For Kurds in the homeland and diaspora, the scent of apples is one that, especially during the month of March, revives scars from the past. For those of us who grew up hearing stories about the Halabja Massacre of March 16, 1988, we are familiar with the narrative of late dictator Saddam Hussein’s use of chemical weapons, which smelled strongly of sweet apples, to gas this Kurdish city, ultimately claiming the lives of 5,000 people.

2023 marks 35 years since the deadly attack on the city, yet the lasting implications of the attack are still affecting Kurds across the world. Many survivors and their children deal with both psychological and physical consequences, such as respiratory illnesses. Moreover, the denial of the massacre, the continued idealization of Ba’athism (the political ideology of Saddam Hussein and Bashar al-Assad of Syria), and the persistent occupation of Kurdistan are all alive and rampant in the Middle East and in diasporic communities.

As a student of Kurdish and Syrian-Arab heritage, I have grappled with the reality of these two conflicting identities for years. In Arab spaces especially, I have tried to amplify the stories of Kurdistan as much as possible. While there are many in my community who have expressed support and advocated for Kurdistan, I have noticed the lasting effects of bigotry and tribalism still taking place in our own campus spaces. Whether defending songs that mourn Saddam Hussein, chanting the Farsi translation of “jin, jiyan, azadi” without crediting its Kurdish origin, or claiming that a Kurdish state will only cause chaos in the Middle East, many on campus have reminded me that being Kurdish in diaspora does not make me immune to the erasure and oppression people in Kurdistan face.

Many who praise Saddam Hussein as an “anti-imperialist,” pro-unity leader forget that the attack on Halabja was not possible without the help of Western forces including the United States. CIA files prove that the United States gave military and monetary aid to Saddam Hussein the same year he committed the attack against Halabja. Yet there are always excuses to back the oppressive dictator despite the Anfal Campaign, his genocide against the Kurds of modern-day northern Iraq.

There is a famous Kurdish proverb that goes, “We have no friends but the mountains.” This phrase has always been symbolic of the repeated neglect and abandonment of Kurds by other communities in the midst of their oppression. The mountains have always been a place of refuge for Kurds — much unlike their neighbors — concealing them from the armies and fighters who work to ethnically cleanse Kurdish cities, towns, and villages.

Remembering my mother’s stories of childhood under the Saddam Hussein regime in Halabja, I am filled with anger each time I hear someone claiming Saddam Hussein was a good leader “besides the Kurdish issue.” I, along with the millions of other Kurds across the world, am tired of having our stories brushed off to the side. There should be no “besides.” Occupation does not vanish our population; it does not erase our stories, our culture, or our language. Our land.

Occupation does not erase Kurdistan.

This is why we continue to speak. Because attempts at ethnically cleansing Kurds still persist today.

Just a few weeks ago, on Kurdish Clothing Day, Iraqi forces guarding the entrance to a university in the disputed city of Kirkuk denied entry to Kurds wearing traditional clothing. Kirkuk, an oil-rich city, has been subjected to land grabs by the Iraqi government as well as an Arabization campaign with roots in the Saddam Hussein regime.

Around the same time, on March 20, the Turkish-backed Syrian National Army (formerly known as the “Free Syrian Army”) shot and killed four members of a Kurdish family celebrating Newroz, the new year and spring solstice.

These are just a few of the many attacks on Kurdish people under their occupying states. From Rojava (“Syrian” Kurdistan) to Rojhelat (“Iranian” Kurdistan), the occupation poisons Kurdish society the same way Saddam poisoned Halabja. History is repeating itself through the erasure, gaslighting, and silencing of Kurdish people in the diaspora. I have seen this in my own experiences on campus, a disheartening example of how harmful ideologies like pan-Arabism and Ba’athism have left a lasting impression on both diasporic and homeland communities.

But despite the displacement of our people and the dispossession of our land, we still resist. We celebrate Newroz in our vibrant traditional clothing and dance the halparke. We yell “jin, jiyan, azadi” even when our occupiers try to take this phrase away from us. We raise our Kurdish flag higher and higher, we preserve our mountains to reaffirm our connection to our lands, and we tell the stories of our people. We say we are Kurdish — not Iraqi, Syrian, Turkish, or Iranian.

Our freedom rests on the preservation of our cultures, the rise against our occupying powers, and the storytelling of our past. I truly believe that one day, we will no longer be silenced, but liberated. One day, it will no longer be considered “divisive” or “provocative” for me to say that I am both Kurdish and Arab. One day, others will see that my two ethnic identities do not oppose each other, but work to uplift one another.

I know that soon, others around the world who work to understand Kurdistan’s history and reality will join the mountains in supporting us.

Dalal Hassane ’26 lives in Matthews Hall.