Hardy Azeez

06/09/2025

I am launching Go Local is launching soon!

I am building a simple way for locals to find and choose local businesses and keen the cash in the local community, and I love to support you.

What you’ll get
You can collect more 5-star reviews with a simple link or QR code
Catch problems privately so you can fix them fast
Send happy customers to your Google Reviews
Be listed in a local directory that helps your SEO
Post news, events, blogs, and discounts or coupons

My team and I are here to help set things up and make it work for your business.

🎁 Launch offer: First 500 Australian businesses get 3 months free Google Review Management .

👉 Register here: https://golocal.au

If you run a local business or know a small business owner please tag them in this post.

Thank you
Hardy

We believe small businesses are the heart of every community. They sponsor the local sports teams, they employ our kids, and they care about our neighbourhoods. When we spend locally, the money stays in our community. It helps families, supports jobs, and builds stronger towns and cities.

31/10/2024

I suppose in the end the whole of life becomes an act of letting go, but what hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye…!

Pi

03/10/2024

Part Six - Where to Now? A Journey into Uncertainty

Three days had passed since the chemical attacks ravaged Balisan and the surrounding villages. Three days without proper food, subsisting on nothing but plain, dry bread. We had left behind everything - our home, our belongings, everyone we knew, including my father - and were heading towards a city full of people searching for us.

In Saruchawa, my mother hired a taxi bound for Koya. Before we left, she gave us strict instructions: absolute silence, especially as we entered towns. Each town on both sides of our route had a military checkpoint, heavily armed soldiers constantly on the lookout for Peshmerga families. My mother, with a strength I'm still in awe of today, had crafted a cover story about who we were and where we were heading. She managed to mimic the local accent and dialect, a skill that would prove crucial in the hours to come.

The taxi was cramped beyond belief. Hoger and Nazhad squeezed into the front passenger seat next to the driver. I sat in the back, my mother behind the driver with Ziryan in her arms, while the other lady and her two children sat behind Hoger and Nazhad. Seatbelts were a foreign concept to us then. As we approached each checkpoint, my heart would race. The soldiers would ask who we were and where we were going. My mother would answer with our fabricated story - we were locals, heading into the city as instructed. Somehow, she always managed to convince them we were of no interest. Perhaps the sight of a young mother, barely 21, with a brood of children seemed harmless enough.

Arriving in Koya brought a momentary sense of relief. My mother managed to procure some food and water from local shops, which we devoured quickly. But our journey was far from over. We caught another taxi, this time bound for Hawler. The 45-minute trip felt like an eternity. Military convoys passed us on the highway, heading in the opposite direction. We knew they were resupplying and supporting the forces that had already established themselves in our region. The reality of the ongoing conflicts - both the skirmishes between Peshmerga fighters and the Iraqi Army, and the larger Iraq-Iran war - hung heavily in the air.

Only years later would I fully grasp the complex geopolitical web we were caught in. Iraq, boasting one of the world's most powerful and well-equipped forces, had support from both the US and the Soviets. Meanwhile, these same superpowers were secretly providing aid and weapons to Iran. The Iranians, in turn, used Iraqi Kurds to fight Saddam while providing air and military support. It was a deadly game of chess, with Kurdish lives as pawns.

As we approached Hawler, the enormity of what lay ahead began to sink in. The entry to the city was a major checkpoint, hundreds of cars being meticulously checked both entering and leaving. The soldiers looked serious and dangerous. We were under strict orders to mind our business, avoid eye contact, and refrain from any conversation.

I remember the taxi driver attempting small talk, asking where we were from. My mother's responses were curt, revealing nothing. "Coming from Koya, going back home in Hawler," she said when asked directly. When he inquired about the chemical bombings, she deflected, "I'm sorry, we've only heard what you seem to know. We're not aware of anything, we've been visiting family."
The driver, sensing my mother's reluctance, fell silent. But the look on his face suggested he knew more than he let on. Perhaps he recognized the signs - dirt-covered, exhausted children don't typically return from a simple family visit. I believe he knew we were a Peshmerga family who had lost everything, and his silence was his way of helping us pass the checkpoints safely.

At the final checkpoint, my heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. The soldier approached our car, and for a moment, I was certain we'd be detained and sent to the infamous Abu Ghraib prison. But after a brief exchange with the driver, he waved us through. The relief was palpable.

