He Never Came Home after the Bombing — Community Peacemaker Teams

by Runak Radha

Jawaheera Khan standing above the grave of her son Himdad Osman. The grave is filled with many flowers. Alongside Jawaheera is a child gazing at the flowers. Behind them is Barmiza village.

This was the fourth time that CPT visited Barmiza village. On the 13th of November, Jawaheera Khan and Kak Osman welcomed us to their home to honor the life of their son Himdad. Four years ago, Himdad drove his car along the Iraq-Turkey border to his village. A Turkish fighter plane targeted his vehicle in an airstrike and Himdad lost his life. He was 22 years old at that time.

Since Himdad was killed, the situation of villagers living in Barmiza has become worse. After drinking tea with us, Kak Osman shared his village's situation and the Turkish military's recent invasion.

"Turkish soldiers are surrounding us, they have completely taken control over the region, and they now have about 15 to 16 bases around Barmiza. Day by day, their bases got bigger and more roads have been built connected to the bases," Osman said.

Ten families from Barmiza have left their homes and fled to Soran or Hawler. When we inquired about the cause, Kak Osman said, "Most of the residents of this village are either pastoralists or rice farmers. Yet, no villager dares to bring their flock to the pastures or work in their paddy fields because Turkish soldiers will shoot them at once."

The house of Osman and Jawaheera is the last in the village, and its yard overlooks most of the houses in the village as well as the Barmiza Mosque. The corpse of young Himdad was purified in this mosque.

Himdad's mother, Jawaheera Khan, has never forgotten the day her son was killed. She squeezes the fingers of my hand and her voice shakes as she says, "That day we were together until two o'clock in the afternoon. When he left, my heart started palpitating. I was restless. I called him and said, 'I have told you not to go my son.' He said, 'Don't worry mom, I will be back soon.'”

But Himdad never came home after the bombing.

"As the explosion sounded, my heart broke. I cried out, 'My existence is ruined!'" Jawaheera grieves. She looks at me and says, "My daughter Runak. For me, life stood still that day. The years and the seasons pass without me feeling them. I tell myself, he will open the door now, come in and call me mom, and I respond, ‘Yes, my dear one.'"

Both of her hands cannot wipe away the tears falling from her eyes. Despite my desires, the consolation on my tongue stutters, not a word comes out of my mouth. I try to control myself, not letting my tears flow and pierce Jawaheera's maternal wound.

Jawaheera sighs and says, "When the sadness brings me down, I go out, but all these Turkish bases do not let the wound in my heart heal. I can't bear to see them, and I come back to my house. I go to Himdad's grave every Thursday accompanied by bereavement. I water the flowers I planted on his grave. What else can I do? This has become my habit these days."

Before we go to the cemetery, Jawaheera Khan tells us with a smile, "Now Himdad's son Argesh is four years old, and he lives with his mother in Hawler. He sometimes comes to visit his grandfather and me. With his questions and adorable nature, he reduces the bitterness of his father's death. I wish his father were here, and he could have seen his child grow up."

Jawaheera turns to me and my fellow CPTers and says, "Thank you for becoming a part of my family. Your compassion and empathy ease our grief."

Alongside Jawaheera Khan, we go to the cemetery together. Himdad's grave overflows with flowers, showing that a mother's hand took care of them lest they wither.

As a symbol of resisting occupation and injustice, and to keep the memory of Himdad the martyr alive, we plant an olive tree on Himdad's grave, hoping that no power under the pretext of protecting national security will drop bombs and rockets on people who are blameless in the conflicts between states. The only fault of these families is that their homes remain in the midst of clashes between armed forces.

Jawaheera is not the only mother whose life war has cast a shadow upon, and she will not be the last. Yet, the only thing that can move the border between dream and reality is hope, so I hope for the day when war ceases and no mother’s heart will ache from their child's separation.