Halabjah

The city of Halabjah is about a 90 minute drive from our location, through countryside on narrow roads, and only seven miles from the Iranian border. It is the site of Saddam Hussein’s 1988 chemical weapons bombing in which 5,000 people were killed within five minutes of the bombs dropping. Our vehicles moved through the tiny streets of this run down, poverty stricken town and was a spectacle in which people stopped and stared as we passed by. Our arrival at the memorial site was somewhat unnerving. Unlike any time before, our security detail now carried submachine guns. News and video cameras were everywhere. Many people, mostly men in suits, were awaiting our arrival. Our security briefed us on exactly how to move once we left the bus. We followed every order that was given as we felt our safety was at risk.

The museum was filled with photos and displays of the dead lying in the streets following the attack of twenty two years ago. Men, women, children, babies, the elderly, animals all lay dead. Photos of the dead were taken by Saddam’s men to prove the weapons had been effective. Copies of those photos lined the walls and were heartbreaking. Mother and baby lying dead in the street as she tried to shield her baby from death. The back of a pick up truck filled with children trying to escape the planes dropping the bombs. They did not escaped. As I was looking at this photo, a man standing in front of me pointed to himself, then pointed to the picture. He said, “me”. Another man who spoke broken English confirmed what I believed the man to be saying. The man standing before me had been one of the children in that truck, the only survivor. “He laid in that truck for two days” the man said until he was rescued by Iranians. As I moved on, a video showed a young boy who survived the attack but was covered in blisters. As I watched, a man standing beside me looked at me, pointed to himself then pointed back to the video. This man was the child in the video. Others stood at the memorial where a listing of names of the dead showed several names from a single family all grouped together. One man pointed to a group of ten names, all those of his family. He had been the only survivor.

We moved to the graveyard where the victims for the chemical bombings were buried. Those who were not identified were buried in mass graves which contained 1,500 bodies or more. The rest were buried in a single grave with a headstone. Little fences and various kinds of bordering denoted multiple graves of people from the same family. The Gold Star Mothers laid flowers at the base of the “Mother’s Monument” in the graveyard, and listened to the survivors tell their stories and express their gratitude that our sons helped rid their county of the man who had done this to them. The sincere connection they seemed to feel with us touched our hearts. With most of us in tears, one by one, a pin representing the monument and tribute to 5,000 killed was pinned on us by the survivors.

Still aware of the presence of heavy fire power, video taping, and obvious potential safety risk, at the conclusion of the ceremony, our group of Gold Star Moms, Iraqi moms, and others quickly moved as instructed by security, back to our bus.

How do you sort out all the emotions after what we had just experienced? 5,000 dead in the streets, the photos, the graves, the survivors and the overwhelming realization that our U.S. Military got rid of the man who had done this. All the Gold Star Mothers felt pride in knowing our children helped liberate these people and give them hope for the future.