On March 16, 1988, Iraqi warplanes unleashed chemical weapons on the Kurdish city of Halabja, killing approximately 5,000 civilians and injuring thousands more. This genocidal attack, one of the worst chemical weapons assaults since World War I, created a humanitarian crisis that persists decades later, with missing children, chronic health issues, and psychological trauma still plaguing survivors and their families.
The Day Death Fell from the Sky: A Firsthand Account
The morning of March 16, 1988, began like any other in Halabja, a Kurdish city of about 70,000 inhabitants near the Iranian border. The air was cool and crisp with the promise of spring. Children were preparing for school, shopkeepers opening their stores, and families going about their morning routines. Then, shortly after 11:00 AM, Iraqi warplanes appeared in the sky.
“I remember the sound of the aircraft,” recounts Kamaran Abdullah, who was 12 years old at the time. “We were used to bombings in the area due to the Iran-Iraq war, but this was different. The explosions didn’t sound the same. There was a strange apple-like smell in the air.”
What followed was an orchestrated chemical attack that would last for five hours. Iraqi forces dropped mustard gas and a combination of nerve agents including sarin, tabun, and VX. The attack was methodical—first conventional bombs to break windows and building structures, then chemical weapons to maximize casualties.
“People were running in panic,” says Narmin Othman, another survivor. “I saw people falling, their bodies convulsing. Some were vomiting, others simply dropped dead where they stood. My father tried to wet cloths for us to breathe through, but it was too late for many.”
The chemicals were heavier than air and sank into basements where many residents had taken shelter, turning safe havens into death chambers. Entire families were found later, huddled together in death. Others died in the streets as they attempted to flee, their bodies frozen in time—mothers clutching babies, children holding hands, the elderly collapsed mid-step.
By nightfall, an estimated 5,000 people lay dead. The streets were littered with bodies, many with no visible injuries but contorted faces that spoke of agonizing deaths. Birds had fallen from trees, livestock lay dead in fields, and even insects had perished. Halabja had become a city of the dead.
Operation Anfal and the Political Context
The Halabja massacre was not an isolated incident but rather the most notorious episode of a larger genocidal campaign known as Operation Anfal. Directed by Ali Hassan al-Majid, infamously known as “Chemical Ali,” this systematic campaign against Iraq’s Kurdish population was authorized by Saddam Hussein’s Ba’athist regime.
Between 1987 and 1989, the Iraqi government sought to crush Kurdish resistance and punish communities suspected of sympathizing with Iran during the Iran-Iraq War. Anfal—named after a chapter in the Quran meaning “spoils of war”—involved the destruction of thousands of villages, mass deportations, and indiscriminate killing of civilians.
The timing of the Halabja attack was strategically significant. Kurdish forces, aligned with Iran, had recently gained control of the city. The chemical bombardment served multiple purposes: to punish the Kurds for their alliance with Iran, to demonstrate Iraq’s chemical warfare capabilities as a deterrent, and to eliminate a Kurdish stronghold.
The international context cannot be ignored. The attack occurred during the final months of the Iran-Iraq War, a brutal eight-year conflict that had claimed over a million lives. Western powers, particularly the United States, had largely backed Iraq as a counterbalance to Iran’s post-revolutionary regime. This support included intelligence sharing, economic assistance, and diplomatic cover that emboldened Saddam Hussein’s regime.
Perhaps most crucially, Iraq had developed its chemical weapons program with technology and materials sourced from Western companies. German firms had provided equipment for chemical weapons facilities, while precursor chemicals came from companies in the United States, Netherlands, Singapore, and India. This web of international complicity created the conditions that made the Halabja attack possible.
Despite the scale of the atrocity, the international response was muted. Initial reports by some Western media outlets even attempted to blame Iran for the attack, reflecting the geopolitical alignments of the time. It would take years before full recognition of Iraq’s culpability became universal, and decades before any form of justice would be pursued against the perpetrators.
Exodus: The Flight to Iran and Life in Refugee Camps
In the immediate aftermath of the chemical attack, those who survived faced a desperate situation. With no immediate international assistance and fearing further attacks, tens of thousands fled toward the Iranian border, just 12 kilometers east of Halabja.
“We walked for hours, carrying nothing but the clothes on our backs,” remembers Fatima Mahmoud, who was pregnant when she fled. “People were dying along the way, still suffering from the chemicals. We crossed mountains without food or water. Many didn’t make it.”
Iranian border guards, witnessing the humanitarian catastrophe unfolding, opened the borders. Iranian medical teams were quickly dispatched to the border areas to treat the injured, but they were overwhelmed by the scale of the disaster and the specific challenges of treating chemical weapons victims without proper equipment or training.
