He turned back and said, ‘I want nothing more than for you to leave as soon as possible. What if you set off a grenade here?
I was five years old when the revolution happened. Kurdistan had entered a period of intense political tension with the central government. The issue of autonomy was being discussed. In the spring of 1979, the three of us brothers got sick at the same time. My older brother’s leg, my younger brother’s heel, and my left elbow became swollen. There was no good hospital or doctor in our area. Since Tehran was very far from our city and difficult to reach, we had to go to Tabriz.
My father took us to the Children’s Hospital there. I don’t know what happened, but both of my brothers got better after they were given injections and went home with my father, while I stayed behind in the hospital.
I wasn’t yet six years old when I found myself surrounded by Azeri-speaking doctors and nurses, without knowing either Azeri or Persian. There wasn’t a bed for me, so I slept on a mattress spread out on the floor between two rows of beds. I remember crying for the first two days and nights, looking for my father, but he was at least three hours away from me.
On the second night, when I couldn’t sleep, I got up to drink some water. I had to pass by the nurses’ station. One of the nurses turned to the others and said, “Kurd di, Sunni di”—meaning, “He’s Kurdish, he’s Sunni.” I understood what it meant to be Kurdish, but not what it meant to be Sunni, or why she introduced me that way. Maybe it was out of this fear that my father told them my name was Karim at admission. But everyone quickly found out I was Kurdish and Sunni.
They drained fluid from my elbow several times, and in the end, they put my arm in a cast. After three weeks, my father came for me, and we left Tabriz for Bukan. Our return coincided with Ayatollah Khomeini’s decree ordering the attack on Kurdistan. In his decree, which was also recorded on video, he called the Kurdish fighters infidels and, quoting a verse from the Quran, “ashaddā’ ʿala l-kuffār wa ruḥamā’ baynahum” (severe against the unbelievers and merciful among themselves), and demanded a harsh crackdown on them.
After Khomeini’s decree, the army and the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) attacked Kurdistan. The IRGC—essentially the regime’s second army, irregular and unprofessional—was also an ideological corps. For this reason, most of its members were poorly educated or illiterate, and largely from lower social classes.
In Kurdistan, however, figures such as Dr. Abdulrahman Qasemlu, Dr. Jafar Shafiee, Fouad Mostafa Soltani, and Sheikh Ezzeddin Hosseini were prominent political and popular leaders who guided the Kurdish movement. Because Kurdistan had a culture of organized political parties and a strong organizational structure, they were able, in a very short time, to mobilize the Peshmerga forces and lead popular defense.
During what became known as the “Three-Month War,” Khomeini’s forces suffered heavy defeats. In cities that were predominantly Azeri-speaking and close to Kurdistan, such as Miandoab (in West Azerbaijan Province) and Qorveh (in Kurdistan Province), even hardline Shia Azeris collaborated with the IRGC in the killings and massacres.
For example, during the attack on the village of Qarna by the IRGC and plainclothes forces—a village that was entirely Kurdish but located in West Azerbaijan Province—63 people, including pregnant women, elderly men, and the village Imam holding the Quran, were shot under the pretext of Kurdish Peshmerga presence. The operation was led by Molla Hassani, the Friday prayer leader and Supreme Leader’s representative in Urmia.
Massacres similar to Qarna also occurred in other villages, such as Inderqash, Qalatan, Sabzi, Sarchenar, and other places. Atrocities also took place in the cities, their magnitude beyond what words can express.
In Nowruz 1979, they attacked the city of Sanandaj. A bloody battle ensued. The IRGC showed no mercy even to civilians. According to eyewitnesses, the authorities did not allow people to bury the dead for a week, leaving the bodies lying in the streets and alleys.
We had a brick factory near the first predominantly Azeri-speaking city, Miandoab. Some of our customers were Azeri truck drivers who knew my father. It was late August when we set off for Kurdistan, after three weeks in the hospital, with my arm in a sling around my neck.
After passing Malekan, the bus stopped somewhere for tea, food, and a short rest. One of our customers, who happened to be there, saw us and came over, saying, ‘Kak Aziz, what are you doing here?’ My father explained that we were returning from the Children’s Hospital in Tabriz. Speaking in heavily Azeri-accented, broken Kurdish, the guy said, ‘They are killing Kurds in Miandoab; you shouldn’t take the main route back!’ My father asked, ‘Well, what should I do?’ The customer said, ‘Get your bag from the bus and come with me—I’ll take the back roads and get you to a safe place.’
