Hiroshima, Halabja, and Gaza… Why Did They Kill Us?

Three cities in different countries, separated by thousands of miles, yet each bears a history of profound significance for all humanity. The first is Hiroshima, where, on August 6, 1945, the first use of nuclear weapons in human history took place. The second is Halabja, which endured a brutal and devastating military campaign against its predominantly Kurdish population, alongside an Assyrian minority, and the surrounding areas, as part of what became known as the Anfal Campaign carried out by the Iraqi army under Saddam Hussein. Chemical weapons were used, arbitrary arrests were conducted, and people were killed on the basis of their identity. The third is the Gaza Strip, which has witnessed one of the largest campaigns of destruction over the past three years. Its people continue to endure every form of mass killing, starvation, the deliberate devastation of the land, and the destruction of crops—acts and practices that fall within the legal definition of genocide.

What these three cities have in common is the use of highly destructive and lethal weapons, claiming thousands of lives in the blink of an eye, as happened in the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. They also share a history of systematic killing and destruction carried out over successive periods—in the case of the Kurdish regions of northern Iraq, between 1986 and 1988—claiming the lives of more than 100,000 Kurds, Assyrians, and members of other ethnic minorities. In Gaza, we witness the unfolding tragedy every day: the Strip has been devastated, more than 75,000 people have been killed, and 175,000 injured, with the toll continuing to rise by the hour.

Entire cities have been wiped out in all three cases. Whole families have disappeared, and victims’ bodies have been torn apart by nuclear radiation, toxic chemical gases, depleted uranium munitions, and incendiary bombs that leave little trace of those they strike. Some people, by fate, survived to witness these horrors, and they still live among us, afflicted by grave illnesses and profound psychological trauma. Their suffering is visible in their eyes, the movements of their hands, their faltering steps, and the tearful words they struggle to utter when recalling the enormity of what they endured. They are all witnesses to some of the bloodiest and most morally depraved acts in human history, acts that reveal the true nature of leaders who have lost every vestige of humanity, consumed by a savage desire for revenge, seemingly oblivious to the fact that, in the eyes of all decent human beings, they have become symbols of bloodshed.

On August 6, 2005, the sixtieth anniversary of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima, I took part, at the invitation of the Japanese government, in several activities commemorating that painful event. Just days before the anniversary, the United States released documents relating to the decision to use atomic bombs to force Japan into submission and compel its surrender—even after the Japanese Emperor, Hirohito, had offered to surrender unconditionally. That offer was disregarded by US President Harry Truman, who ordered the bombs known as Little Boy to be dropped on Hiroshima and Fat Man on Nagasaki, regardless of the potential consequences for human life. These documents confirmed that the decision to use nuclear weapons had been made without the slightest opposition from military leaders, who praised it and regarded it as a momentous historical breakthrough.

At that anniversary, several elderly women who had survived without suffering direct physical injuries stood before the audience. They had been young girls at the time, yet they had not escaped the toxic effects of radiation and the serious illnesses it caused. Frailty was evident in their eyes, their bodily movements, and their weak voices. They spoke about the malignant diseases they had developed and the loss of their children, husbands, relatives, and friends. They ended their testimonies by urging people to learn the lessons of the past and remain committed to peace.

The same stories can be heard in Halabja, almost as though the words of the tragedy had never changed. This Kurdish city suffered grievously during the inhumane Anfal Campaign, when several thousand of its residents were killed and thousands more developed debilitating illnesses. Among them was Kishow Re Walodja Hama Yes, a guide at the Halabja Museum who explains the tragedy to visitors: how it happened and how the brutality of the Iraqi military was inflicted upon unarmed civilians, including women and children. She herself underwent several surgical operations, the scars of which remain visible across various parts of her body.

She was explaining the exhibits to an unofficial Egyptian delegation, showing them paintings and photographs taken by a Dutch photographer who had secretly entered the city less than a week after chemical weapons had been used. Several awards were later bestowed upon him for some of his most famous photographs. One depicts a mother embracing her child, both buried beneath the rubble and dust, as she tries to shield the child from lethal radiation and poisonous substances. Yet both ultimately attained the honor of martyrdom.

These are the same kinds of images that have emerged from Gaza and reached the entire world throughout the past three years. Hundreds of mothers—if not thousands—have held their beloved children close to their chests, only for mother and child to be killed together. And these images are only part of the story, alongside the scenes of devastation and ruin, and the remains of places and possessions that have become nothing more than painful memories.

And the question remains: Why did they kill us?

When the renowned American actress Angelina Jolie shared an image of the destruction in the Gaza Strip two weeks ago, accompanied by a photograph of the same place before it was destroyed by the occupying army under orders from Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, one could not help feeling as though one were looking at images of Hiroshima, with its homes and buildings reduced to ashes. These images bear a striking resemblance to those displayed in the modest Halabja Museum: photographs of destroyed buildings, burned-out vehicles, and landmarks so thoroughly obliterated that it is impossible to tell what they once were. They have been reduced to nothingness.

Wars that violate every principle of humanity, regardless of who leads them or who carries them out, leave behind victims and painful memories that constitute a common thread linking all these tragedies. This should compel all humanity to stand firmly and resolutely against those who have been stripped of their humanity.

Originally published in Asharq Al-Awsat newspaper.