful as ever. He smiled at me, and I went out of the room, haunted by the words of his song: âThe more time goes by, the more my heart beats slowly, my beloved â¦â
My father gave me a bit of pocket money. I and a slightly older friend got passes for a few hours and went to Mahbd: Mahbd, the city that had been the capital of the
Kurdish Republic, where Mustafa Barzani had become general in 1946; but also the city where
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