Once in Hawler, my mother, ever cautious, had us switch taxis to avoid being followed. Exhausted, we made our way to drop off our travelling companions - the woman and her two children - with her in-laws. It was there that she received the devastating news that her husband had been killed. Her world shattered before our eyes, her hope that her children would see their father again cruelly extinguished. For a moment we felt the same fear that we may never see my father again and that his silhouette as we left him in Ware would be the last memory of him.

Our own ordeal was far from over. We arrived at the home of one of my father's cousins, only to find their entire life's belongings, along with his wife and children, out on the street. They too had been displaced, as their landlords were ordered by the regime to relocate back to the city and had evicted them so their family can have a roof over their heads, perhaps a ripple effect of a cruel reality of life as a Kurd, regardless if you are a peshmerga family or not Saddam had a plan for us all for the crime of being bork a Kurd. While he was glad to see us safe, his wife's fear was apparent. She knew all too well the consequences of harboring fugitives.

What followed was a desperate search for shelter. We went to sixteen homes that day, knocking on the doors of relatives and friends. No one would take us in, including my grandparents! We could not go to him since we knew his neighbours who worked as government officials and knew about us and did know my mother as they as she grew up with their kids. As night fell and rain began to pour, we found ourselves truly homeless - a young mother and five children, alone on the streets of Hawler.

We sat down next to a wall, defeated. My mother, who had been a pillar of strength, finally broke down. As she cried, a man approached us slowly. I saw fear flicker across my mother's face - was he a government official? An informant? Who is he? Why is he coming this way? Will we be arrested? Is this it for us?
But this man turned out to be our salvation. "Sister, how are you? Are you okay? Why are you crying?" he asked.

My mother, desperate but still cautious, explained our situation. His response was immediate and kind: "That's okay, I am your family. I am your brother. Come with me, you can stay with us until you figure something out."

For two weeks, we lived with this stranger's family. My mother, to this day, says, "There is no heaven without this man in it." Our hosts even arranged an escape route for us - through their roof, connected to their neighbour's house, with access to the back street through a small storage room called "Koshk."

As things settled slightly, my mother began to form a plan. Her next mission was clear and dangerous - she needed to try and locate my father.

Looking back now, the kindness of strangers that saved us, and the complex web of global politics that shaped our lives. I can't help but think of the tens of thousands of others who lived through similar ordeals. What lessons did they learn? What pain have they carried for the past four decades? Did they even survive? Where are they now? These are thoughts that run through my mind as I write and wonder. The more I think about our ordeal in the relative safety of our lives now the more questions I have.

27/09/2024

Part Four

The Sky Rained Death

Rumours had been swirling for weeks. Hushed conversations among the adults, worried glances exchanged over our heads. Saddam, they whispered, had developed chemical weapons. As children, we had no real understanding of what this meant. The words were just that - words, with no weight of horror behind them yet.

I remember finding a manual in our house, its pages filled with dense text and diagrams. My uncle, a former Iraqi Army major and commanding officer of an elite commando unit, had brought it when he defected to join my father. The manual detailed the effects of gas on people and what to do to survive. I'd catch glimpses of my father poring over it late at night, his face illuminated by the flickering light of our kerosene lamp.

The men of the village would gather, discussing strategies and plans. "What if we're gassed?" they'd ask each other. But it all seemed so unlikely, so distant from our reality of mountain life and daily struggles.

Until the day it wasn't.

It was late in the afternoon on April 16, 1987 - a date forever seared into my memory. The day our world began to shatter.
My father and brother Nazhad had gone to the shops, Hoger, my eldest brother, had gone to buy some yoghurt. Rebin and I were outside playing with the neighbours' kids, while Ziryan was a toddler with my mum.

The first sign was the sound - a large number of aircraft, people counted over a dozen aircraft, the most we had ever seen over the region, as their engines' menacing growl filled the sky. My mother's voice cut through the air, sharp with fear;

"RUN TO THE SHELTER!" she screamed.

Rebin and I paused for a second as we heard too many planes and looked up and to see the aircrafts, I was confused and terrified at the same time, I could hear mum screaming again:

"RUN, RUN KIDS RUN…!"

I looked at my mother's face running towards us with fear on her face and Ziryan on her arm. We ran for cover as other kids and families joined us in the shelter while the aircraft could be heard over Balisan. As we scrambled inside, hearts were pounding. Then came the thuds - explosions, but different from what we'd heard before. They sounded wrong, felt wrong in a way my five-year-old self couldn't articulate. Shortly after we could smell some unusual burnt food or cooking. We could not be sure exactly what it was. That was the moment, in a moment, while our family was fractured, scattered across the village and death rained poison from above. We were completely taken by surprise and unaware that this is the last day we will be living in our humble home in Balisan and our lives have just changed again forever.

