Remembering the Newroz of 2003 With Iraq’s Kurds

LONDON – The symbolism of the Newroz festival as a time of renewal can rarely have been felt more keenly among Kurds than in the spring of 2003, as war loomed and prospects for the future were poised between triumph and disaster.

As the hours ticked away towards the US-led invasion of Iraq that was to oust Saddam Hussein, the cities of Kurdistan emptied of civilians heading for the relative safety of the mountains.

Fifteen years almost to the day after the dictator’s genocidal assault on Halabja, many feared he might once again use chemical weapons to attack the northern front of the coming war.

Trucks and cars were almost at a standstill on the road out of Erbil as thousands headed north to brave the brisk March weather in tents and makeshift roadside encampments in the mountains. 

“While Saddam sits in his bunker puffing his cigar, we have to survive out here,” said one man camped at a roadside beyond the ridge above Erbil.

It might have been worse. There was still a chill in the mountain air but, as Newroz approached, the sun was out after several days of heavy rain and the first spring grass was pushing through.

So the temporary refugees celebrated Newroz as best they could, marking the 2,615th anniversary of the overthrow of the Assyrian tyrant Zahhak by the Kurdish hero Kawa the Blacksmith. The legendary Kawa had bludgeoned the tyrant to death with his blacksmith’s hammer and many were dreaming that Saddam might suffer a similar fate.

As the festival approached, those who could do so had left. But others were obliged to stay behind, scouring the markets to buy materials for makeshift protection against a possible chemical attack.

Rolls of plastic sheeting were in short supply, as were babies’ diapers, a component of handmade gas masks that enterprising stallholders were selling for the equivalent of $2.

They would strip out the diaper padding, impregnate it with charcoal and sew these filters into helmets made from two squares of grey plasticised cloth. A strip of clear plastic served as an eyepiece. The masks might have offered peace of mind, but little protection.  It was unlikely they would have stopped anything more deadly than smoke.

Over a glass of tea at Massoud Barzani’s headquarters at Salaheddin, the Kurdistan Democratic Party leader told me on the eve of the war that he did not expect a chemical attack. In any case, he did not plan to don a gas mask as long as a single child was without one. It was hypothetical, since there were virtually no genuine masks in Kurdistan. 

On the night of March 20, the eve of Newroz, as US aircraft set off for the first air strikes against Baghdad, there was little thought of celebrating the festival. 

Up at the ancient citadel of Erbil, the only sign of activity was a blazing brazier of old tyres, lit to mark the New Year, which had attracted a handful of Peshmarga, a few small boys and a passing police car.

Within days, however, it became evident that Saddam had no prospect of opening a northern front as his forces faced an advancing invasion from the south. Kurdish civilians began moving home to the cities almost as rapidly as they had left.

The war was not yet over. There remained the danger of an invasion by Turkey, which had declined to support the Americans in opening a northern front but retained the option of intervening in Kurdistan as it saw fit.

The Americans were to rely instead on their Kurdish allies, whose 60,000 Peshmarga forces held the line in the north and steadily advanced into territory previously held by Baghdad.

A New Year, and a new era for the Kurds, had dawned.

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