Approximately 10,000 survivors were initially housed in emergency camps in Iran’s Kermanshah and Kurdistan provinces. As the months passed, these temporary arrangements solidified into more permanent refugee settlements. Zardeh, Varmahang, and Songhor camps became home to thousands of Kurdish refugees, some of whom would remain there for more than a decade.
Life in the camps was harsh. Basic amenities were scarce, especially in the early years. Families lived in tents or hastily constructed barracks, facing extreme temperatures—scorching summers and freezing winters. Healthcare was limited, education interrupted, and psychological support nearly non-existent.
“We lived between worlds,” explains Hassan Kawa, who spent eight years in Iranian camps. “We weren’t truly Iranian, but we couldn’t go home. Our children grew up knowing nothing but the camp. They spoke Persian better than Kurdish. They had no memory of Halabja except the stories we told.”
The Iranian government, despite its own challenges dealing with post-war reconstruction, provided essential services to the refugees. Local Iranian families often helped by “adopting” orphaned Kurdish children, providing them with homes and care—a compassionate act that would later create complicated questions of identity and belonging.
For many, the refugee experience lasted until the late 1990s, when improved conditions in Iraqi Kurdistan made return possible. By then, an entire generation had grown up in exile, speaking Persian, educated in Iranian schools, and culturally disconnected from their Kurdish heritage. The return home would prove to be yet another traumatic transition.
The Missing Children: Separated Families and Ongoing Search
Among the most heart-wrenching legacies of the Halabja massacre is the story of the missing children—hundreds of young survivors separated from their families in the chaos of evacuation and refugee relocation. Many were taken in by Iranian families who found them wandering alone or rescued them from overcrowded hospitals and orphanages.
“I lost my daughter Shilan in the panic,” says Nasreen Hakim, her voice breaking even after decades. “She was only four years old. Someone told me they saw her being picked up by an Iranian soldier. For thirty years, I’ve been searching for her. I still keep her clothes.”
The exact number of missing children remains unknown, with estimates ranging from several hundred to over a thousand. The circumstances of their disappearance vary—some were genuinely orphaned by the attack, others separated from unconscious parents, and some simply lost in the massive exodus.
In Iranian homes, these children were often given new names, new identities, and raised as Iranians. Many adoptive families acted out of genuine compassion, believing the children to be orphans. Others deliberately obscured the children’s origins, fearing they might be taken away.
As relations between Iraq and Iran improved in the 2000s, efforts to locate and reunite these missing children intensified. DNA matching programs were established, and television programs broadcast appeals from searching families. Gradually, reunions began to occur.
Karwan Abdulrahman was eight when he was separated from his family. Raised by an Iranian family in Tehran, he discovered his Kurdish origins when he was 22. “I had dreams in a language I didn’t understand,” he recalls. “When I finally met my biological family in 2010, I couldn’t communicate with them. We needed translators. My mother recognized me by a scar on my elbow.”
These reunions, while joyful, are often complicated by cultural and linguistic barriers. Children raised in Iran struggle to reintegrate with Kurdish families they barely remember. Many feel caught between two worlds, two families, and two identities.
Most heartbreaking are the families still waiting. In Halabja today, dozens of elderly parents maintain shrines to missing children in their homes—photographs, toys, and clothing preserved for decades in the hope of a reunion that grows less likely with each passing year.
The Persistent Wounds: Long-term Health Effects
The chemical agents used in Halabja—particularly mustard gas and nerve agents—continue to claim victims decades after the attack. Survivors suffer from a constellation of chronic health problems that have transformed the city into an open-air laboratory for studying the long-term effects of chemical warfare.
Dr. Mohammad Ali Mohammadi, who has treated Halabja survivors for over twenty years, explains: “We see respiratory diseases, eye problems, skin conditions, and neurological disorders that are directly attributable to chemical exposure. The genetic damage is also evident—birth defects among children born to survivors occur at rates far higher than the general population.”
The most common conditions include chronic bronchitis, asthma, pulmonary fibrosis, and other respiratory ailments that make breathing a daily struggle. Eye problems include corneal damage and chronic conjunctivitis, while skin disorders range from persistent rashes to unusual pigmentation and precancerous lesions.
Cancer rates in Halabja have soared in the decades following the attack. Studies indicate incidences of colon, lung, and thyroid cancers at rates 3-5 times higher than comparable populations. Leukemia and lymphoma are particularly prevalent among those who were children during the attack.