Shortly after we could hear my fathers voice loud but terrified from a distance and getting louder, I could still hear his voice echo in my mind, raw with panic, as he ran back towards our shelter yelling:

"RONAK, RONAK! GET OUT, GET THE KIDS, IT’S GASS"

My mother's face, usually so strong, crumpled with terror, screamed:

“EVERYONE OUT…”

As we run out I looked to the left I saw my father running towards us and ripping pisces of Pizhden - that familiar black cotton sheet with tiny white dots - into smaller pieces (Pizhden is a traditional Kurdish clothing that men and in some parts of Kurdistan women wear around their waist, used for support, as a belt, or as survival tool and a fashion statement). When my father got to us the first thing my mother asked was:

"DO YOU HAVE HOGER WITH YOU? He went to get some yoghourt."

The shake of my father's head with a form “NO..!” was an answer that threatened to break her. She fell to her knees in despair and quickly got up realising we do not have time. They got into action, as my father ripped sheets off his Pizhden my mother soaked it and handed it to us and said:

“CLIMB AND DO NOT STOP… KEEP GOING” Pointing to the mountain behind Balisan.

Meanwhile, Hoger was on his way back when he saw the aircrafts, he run to hide under the public toilet building in the sewers, as the aircrafts dropped their first payload, he then ran to a nearby bunker with another family of 13 who were hiding and waiting for the threat to pass. Soon one of young Peshmerga fighters (Azad) who was living with us, ran past their shelter, shouting warnings:
"EVERYONE GET OUT, IT’S GAS! GET UP THE MOUNTAIN!!"

Seeing Hoger in there, he grabbed Hoger, and said:
“WE NEED TO GO NOW”

Hoger was then reunited with us while my parents were getting us ready to leave.

Later, my father would tell us how he and Nazhad had gone and hidden under the same building as Hoger, however, they did not see him due to the chaos as everyone had run under there to take cover, and everyone watching in horror as the aircraft dropped their payloads. Thick smoke billowed out, and my father's blood ran cold as he realised: this was the chemical attack they'd feared.

My mother after seeing Hoger with Azad, had a sigh of relief, her family was reunited, but the danger had just begun so we ran up the mountain as fast as we could, with nothing but the clothes on our backs and these makeshift masks. My father and other men continued shouting warnings throughout the village, urging everyone to leave immediately.

Most heeded the call, fleeing up the mountain. But some, unable to believe the severity of the situation, stayed behind. Others delayed, trying to grab a few possessions. These moments of hesitation would prove fatal for many.

As darkness fell, we found ourselves high on the mountainside, the path barely visible. My mother realised we had no food or water, and said to my father: “I have to go back to get some food for the kids. This is the last chance, else we have nothing…” he hesitantly agreed and urged to please be safe. Hoger decided to go with mum. They rushed back into the village by the time they got back there was gas covering all surfaces. My mother had baked some fresh bread the day prior and she had it wrapped in plastic to stop mice from getting to it, which meant it was safe to be consumed and not poisoned by the gas. She quickly grabs as much bread as she could with Hoger and carries it back up the mountain feeling some sense of comfort. Not realising that our ordeal has just began Meanwhile My father, drawing on the knowledge from that manual, instructed everyone to light fires; "It will thin out the air from the gas," he explained. "We can breathe easier." All this time, we kept the damp cloth pressed to our mouths and noses, desperate for any protection. Mum and Hoger safely joined us and we were whole again.

But the fires that were meant to save us, became visible targets for our attackers. Artillery shells began to rain down on our position, with more gas. We extinguished the fires and prepared to move, the shelling stopped, we had a momentary sigh of hope, only to face a new horror. Within minutes two helicopters arrived, circling the area and pumping out more gas.

Left with no choice, we began to descend the other side of the mountain. What we found at the bottom was a scene of horror and despair. People were everywhere - women and children crying, others struggling to breathe. Bodies lay scattered on the ground, some already lifeless, others in their final throes. We had no choice but to step over them as we fled since the danger was more real now than before as all the gas from the afternoon and evening is now coming down the valley and prolonged exposure means certain death. Even the livestock people had brought with them are now lying dying or dead, victims of the indiscriminate gas. I remember the night was dark and all I could hear were people crying, screaming, cursing and praying. Scared, confused and emotional I trusted my parents. We were all very quiet and did exactly as we were told knowing anything else would mean death.