We got into his car and drove along rural roads until we reached the first Kurdish village where my father’s Khaleh (maternal aunt) also lived. During the drive, my father’s acquaintance told us about Khomeini’s decree about Kurdistan. He said that negotiations had failed and that the Kurdish Peshmerga forces were now fighting the IRGC and the Islamic Republic’s army.
Kurdistan and the fully Kurdish villages begin at Shinabad, about five kilometers from Miandoab toward Bukan, which at that time was under Peshmerga control. We spent the night at my father’s aunt’s house. The next day, we took the back roads to the main road to Bukan, and from there traveled to the city by minibus. During the Three-Month War, I was still taking what felt like a kilo of pills, and returning to Tabriz was impossible. My arm remained in a cast, hanging from my neck.
One day, one of my father’s acquaintances said, ‘Go see Hamzeh Agha, the Panseman-chi (the bandager, someone who knows how to dress wounds but is not a doctor) to remove your son’s cast—it’s not good for his arm (to still be in one).” We went to Hamzeh Agha, and he expressed both surprise and concern, saying, ‘This child’s arm is mangled. Why didn’t you remove the cast sooner?’ He placed the cast in a basin of water and let it soften. He used special scissors to cut open the cast. My arm was thin, crooked, and my elbow was swollen.
During the war, Kurdistan was under economic blockade by the central government, and resources were extremely limited. On top of that, our city didn’t even have a physiotherapist or a physiotherapy center. No one thought that my arm would need physiotherapy to reduce the stiffness and deformity after being in a cast for so long.
Things have improved somewhat where we live nowadays, but compared to Tehran and Tabriz, the difference is still striking. Compared to our city and the Kurdistan region, Tehran feels like a different country. It has a different identity and culture. Its facilities were and are incomparable to those in our city and region.
I felt like a stranger in Tehran because it was so different from our region. They considered me an outsider because my way of dressing [in Kurdish clothes] was unfamiliar to them. As soon as I opened my mouth to speak, they would immediately ask, “Are you from the provinces? Where are you from?” At that time, my accent was much stronger than it is now. We had heard a lot about Tehran being this way and that way, so when we went there, we visited some of the sights. For me, the first things that were really striking were the tall towers and then the escalator.
I remember seeing an escalator for the first time in a shopping mall in Tehran. I was a teenager then. There were no escalators in our area, so this kind of step felt strange to me. I rode it several times just to see what it was like and how it differed from the regular stairs back home. The differences between Tehran and our city range from escalators and factories to skyscrapers, roads, infrastructure, etc.
As a teenager, I was a member of the Bukan theater group, and our troupe traveled to Tehran to participate in a festival along with other troupes from all over Iran. Once we left Kurdistan, it felt like we were passing through wasteland until we reached Zanjan; from there on, there seemed to be no empty space—it was filled with buildings and factories everywhere. We entered Tehran from the west and were taken to a building in north Tehran for our stay. It had a large gate, and when we entered the courtyard, I saw a huge, palatial villa with a swimming pool.
I had never seen a house like that in my life. Wealth seemed to pour from every corner of the building. We learned that this luxurious house was confiscated property and under the control of the IRGC. The walls were carpeted with intricate designs, and the curtains, light switches, and electrical outlets. Everything was completely new to me. I had never seen a house like this in my life.
For meals, we went to a hall in the building that could comfortably hold two hundred people. It was a circular hall, used for parties, dancing, and gatherings. The wall tiles, which featured beautiful miniature paintings of semi-nude women, had been covered with plaster, but parts of the plaster had fallen, allowing us to catch glimpses of the miniatures that someone had tried to hide from view.
During this trip, I developed a high fever and chills and went to a hospital—I don’t remember exactly which one, but it was somewhere in northern Tehran. They immediately examined me in the ER and prescribed some medication and injections. The staff and services were organized. I had to return the next day for another injection.
Our troupe leader was an Azeri speaker and had a relative living in the south of Tehran, in the Kianshahr area. We traveled there by minibus with the group, which also gave me a chance to see Tehran from north to south. Along the way, the contrast between the northern and southern parts of the city was striking—the southern areas were far poorer in terms of infrastructure and construction.
I remember the relative’s house was simple, almost prefabricated, but they were incredibly hospitable and kind. The troupe leader asked them to take me to a clinic or medical center for my injection. We went there and waited for half an hour, but no one took responsibility, and it seemed as though nobody was coming. Finally, our hosts fetched a nurse they knew who worked there to give me the injection, and then we left. Apart from this visit, I never went to Tehran for medical care.
