Part Six - A Journey into Uncertainty

Three days had passed since the chemical attacks ravaged Balisan and the surrounding villages. Three days without proper food, subsisting on nothing but plain, dry bread. We had left behind everything - our home, our belongings, everyone we knew, including my father - and were heading towards a city full of people searching for us.

In Saruchawa, my mother hired a taxi bound for Koya. Before we left, she gave us strict instructions: absolute silence, especially as we entered towns. Each town on both sides of our route had a military checkpoint, heavily armed soldiers constantly on the lookout for Peshmerga families. My mother, with a strength I'm still in awe of today, had crafted a cover story about who we were and where we were heading. She managed to mimic the local accent and dialect, a skill that would prove crucial in the hours to come.

The taxi was cramped beyond belief. Hoger and Nazhad squeezed into the front passenger seat next to the driver. I sat in the back, my mother behind the driver with Ziryan in her arms, while the other lady and her two children sat behind Hoger and Nazhad. Seatbelts were a foreign concept to us then. As we approached each checkpoint, my heart would race. The soldiers would ask who we were and where we were going. My mother would answer with our fabricated story - we were locals, heading into the city as instructed. Somehow, she always managed to convince them we were of no interest. Perhaps the sight of a young mother, barely 21, with a brood of children seemed harmless enough.

Arriving in Koya brought a momentary sense of relief. My mother managed to procure some food and water from local shops, which we devoured quickly. But our journey was far from over. We caught another taxi, this time bound for Hawler. The 45-minute trip felt like an eternity. Military convoys passed us on the highway, heading in the opposite direction. We knew they were resupplying and supporting the forces that had already established themselves in our region. The reality of the ongoing conflicts - both the skirmishes between Peshmerga fighters and the Iraqi Army, and the larger Iraq-Iran war - hung heavily in the air.

Only years later would I fully grasp the complex geopolitical web we were caught in. Iraq, boasting one of the world's most powerful and well-equipped forces, had support from both the US and the Soviets. Meanwhile, these same superpowers were secretly providing aid and weapons to Iran. The Iranians, in turn, used Iraqi Kurds to fight Saddam while providing air and military support. It was a deadly game of chess, with Kurdish lives as pawns.

As we approached Hawler, the enormity of what lay ahead began to sink in. The entry to the city was a major checkpoint, hundreds of cars being meticulously checked both entering and leaving. The soldiers looked serious and dangerous. We were under strict orders to mind our business, avoid eye contact, and refrain from any conversation.

I remember the taxi driver attempting small talk, asking where we were from. My mother's responses were curt, revealing nothing. "Coming from Koya, going back home in Hawler," she said when asked directly. When he inquired about the chemical bombings, she deflected, "I'm sorry, we've only heard what you seem to know. We're not aware of anything, we've been visiting family."

The driver, sensing my mother's reluctance, fell silent. But the look on his face suggested he knew more than he let on. Perhaps he recognized the signs - dirt-covered, exhausted children don't typically return from a simple family visit. I believe he knew we were a Peshmerga family who had lost everything, and his silence was his way of helping us pass the checkpoints safely.

At the final checkpoint, my heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. The soldier approached our car, and for a moment, I was certain we'd be detained and sent to the infamous Abu Ghraib prison. But after a brief exchange with the driver, he waved us through. The relief was palpable.

Once in Hawler, my mother, ever cautious, had us switch taxis to avoid being followed. Exhausted, we made our way to drop off our travelling companions - the woman and her two children - with her in-laws. It was there that she received the devastating news that her husband had been killed. Her world shattered before our eyes, her hope that her children would see their father again cruelly extinguished. For a moment we felt the same fear that we may never see my father again and that his silhouette as we left him in Ware would be the last memory of him.

Our own ordeal was far from over. We arrived at the home of one of my father's cousins, only to find their entire life's belongings, along with his wife and children, out on the street. They too had been displaced, as their landlords were ordered by the regime to relocate back to the city and had evicted them so their family can have a roof over their heads, perhaps a ripple effect of a cruel reality of life as a Kurd, regardless if you are a peshmerga family or not Saddam had a plan for us all for the crime of being bork a Kurd. While he was glad to see us safe, his wife's fear was apparent. She knew all too well the consequences of harboring fugitives.

What followed was a desperate search for shelter. We went to sixteen homes that day, knocking on the doors of relatives and friends. No one would take us in, including my grandparents! We could not go to him since we knew his neighbours who worked as government officials and knew about us and did know my mother as they as she grew up with their kids. As night fell and rain began to pour, we found ourselves truly homeless - a young mother and five children, alone on the streets of Hawler.

We sat down next to a wall, defeated. My mother, who had been a pillar of strength, finally broke down. As she cried, a man approached us slowly. I saw fear flicker across my mother's face - was he a government official? An informant? Who is he? Why is he coming this way? Will we be arrested? Is this it for us??

But this man turned out to be our salvation. "Sister, how are you? Are you okay? Why are you crying?" he asked.?

My mother, desperate but still cautious, explained our situation. His response was immediate and kind: "That's okay, I am your family. I am your brother. Come with me, you can stay with us until you figure something out."

For two weeks, we lived with this stranger's family. My mother, to this day, says, "There is no heaven without this man in it." Our hosts even arranged an escape route for us - through their roof, connected to their neighbour's house, with access to the back street through a small storage room called "Koshk."

As things settled slightly, my mother began to form a plan. Her next mission was clear and dangerous - she needed to try and locate my father.

Looking back now, the kindness of strangers that saved us, and the complex web of global politics that shaped our lives. I can't help but think of the tens of thousands of others who lived through similar ordeals. What lessons did they learn? What pain have they carried for the past four decades? Did they even survive? Where are they now? These are thoughts that run through my mind as I write and wonder. The more I think about our ordeal in the relative safety of our lives now the more questions I have.