Through the night mother carried Ziryan, her arms, on her back on her shoulder tight, as if she could shield him from the poisoned air. My father had Rebin on his shoulders, one hand steadying the child while the other clutched his rifle, ever vigilant for new threats. Hoger carried whatever bread we had with us and followed my father with me and Nazhad behind him and my mom bringing up the rear, just as she always did and leaving no one behind. We started to climb the mountain on the other side of the valley we been walking a narrow path for a while In a moment that haunts me still, climbing was not easy and my father had told Rebin to hold on to his head so he can hike and navigate the narrow footpath safely. It is now late into the night, Rebin, exhausted and overcome, fell asleep and tumbled from my father's shoulders onto the rocks below. For a heartbeat, desperation and anguish overtook my father;

"Maybe I should just shoot him," he cried out, "and save him from this misery." My mother's voice, choked with tears, jumped on him and sheltered him and pleaded,"Zirar, please don't..."

It was a moment of utter despair, where the cruelty of our situation threatened to break even the strongest among us. I felt terrified and thought this was the end. In that moment, my father seemed like a stranger to me - for a moment the man was transformed by desperation and anguish into someone I did not recognise. The world I knew, where my father was a pillar of strength and safety, suddenly felt like it was crumbling. I was frozen, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what was happening, yet acutely aware that something fundamental had shifted. The fear I felt wasn't just for Rebin or myself, but for the very fabric of our family that seemed to be unravelling before my eyes. It was as if the poison gas had seeped into our souls, threatening to corrode the bonds that held us together for so long. In that fleeting, horrible instant, My father then composed himself and I could see he felt terrible, slung his rifle and picked up Rebin hugged him and continued climbing up the track. As we continued our ascent, I found myself at the front of my father, following a narrow footpath. The cries of the suffering echoed from below - mothers clutching their babies, fathers holding their children, all struggling for every breath. At five and a half years old, I was beyond exhausted, hungry, and disoriented. It was well past midnight, and we had no idea where we were going or what awaited us up there. I just listened to my father and followed the footpath and never said a word. Never complained about being tired, sleepy or hungry, I knew there was no going back, going back meant we would all perish.

While deep in thought and trying to make sense of the madness around us, it was this moment of vulnerability, fate dealt another blow. A cow, maddened by the effects of the gas, came charging down the mountain. Before I could react, it gored me, lifted me into the air and threw me off to the left where there was a cliff well over 100m high, throwing me off the path. By some miracle, I managed to grab a small shrub as I fell, my scream piercing the night. My father, with reflexes honed by years of survival, rushed to grab my arm, pulling me back to relative safety. I was shaken and terrified of the night and what else could happen. I got behind my father, my mother ran up and checked on me, asked if I was ok, you could see she was terrified and thought that fate had finally caught up with her and took one of her children before her. I said I am ok while terrified and teary eyed and continued to walk.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of struggles, we reached our destination - a massive cave on the mountain, where others had gathered to hide. We collapsed onto the hard ground, our bodies aching, our spirits battered but unbroken. We found safety in the mountains that had provided our ancestors with 1000s of years of shelter and safety, it is no wonder why as Kurds we say: “No Friends But the mountains!”

I layed there, surrounded by the quiet sobs of the survivors and watched more people join us in the cave. I realised that we are homeless with nowhere to go, but somehow I trusted my parents and believed everything will be ok as long as we have them with us, despite all the pain that our family and people have and would suffered. We had survived, against all odds, and in that survival lay the seeds of hope - and the unbreakable bonds of shared trauma that would shape the rest of our lives.

As I reflect and write these words decades later, the memories flood back with an intensity that still takes my breath away. Years ago, when I first attempted to put this experience to paper, the pain was too raw, the emotions too overwhelming. I had to stop, unable to confront the full weight of what we had endured. Now, as a father myself, I look back on that night with a new perspective, one that brings both understanding and questions.
I find myself wondering about the emotions that must have been going through my parents during those terrifying ordeals. What fears gripped my mother's heart as she gathered her children, knowing that any mistake could mean our lives? What strength did it take for her to go back for bread, knowing the risks but unable to bear the thought of her children going hungry? And my father - what internal battles was he fighting as he led us to safety? The moment he contemplated ending Rebin's suffering haunts me still, not just for its horror, but for the depth of despair it reveals.

Now, in the safety of a different life, I ask myself: If faced with such a situation, wouldn't my priority be solely my family's safety? Why did my father not simply take us and flee, leaving behind the cause that had brought such danger to our doorstep? Was this the best he could do, or did the vision of a free Kurdistan burn so brightly that it justified risking everything, even his family?

