National - Kurdish Globe

Last pageNo. 345, Monday, March 26, 2012MemoirsRibbons for HalabjaTonight I sit on my bed, faraway from family, relatives andfriends, far from everything--and certainly very far away fromHalabja.One night twenty-four yearsago, little children went to sleepwith no clue that the next morningat around 11 a.m., the first breathof oxygen they inhaled would killthem instantly. Tonight, I sleepon the eve of March 15 feelingdepressed, almost suffocating onthe air I breathe.The Halabja massacre tookplace a year before my birth.My father always told me that35 young girls with the nameof Sazan died in the chemicalattacks of Halabja. A year later,when I was born, when Dad heldfor the first time a tiny baby girl,he said he remembered the 35little ones who lost their lives. Henamed me Sazan and dreamedfor me to regain the lost rights ofthose 35 young girls.Tonight, in preparation fortomorrow's commemoration, Iam cutting ribbons and makingsure that each is equal in size tothe other, turning one end ontothe other and then pinning thecenter. I worked on these for afew hours, making the most Ipossibly could to give out at ourlittle ceremony and to anyoneelse I see at university.But each clip of the scissorsthrough the thin, silky, blackribbon feels like a stab in me. Ifeel guilt. What have I done forHalabja? What have I contributedin the rebuilding, in healing ofwounds, in lending a hand, inmaking children smile? I stillhaven't lived my father's dreamin giving back to the 35 girlswhom I was named after.I remember a visit to Halabjaonce with our university friends.Kak Harman, originally fromHalabja, led us on a trip to hisfamily home. We sat down ina circle in the yard around hiselderly father. Kak Harman toldSomedaysoon,somehow,all thesedreamsmust cometrue.his story as if it happened the daybefore, leaving out no details.My colleague was lucky to live,but many of his relatives andfriends were martyred. I recalllooking at my colleague's fatheras he spoke, an elderly man asstrong and resilient as him hadtearful eyes.Halabja, I realize, is theweakness of every Kurd. Noman is strong enough to talkabout it without tears; no mothercan speak of Halabja without herchin quivering before her headfalls into the palm of her handsas she begins to cry.You may wonder how thisaffects me. While I’m a Kurdishgirl on the other side of theworld chasing my dreams, I feelHalabja is my family. Those wholeft are my brothers and sisters,uncles and aunts. I am living mylife today, but they paid the highprice. Martyrs whose souls Ipray for. But there is a ghost overme, and every year at this timeI am reminded that I have donenothing.We all owe something toHalabja. We all have theobligation to contribute, to payback in the many ways that wecan. It is our duty to stand up,talk, shout and take action tobring the life to Halabja and itspeople, a life and future that itdeserves.By Sazan M. MandalawiWith each ribbon I cut, I havea dream. A dream for the bestschools to educate childrenin Halabja, a dream for thegovernment to support localproduction, a dream for the newgeneration born with physicaldefects as a result of the attacksto undergo surgery for free, adream for every father in Halabjato sleep without worrying for thefuture of his children. As I pinthe last ribbon for tomorrow, Idream that one day I can makethe souls of those 35 girls proudof me and of all Kurdish girlswho live after them. For me, rightnow, cutting black ribbons seemslike I am only fooling myself.But I know that, if by tomorrowone new person knows aboutthe massacre of Halabja, then itmeans something grand.