What is the price of a single tear from a martyr’s mother, shed for her son who will never return home?

Is its price a repeated speech on the anniversary of Anfal? Or a framed photograph displayed before the public? Or the delayed pension she receives? Or that monument, cleaned only on the outside, while the truth within it has been forgotten?

Or are these tears priceless because a person’s entire life has been lost within them—the child’s first breath, his small hand inside hers, the meals cooked for him, those long nights spent watching over him, the future she envisioned for him, and that single moment when history disrupted everything?

For Kurdish mothers, these questions are not stories, lies, or definitions. This is their pain and their daily life. Their children were lost to Anfal, chemical weapons, mass killings, enforced disappearances, prisons, war, and terrorism across Kurdistan. Every victim has a different story, but all mothers share the same wound: a mother whose child was taken away and martyred, only for the world to ask her to move on with her life.

She continues with her life, but that does not mean she is living; rather, she dies a little each day within her pain.

Genocide and Numbers That Conceal Truth

One of the greatest tragedies in this history of disasters and suffering was the Anfal campaign of 1988, carried out by Saddam Hussein’s government. Human Rights Watch, after examining state documents and interviewing 350 witnesses, concluded that this was genocide. Between February and September 1988, an estimated 50,000 to 100,000 people were killed. Villages were depopulated, families were separated, and many people disappeared into mass graves.

On March 16, 1988, the chemical attack on Halabja occurred. At least 5,000 people were killed, and thousands of civilians were injured. These numbers are important to ensure that no one denies the crime, but numbers can also conceal the truth. Five thousand people killed means five thousand different worlds were extinguished: mothers, fathers, children, neighbours, voices, and names.

Behind every number, there is a mother for whom this loss was never merely a statistic.

Ambiguous Loss and Unanswered Questions

Some mothers saw the bodies of their children, but many did not. The Red Cross refers to this as “ambiguous loss.” When it is not clearly known whether a loved one is alive or dead, hope and mourning coexist within the same heart. A mother may logically understand that many years have passed, but in her heart, she is still waiting to hear the sound of her child’s footsteps behind the door.

Therefore, the missing son is not merely an absence; he becomes a question that awakens with his mother every morning:

• Where was he taken?
• Was he afraid?
• Did someone give him water?
• Did he call out for me?
• Is his body in a mass grave that has not yet been opened?
• If his body is found, will anyone recognize it?
• Will I still be alive to lay my child to rest in the soil?

No article can create imaginary answers to those questions. Mass graves continue to be discovered in Iraq, and the search is not yet over. Iraqi and Kurdistan Regional laws recognize the rights and pensions of martyrs’ families, but the law can calculate a pension; it cannot pay the price of a son.

An Enduring Wound and Genuine Obligations

This pain extends beyond a single year or border. In Iran, United Nations reports document the arrest, torture, and execution of Kurds. In North Kurdistan, destruction and killings occurred in 2015 and 2016. In Iraq and Syria, Kurdish families lost loved ones in the war against ISIS, and Yezidi mothers suffered genocide, abduction, and slavery. This history must be told accurately and without confusion.

Among Kurds, the word “martyr” represents profound respect for someone who gave their life for their land and freedom. But before the martyr became a symbol or a photograph, he was the child of a mother who recognized his face without a frame.

We must be careful when we glorify sacrifice. Society tells the mothers of martyrs, “You are strong,” leaving them feeling that there is no room for them to grieve. Officials mention her son’s name, but they do not ask: Does she have her medication? Has her son’s case been investigated? Does she sleep at night?

A martyr’s mother does not merely need official recognition; she needs the following:

1. Truth: Archives must be opened, graves preserved, and the search continued.
2. Justice: Proper courts and full accountability without discrimination.
3. Services: Financial support, healthcare, and genuine assistance without patronage.
4. Remembrance: Teaching the suffering of Kurds in schools as part of human history.
5. Prevention: Ensuring that it never happens again.

This responsibility falls upon the government and Kurdish society alike. We cannot honour the martyrs while forgetting their mothers. We cannot turn their pain into a tool for party interests or official rhetoric. This pain extends beyond Kurdish borders. A Kurdish mother in Halabja, Barzan, Qamishlo, Diyarbakir, or Mahabad carries a pain that is both universal and profoundly human.