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Shrapnel had split open
his head and shredded his back and legs, but through
semi-consciousness Aras Abded Akram smelled cooking
gas and then rotten apples.
Saddam Hussein's Iraqi Air Force dropped dozens of
gas-filled bombs on this Kurdish town in 1988. About
5,000 civilians died immediately, 21 of them from
Akram's family, including his parents and all 10 of
his siblings.
On Wednesday, Akram, now 39, buried his uncle, who
died at 58 from cancer related to the sweet-smelling
concoction of mustard, cyanide and VX gases he
inhaled as he fled into the hills.
But vengeance would be his, decided Akram, standing
on the spot where the bomb that killed his parents
landed. "This is my victory, this democracy," said
Akram, "and it's a message to other Arab
dictatorships.
"I will be the first in line tomorrow to vote," he
said.
In many Kurdish towns, supporters of the Kurdish
parties romped down central boulevards, brandished
posters of their leaders and banged out traditional
music.
"I am free to vote for whomever I like," noted Akram.
But, like most Kurds, he will vote for "730," the
Kurdish coalition led by Iraqi President Jalal
Talabani and Kurdish Regional Government President
Massoud Barzani.
Ahead of the polls, security across Iraq is tight.
In the Kurdish north, soldiers lined the highway
every 100 meters. Polling centers were cordoned off
to the public and heavily guarded.
Redemption has come slowly to this town. It still
lags behind its 1988 population of 75,000, according
to Ibrahim Hawramani, curator of the memorial to
Halabja's victims. Thousands of families fled to
Iran. Even when the situation improved, not all of
them chose to return, he said.
Some 20,000 were poisoned by the gas and many of
them, like Akram, require daily doses of oxygen to
survive, said the Kurdish Minister of Health Dr.
Muhammad Khoshnaw, who was visiting the memorial
Wednesday. Congenital disabilities, blindness and
grotesque skin diseases plague many, he said. Only
now did the government have the funds to build a
200-bed hospital for the victims.
The memorial is a soaring structure shaped to
resemble the tail of one of the infamous bombs. In
its central atrium, the names of the 5,000 victims
are inscribed in black glass. The exhibit walks
visitors through a recreation of the bombing.
Life-sized babies, swaddled in blankets, lie in
their parents' grasp, mouths gaping towards the sky.
Then comes the hall of photographs. Kurds have grown
used to the horrors of Saddam's Anfal campaign that
sought to eliminate Kurdish separatism by bulldozing
some 80 percent of this ancient people's villages
and killing tens of thousands. But for Westerners,
the images indelibly sear - the grotesque faces are
seemingly frozen in tortured agony.
Saddam's scorched-earth policy seems to contradict
Halabje's green meadows, encircled with oak and fig
trees. Fattened sheep huddle near mud huts topped
with satellite dishes.
After the bombing, friends hauled Akram to the
mountains. That's all he remembers. Three days later
he awoke and decided "God saved me to bear witness
to Saddam's crimes."
He now runs the Halabje Chemical Victim's Society.
By rote, he rattles off the list of 21 family
members. Finally he adds his uncle - that makes 22.
As he lay dying at Akram's reconstructed home, the
uncle begged to be put back on the respirator "to be
kept alive so that he could vote." But he died a day
too soon to cast his ballot.
Not everyone in this war-torn town - which had for
years been the hub for Kurdish Islamic fanatics - is
jubilant about the elections. Mukhtar Nuri owns a
music shop downtown selling traditional Kurdish
music. He intends to stay there tomorrow while his
kinsman vote. "I will not vote tomorrow because I am
sure I will regret it. I know the politicians give
only empty promises," said the vendor, dressed in a
polyester suit.
The same Kurdish leaders had held power for decades
he said, "and that is no democracy."
Anyone backed by the US administration would "be
like Saddam. It will take 10 elections to reach real
democracy," he added. "Maybe then I'll vote."
A soccer field has sprung up on the ruins of the
neighbor's home where Akram's parents died. Boys
kicked a plastic ball around on the dusty lot. The
bare, gray cinderblock buildings around the soccer
pitch are the best testimony to the town's
destruction and resurrection.
Arkam excused himself to greet family that had come
to pay respects to his uncle. He shook hands and
turned to go. Then he swiveled back. "Inshallah," he
said, "I will see you at Saddam's trial," where he
would fulfill what he called God's role for him, and
"bear witness."
www.jpost.com
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