“I cannot breathe properly for even one day,” says Aras Hussein, who was exposed to the chemicals as a teenager. “My skin burns when I sweat. My eyes water constantly. Every day I am reminded of what happened.”
Psychological trauma compounds the physical suffering. Post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, anxiety, and suicide rates are significantly elevated among survivors. The sound of aircraft overhead can still trigger panic attacks among residents decades later.
Medical care for these specific conditions remains inadequate. Despite international aid efforts and the construction of specialized treatment centers, Halabja’s healthcare infrastructure struggles to meet the needs of survivors. Many must travel to Iran or Europe for specialized treatments, an option available only to those with financial means.
Most troubling is the intergenerational impact. Studies suggest genetic damage from chemical exposure affects not only survivors but their offspring. Children born to survivors show elevated rates of congenital malformations, developmental delays, and susceptibility to certain diseases—a genocide that continues to claim victims who weren’t even born when the attacks occurred.
Return and Reintegration: The Challenge of Coming Home
When Kurdistan achieved semi-autonomous status in the late 1990s under international protection, many Halabja refugees began returning from Iran. For those who had spent a decade in exile, homecoming proved bittersweet.
The physical city they returned to was a shadow of the one they had fled. Much of Halabja remained in ruins, with limited reconstruction. Infrastructure was minimal, job opportunities scarce, and basic services unreliable. Many families returned to find their homes occupied by others or reduced to rubble.
For children and young adults who had grown up in Iran, the challenges were particularly acute. Language formed the most immediate barrier—many spoke only Persian or heavily accented Kurdish, making them outsiders in their own homeland.
“When I came back, I couldn’t attend school because I couldn’t understand the lessons,” explains Rojin Azad, who returned from Iran at age 14. “The other students called me ‘Ajami’ [foreigner]. I had to start at a much lower grade despite being older. Many of my friends simply gave up.”
Educational systems proved inflexible in accommodating these returning students. Few transitional programs existed to help them adjust linguistically or academically. School dropout rates among returnee children reached alarming levels, creating a generation with limited education and poor job prospects.
Cultural reintegration presented another layer of challenges. Young returnees had absorbed Iranian customs, religious practices, and social norms that sometimes clashed with local Kurdish traditions. Young women who had grown accustomed to certain freedoms in Iran sometimes found themselves restricted by more conservative local practices. Young men struggled to find their place in traditional family structures after years of independence.
Family reunifications, while emotionally powerful, often revealed unbridgeable gaps. Parents and children who had spent formative years apart struggled to connect. Authority structures within families were challenged as returnees brought different expectations about family dynamics.
“My parents were strangers to me,” admits Heval Karim, who returned after twelve years in Iran. “They expected me to be the son they lost, but I had become someone else. It took years before we could truly talk to each other.”
Economic reintegration proved equally difficult. Skills and education acquired in Iran were often not recognized in Kurdistan. Many returnees found themselves unemployable or relegated to menial jobs despite professional qualifications. This economic marginalization contributed to a sense of perpetual displacement—no longer refugees, but not fully integrated either.
Despite these challenges, Halabja has slowly rebuilt. Memorial museums preserve the memory of the massacre, while international recognition has brought resources for reconstruction. In 2014, the Iraqi government officially recognized the Halabja massacre as genocide, providing victims with some measure of acknowledgment, if not justice.
For many survivors, however, full reintegration remains elusive. They exist in a liminal space—physically present in their homeland but permanently altered by experiences of exile. Their story represents the often-overlooked long tail of atrocity—how a single day of violence creates ripples that continue to disrupt lives for generations.
The Halabja massacre stands alongside Hiroshima and Nagasaki as one of history’s most devastating examples of weapons of mass destruction used against civilian populations. While the immediate death toll of approximately 5,000 is horrific enough, the true human cost extends far beyond that day in March 1988.
Physical ailments continue to plague survivors, missing children remain separated from their families, and the psychological scars have left an indelible mark on an entire community. The experience of displacement—both the physical exodus to Iran and the cultural displacement of return—demonstrates how genocide fractures not just bodies but identities.
As the world continues to grapple with chemical weapons use in more recent conflicts, Halabja serves as a stark reminder of both the immediate and long-term consequences of these prohibited weapons. It stands as testimony to humanity’s capacity for cruelty but also resilience—a community that, despite unimaginable suffering, continues to rebuild, remember, and demand recognition of their story.
The children of Halabja—those who died, those who survived, those still missing, and those born into the aftermath—embody both the tragedy of what happened and the ongoing struggle for healing and justice. Their story is not merely historical but contemporary, not simply Kurdish but universal—a reminder that the effects of genocide persist long after the chemical clouds have dissipated.
