Forty-three years ago today, two words saved my life: “No good.”
I was nine years old when an Iraqi army officer stood before me with a wooden stick in his hand. In those days, it was common for Iraqi officers to carry such sticks. He used it to measure me, deciding whether I was tall enough to be counted as a man. After looking at me, he simply said, “No good.” I was too small. Those two words saved my life.
Earlier that day, Iraqi soldiers had arrived at the prison camps in Soviet-made trucks, rounding up every Barzani man and boy they could find. Families were torn apart in moments, with little understanding of the horror that was about to unfold.
We now know what happened. On 31 July 1983, more than 8,000 men and boys from the Barzani tribe were taken from the camps, transported into the desert, executed with machine-gun fire, and buried in mass graves. Bulldozers covered the graves without regard for whether anyone was still alive. Although many individual remains have never been identified, mass graves discovered across Iraq have confirmed the scale of these crimes. When Saddam Hussein was later asked what had happened to the Barzanis, he replied, “They betrayed their country, so they went to Hell.”
The Barzani massacre was not an isolated atrocity. It was part of the wider Kurdish genocide carried out by Saddam Hussein’s regime—a campaign designed to destroy Kurdish communities, suppress their identity, and remove those who could carry their history and resistance into the future.
Through my own research and reflection, I believe Saddam Hussein’s regime followed a pattern that can be described as “human harvesting”—the deliberate removal of generations of people viewed as a threat, with the aim of weakening communities over time. By targeting men, fathers, sons, and community leaders, the regime attempted to break the foundations of Kurdish society, silence the Barzani tribe, and make the world forget what had happened.
The purpose was not only to kill individuals; it was to destroy memory, identity, and the ability of a community to rebuild. A people without its elders, its storytellers, and its leaders becomes easier to control and erase.
As documented in Kurdistan: Genocide and Rebirth, these crimes were attacks not only on human lives but on a people’s history, culture, and future. Yet despite unimaginable suffering, the Kurdish people survived. They preserved their identity, rebuilt their communities, and refused to allow their history to be erased.
Remembering events like this is painful, no matter how many years have passed. But remembrance is not simply about mourning the dead; it is about accepting our responsibility to the living. Every generation repeats the words, “Never again.” Those words mean little unless they are matched by the courage to confront hatred, prevent persecution, and protect human life.
Today, remember the more than 8,000 Barzani men and boys who were taken from their families and never returned. Remember every victim of the Kurdish genocide. Honour their memory not only with words, but with a commitment to truth, justice, and the protection of future generations.
Because remembrance alone is not enough. We must ensure that “Never again” becomes more than a promise—it must become a reality.
Davan Yahya Khalil