Yet, even as I question, I find myself in awe of their resilience, my mother would have been about 20 years old and my father barely 27 blows my mind, their unwavering commitment not just to our survival, but to a larger cause. Perhaps, in those moments of crisis, the personal and the political, the family and the national, had become so intertwined that separating them was impossible. My father's fight for Kurdistan was, in his mind, a fight for our future - a future where all Kurdish children wouldn't have to face the horrors we endured that night. I realise that the strength that carried us through that night - the strength that has carried the Kurdish people through centuries of persecution - is a complex tapestry of love, duty, hope, and an unbreakable spirit. This night, terrible as it was, was but one chapter in a longer story of struggle and survival. A story that continues to unfold today, not just for me and my family, but for all Kurds who dream of freedom and peace. In sharing these memories, painful as they are, I hope to honour my parents and the sacrifices of those whom we lost on that unforgettable night and those that came before us and to inspire hope in those who continue the fight for a better future.

26/09/2024

Shadows Over Balisan

The beauty of Balisan, with its rugged mountains and close-knit community, was forever intertwined with a pervasive shadow of fear and violence. The Iraqi regime's aircraft became as much a part of our daily lives as the rising sun, their ominous drone a constant reminder of our precarious existence.

I was about five years old when the harsh realities of our situation etched themselves into my memory. My eldest brother, Hoger, had not been to school yet, however his teacher, a young man barely into his twenties, had been killed in an airstrike that targeted his school. Out of curiosity my brother Nazhad and I managed to sneak through the crowd take a look at the teacher’s lifeless body, The image of that teacher's body being prepared for burial at the local mosque is seared into my mind - half his head missing, a grim reminder of the senseless violence that plagued our lives. As a child you can't make sense of such violence. The most rouble sound to me a child was the crying of the mothers of the scene of helpless men sitting with face in their hands in tears trying to understand the world around them. I was confused and terrified not knowing what does death mean and how it changes people, families and society.

I vividly remember years later, my father shared a story from that horrific day that haunts me still. That young teacher's father had come, grief-stricken, begging to see his son's body one last time. "That day," my father told me, his eyes distant with the memory and siad: "When I heard that man cry and hold the lifeless body of his only son. I saw the true pain of a man's heart break”. It was in that moment that was taken back to that day as if I had just witnessed it all over again. It was only then that I understood that the scars of war run deeper than any physical wound, the impact it has on generations are far greater than anyone expects.

As a result of such constant violence and fear of death, our world shrunk in response to the constant threat. We were never allowed to venture far from home, our parents' fears of us being killed and lost forever creating invisible boundaries that hemmed us in. I remember the scoldings from my mother if we strayed too far, her anger barely masking her terror. Each time the bombs fell, a chorus of voices would rise: "Where did it hit? Is anyone hurt?" Life seemed terribly short and expendable to those who sought our destruction.

Paradoxically, this shared danger brought us closer together. There was a bond forged in our common struggle, a unity born of facing a threat that loomed over us all equally. In the face of death, we found strength in each other.

Nights in Balisan were a special kind of torment. We would go to bed exhausted, only to be jolted awake in the small hours by our parents' urgent voices. "Get up, we need to move now!" The fear in their eyes was palpable as we scrambled to grab blankets and pillows. In single file, we'd follow my father out into the biting cold, my mother bringing up the rear, each parent carrying one of the younger children along with whatever supplies they could manage.

I can still feel the crunch of deep snow under my feet, the sting of freezing air in my lungs as we marched to the cave my father and his friends had dug into the mountainside. The damp, cold earth of that makeshift shelter became our second home. We'd huddle together on cardboard and woven plastic rugs, trying to find sleep as artillery shells screamed overhead, the ground shaking with each impact. When the firing stopped, we'd make the trek back home, our brief respite over until the next attack.

Our house, humble as it was, became a fortress against more than just the cold. My parents would stay up most of the night, tending the woodfire stove and adjusting our blankets. I'd drift in and out of sleep, aware of my mother at one end of our shared “bed” as we all slept on the ground laying side by side and joked that we sleep like a tin of sardines (not that there was much of a supply of sardines). My father at the other, their protective presence a comfort against the terrors outside. My father would sleep with his rifle by his side. He had taught my mother how to use it if she needed it against any possible threats.

