Ribbons for Halabja

One ribbon for Halabja, one of my dreams tied with it.....

To the dearest, most loyal blog reader in the world....

Tonight, I am sitting on my bed; away from family, relatives, and friends, far from everything, and certainly very far away from Halabja.

24 years ago, little children went to sleep tonight, they did not know that tomorrow when they wake up around 11 am the first breath of oxygen they inhaled would kill them right away. Tonight, I sleep on the eve of March 15 feeling depressed, almost suffocating.

The Halabja massacre took place a year before my birth. My father always told me that 35 young girls with the name of Sazan died in the chemical attacks of Halabja. A year later, when I was born, when dad held for the first time a tiny baby girl he says he remembered the 35 little ones who had lost their lives. He named me Sazan and dreamed for me to regain the lost rights of those 35 young girls.

Tonight, in preparation for tomorrow's commemoration I am cutting ribbons. Making sure each is equal size to the other, turning one end onto the other and then pinning the center. I worked on these for few hours, making the most number I possibly could to give out at our little ceremony and to anyone else I see at university.

With each clip of the scissors going through the thin, silky, black ribbon it is like a stab in me. I feel guilt. What have I done for Halabja? What have I contributed in the rebuilding, in healing of wounds, in lending a hand, in making children smile? I still haven't lived my father's dream in giving back to the 35 girls who I was named after.

I remember a visit to Halabja once with our university friends. Kak Harman, originally from Halabja led this trip, he took us to his family home. In the yard we sat down in a circle around his elderly father. He told his story, it was as if it happened the day before, he could see the details as he spoke. My colleague was lucky to live, but many of his relatives and friends were martyred. I recall looking at my colleague's father as he spoke, an elderly man as strong and as resilient as him had tearful eyes.

Halabja, I realize is the weakness of every Kurd. No man is strong enough to talk about it without tears; no mother can speak of Halabja without her chin mumbling before her head falls into the palm of her hands as she begins to cry.

You may wonder how this affects me. A Kurdish girl on the other side of the world chasing my dreams, Halabja I feel is my family. Those who left are my brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts. I am living my life today, but they paid the high price. Martyrs whose soul I pray for. But there is ghost over me, every year this time I am reminded that I have done nothing.

We all owe something to Halabja. We all have the obligation to contribute, to pay back in the many ways that we can. It is our duty to stand up, talk, shout and take action to bring the life to Halabja and its people, the life and future that it deserves.

With each ribbon I cut, I have a dream. A dream for the best schools to educate children in Halabja, a dream for the government to support local production, a dream for the new generation born with physical defects as a result of the attacks to undergo surgery for free, a dream for every father in Halabja to sleep without worrying for the future of his children and as I pin the last ribbon for tomorrow, I dream that one day I can feel the souls of those 35 girls proud of me, and of all Kurdish girls who lived after them. For me, right now, cutting black ribbons seems like I am only fooling myself. Though I know if by tomorrow one new person knows about the massacre of Halabja it means something grand.