Only a limited number of genocidal events in the last century so widely documented and still so many the like went with no much attentions. So horrified of its tragedy, however, modern world seems now more united than 25 years ago on condemning a tyrant-made horrendous crime in Kurdistan. And still, neither an obscure ruling tribe of the Sad-&-dam(n) tyranny nor his savage ideology have come forth so far with any justification for mass chemical-slaughter of ancient Kardouchoi along with all traces of life in the entire Kurdish town of Halabjah! Further to his rule of barbarian might, and in what seems to defend an abortive nation-state, his well-armed gangs will march triumphantly from village to village, of which thousands of them being grounded into dust and death. And unaccountable Kurds [100,000-300,000, Hitchens Ch., 1992] have been herded like wingless birds into race-murder: bowed either into mass graves or the unknown. In this enormous eruption of evil, destruction has reached even their only lonely ancient guardian angel. The Kurds, offspring of the ‘first-class students of Nature’, and who almost always dwelt up and made friendliness amongst the mountains, have become children of silence. Their tears, would cry the cruelty of brother ‘‘Moslmãn’’, and so to wonder if there is any mercy in that hearts. Mountain after mountain will be stripped of its natural-clothes of native forests! And therein, only ancient ‘‘K´aû’’ seems on the scene as to pray on their side. However flying in the face of the carnage, the poor birds have been left in despair. Amid thousands and thousands of mischief, and whilst their ancient “High Gardens” will be turned as bird-less, and honey-less as ever, virgin Nature being raped by brute thugs in uniforms! Amid the myriad of insects and the stench of the dying sons and dead men, yet, amid this storm of love, and that inevitable hatred, a broken-hearted father, has come again to witness the bleeding battlefield, pleading but his plea, with bare hands raised above, and lips moving so aloud... Why!
Ironically, once man was seen retreating full of arrows, once more as to die full of bullets, but now no more retreats, nor visible wounds, all men shall be mowed down, blood and flesh, with noxious gassing or thundering atoms. What a pyrrhic victory! To condemn to eternal damnation, we moderns have to admit that the tragic birth of tyranny seems all the same: whenever whole nation is deprived off its sense of freewill by one dominant cruelty of absolutism. In that when the foolery is so acute and all games are done: as he is ruling without rules: freedom is under arrest, and the creative pile of civilization is diminished into one loud voice of a tyrant who plans every thought and action of his faceless folk. He is none than a wicked herdsman, whose rod is often to condemn them into dispersion, yet herding them only to exalt him in lore and songs. Oddly enough, all these devilish means would go against the tender moans of the little flute of a reed at hand of this and that herdsman in Kurdistan. Haval had eternally breathed it loud upon hills and mountains of ancient Zagros. The sweetly intoned moans of his faraway flute being heard everywhere, where its echoes are sad reminders of the unfolded love of freedom as well as of most needed sacrifices. Haval is still alive… in the heart of all of the Kurds, men and women.