Bukan Hospital finally acquired an ultrasound machine when I was at university in Rasht. The machine had been obtained through the efforts of the then Bukan MP, and a banner was placed over the hospital entrance to thank him. Major industries and infrastructure in the region are still incomparable to other parts of the country. As a result, unemployment rates in Kurdistan remain among the highest in Iran, and young people—even educated ones—often turn to kulbari (carrying goods across the border) for a living.
* * *
I lived with this arm for years, enduring its weakness and pain, until the summer of 1990 (1369), when we went to Tabriz again—this time to the city’s main hospital, “Imam Khomeini.” Our hometown hospital had neither an orthopedics department nor an orthopedic specialist, which is why we had to go to Tabriz. As we set off from Bukan toward Tabriz, we inevitably passed through Miandoab. The first three-way intersection, “Seh-Rah Bikandi,” reminded me of my missing uncle, Amou (Paternal Uncle) Omar.
Amou Omar held a special place in my heart. We loved each other deeply. He had twins, Shuresh and Golbahar. They both died in childhood, within a day of each other. I don’t know what illness took them.
One morning, I woke to the sound of Amou Omar crying. He held me tightly in his arms and said, “Your friends are gone… you smell like Shuresh and Golbahar.” I was too young to understand the depth of his grief. From that moment on, I became even more precious to him, and in the absence of his children, he gave me all his affection and love. He would often carry me on his shoulders and buy me treats and gifts. I became very attached to him.
During the central government’s economic blockade of Kurdistan, some food items became scarce, including sugar. Amou Omar, along with Amou Sadiq and his son Hasan, took our minibus to Miandoab to buy large quantities of sugar from the Miandoab sugar factory to distribute among family and neighbors. Because some of our customers lived in Miandoab and had previously saved my father’s and my life, they were hopeful that knowing people there would make the trip safe. Confident in that, they took our minibus to purchase supplies and return them to Bukan. My cousin didn’t have his Shenasnameh (ID-birth certificate) with him, but Amou Omar and Amou Sadiq both had theirs.
When they entered Miandoab, the IRGC forces stopped their minibus. After checking the IDs of my two uncles, they took Amou Omar with them. They gave no information about where he was being taken or which prison he was in.
Months passed without Amou Omar returning. I was always waiting for him. Our house is in northern Bukan, closer to Miandoab, while my grandfather’s house was on the other side of town, closer to Saqqez. A few minibuses ran like a local bus line. The fare was 5 rials per person, and my allowance was 10 rials a day. Every morning, I would use my 10 rials to go to my grandfather’s house, hoping that my uncle would return and I would see him.
My grandfather would go to Miandoab and look for him everywhere. He would never find his son. After a long time, we learned that Amoo Omar had been executed by a firing squad somewhere outside of Miandoab. I heard this from my Ammeh (paternal aunt).
Even when I got older, I often dreamed of Amou Omar. Once, I dreamt I was on a mountain slope that had grave-like crevices. Suddenly, Amou Omar emerged from one of the crevices, his clothes covered in dust and dirt. He dusted himself off and said, ‘Come on, let’s leave here—we have to get home as soon as possible.’ But that return home never happened. To this day, we still don’t know where Amou Omar is buried. Miandoab has always reminded me of this atrocity.
We went to Imam Khomeini Hospital, and one of the doctors, an orthopedic specialist, took my case. After taking X-rays, it became clear that my arm needed surgery because the head of the radius bone had become calcified. I was hospitalized again. My older brother, who had come with me, returned to Bukan, and I stayed behind. I was alone again.
This time, I was older, knew Persian, and could communicate. I spent 21 days in that hospital, long enough to become familiar with the entire nursing team and many of the patients on the ward. I met a boy my age named Habib who’d been admitted for surgery due to a dislocated or overgrown lateral cuneiform bone in his foot. There was a bearded man under thirty in our room. They said he was a ‘war veteran.’ He told me he had been shot in the leg fighting the Kurdish Peshmerga, and they had to amputate. Every year, he had to return for surgery to shave down the bone growth in his leg; otherwise, he would be in severe pain. One day, he bluntly said, ‘I am thirsty for the blood of Kurds.’
My wait for elbow surgery continued. Every patient was asked whether they wanted “special” or “general” surgery. Knowing my father’s financial situation, I chose “general,” which meant the “special” cases went ahead of me, and I waited for my turn every day. Eventually, I heard that my doctor had gone on leave and that another specialist, who worked at a Sepah (IRGC) hospital, would operate on my arm. My elbow surgery ended up with Dr. Nouri, who was a Sepahi.
On the morning of the twenty-first day, the Sepahi doctor came in, glanced at my file, and told his colleagues to take me to the operating room. I remember being alone in the OR with the female nurse prepping me for surgery. She asked what had happened to my arm. I asked, “Should I tell you everything from the beginning?” She said it would help me go under anesthesia more easily. I told her I was cold, and she covered me with a green cloth. Gradually, the rest of the team arrived. I lost consciousness. When I woke up, it was night, and darkness had fallen. The pain was unbearable. It was relentless. I couldn’t sleep at all that night. I asked the night nurse for a painkiller.
The next morning, as usual during patient rounds, Dr. Nouri, a burly blond man, came to our ward with his colleagues. When he reached my bed, he glanced at my file and said, “Move your fingers.” My entire arm, from elbow to fingertips, was in a cast, with only my fingers exposed. I wiggled them, and Dr. Nouri said, “Good,” and was about to leave. “Doctor, when will I be discharged?” I asked him.
He turned back and said, “I want nothing more than for you to leave as soon as possible. What if you set off a grenade here?” I immediately replied, “You should be afraid of us Kurds.”
None of his colleagues reacted, perhaps because he was a Sepahi. One of them, who I think was a final-year medical student, looked at me and whispered, “Shhhhhhh.”
Because the tip of the radius in my left arm had been severed and left untreated, the condition of my arm worsened year by year. A few years ago, I went through a difficult period while pursuing a master’s degree in political science. My wife, who had been unemployed for years and had no interest in working or learning the language [of our new country], asked me to invest our savings in a small restaurant with her nephew. I was initially against it, partly because we had no experience in this area and partly because this wasn’t the kind of work we were used to.
Things were reaching a breaking point, and I finally gave in. My wife and her nephew used our savings to set up the restaurant. In less than four months, her nephew walked away, leaving us with a business we knew nothing about. On top of that, I was still in school. I had no choice but to drop out, roll up my sleeves, and dive into a business I had no experience in. I worked fifteen-hour days, sometimes longer, but it didn’t work out. Eventually, I went bankrupt. I fell into a deep depression, and my wife filed for divorce.
My life fell apart. After some time, weighed down by loneliness and despair, a friend insisted that I take up cycling.
Gradually, the pain in my left elbow worsened. Although long-distance cycling—at least 250 kilometers per week—had helped improve my physical and mental well-being, my left arm and elbow hurt badly. Every time I got on my bike, after about half an hour, my left arm would lock up, as if the bones of my forearm and upper arm were jammed together. I had to pull on my wrist to free my elbow. Gradually, even working and cycling became impossible. After years of living with this pain, I decided to seek treatment for my arm—for the third time, but this time in Belgium.
My family doctor referred me to Dr. Stefan Peter, an orthopedic specialist. When he examined my arm, he said it urgently needed an MRI to determine the exact problem. After reviewing the scan, he told me the situation was serious and required immediate surgery. In addition to severe arthritis, the lower bone—whose tip had previously been removed—had destroyed all the cartilage between the two joints. Bone fragments had formed, causing a severe infection. Surgery was unavoidable. Dr. Peter explained that in a few years, he would need to perform an elbow prosthesis to allow me a better quality of life for my remaining years.
For me, Iran and Tehran have always been reminders of bitterness, inequality, and discrimination. Part of this hardship and injustice came from the central government, and part stemmed from the people’s adherence to the unjust and inhumane policies of the government toward Iran’s periphery.
Despite the toxic propaganda spread by the Islamic Republic about the Kurds, the Zhina Movement (Woman, Life, Freedom) changed everything. After the Zhina uprising, especially with the help of social media and increased connectivity between the center and Iran’s peripheries, remarkable and positive shifts have taken place in the public perception of Kurds. I always say that Iranian sociopolitical history should be divided into two periods: before Zhina and after Zhina.
Nowadays, most people like Kurds. They no longer see us as rural or lower-class. They recognize Kurdish culture as a distinct and authentic one. When I was in university, I couldn’t find a single Persian speaker who shared my views. Now it’s the opposite. Many of those who sacrificed their lives for Zhina were not Kurdish. The change is remarkable. It is the result of greater connectivity, social media, and the growth of human rights awareness. People see how democracy and equality work in the world and have come to understand that cultural differences are a reality. They are seeing these things and slowly learning.