The simplest amenities became luxuries in our besieged life. We had no indoor bathroom; my father had constructed a makeshift toilet outside. But the cold and the danger made nighttime trips impossible. Instead, we had a bucket in our living room - which also served as our bedroom, dining room, and kitchen. It was a stark reminder of how our lives had been reduced to the most basic elements of survival. Yet even in these dire circumstances, we found moments of warmth and even joy. I remember my father carefully cleaning the glass of our kerosene lantern each night, his movements deliberate and gentle. A broken lantern meant nights in darkness, with only the glow from the open stove door to light our world.

Despite all this, we always found opportunities for productivity and entertainment. My father would roast chestnuts in the woodfire, joking that when they popped, it would clear the chimney. We'd toast stale bread on the side of the heater, the smell of it warming filling our small home with a sense of comfort. And always, there was the kettle on the stove, ready to provide hot water for tea - a small luxury that helped us feel human in the most inhumane conditions.

Looking back, I'm struck by the resilience we showed, the ability to find moments of normalcy and even happiness in the midst of constant danger. It was in Balisan that I learned one of life's most valuable lessons: that opportunity isn't always about grand gestures or dramatic changes. Sometimes, opportunity is simply the chance to survive another day, to share a laugh over popping chestnuts, to feel the warmth of family in the coldest of nights.

These experiences shaped me and my brothers in ways we are still discovering. They taught us the value of family, the strength found in community, and the importance of finding joy in the smallest things. But they also left scars - the lingering fear, the memories of violence, the knowledge that life can change in an instant.

Balisan under siege was a place of contradictions - a home we loved fiercely, even as we lived in constant fear. It was a crucible that forged us, testing our limits and revealing strengths we never knew we had. And in its darkest moments, it showed us that the greatest opportunity of all is the chance to face adversity together, to hold onto our humanity in the face of inhumanity, and to nurture hope even when surrounded by despair.

As if to underscore the precariousness of our existence, there were moments when death seemed to pass us by with nothing more than a hair's breadth between us and oblivion. Two incidents stand out in my memory, stark reminders of how fragile our lives were in Balisan.

One sunny day, my father had decided to catch some rest outside, next to the old mosque building. The warmth of the sun and the relative quiet must have been a rare comfort. We children were playing nearby, our laughter and shouts filling the air with a semblance of normalcy. Then, without warning, the dreaded sound of aircraft engines shattered the peace.

In an instant, our ingrained survival instincts kicked in. We ran for the cave, our feet knowing the way without conscious thought. But my father, still groggy from sleep, was slower to react. By the time the bombing stopped and we emerged, shaken but alive, we found the spot where he had been sleeping covered in shrapnel. The jagged metal pieces glinted in the sun, a deadly constellation that marked how close we had come to losing him. My father stood there, looking at the devastation with wide eyes, the realisation of his narrow escape etched on his face. That day, luck - or perhaps something more - had been on our side.

Another time, it was my mother who found herself in death's crosshairs. She was outside, tending to the tandoor, the traditional oven where she baked our bread. The simple act of providing for her family nearly cost her everything. The smoke from the tandoor must have caught the attention of the pilot, a legitimate target - a sign of life to be extinguished.

Two rockets screamed towards our home. My mother, alert to the danger, managed to dash into the shelter just in time. The first rocket struck the tandoor, exploding in a shower of dirt and shattered clay. The second, by some twist of fate, buried itself in the ground without detonating. When the dust settled, we emerged to find the unexploded rocket protruding from the earth like some malevolent plant, a stark reminder of how close we had come to losing everything again.

These incidents, etched indelibly in my memory, were not unique. They were part of the fabric of our existence in Balisan, threads in the larger tapestry of danger and survival that made up our daily lives. Each close call, each narrow escape, reinforced both our fear and our resilience. We learned to live with the knowledge that each moment could be our last.

Looking back, I'm struck by the randomness of it all. Why did my father's spot get hit when he wasn't there? Why did one rocket explode while the other didn't? There were no answers to these questions, no logic to the chaos that surrounded us. All we could do was be grateful for each day we survived, each moment we had together.

These experiences taught me that opportunity isn't just about seizing chances for success or advancement. Sometimes, opportunity is simply the chance to live another day, to hug your parents, to play with your siblings. It's the opportunity to feel the sun on your face, to smell freshly baked bread, to laugh despite the constant fear inside you.

In Balisan, under the shadow of war, we learned to recognize these opportunities for what they were - precious gifts in a world that seemed determined to take everything from us. And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all: that even in the darkest times, there are moments of light, chances for joy and connection, if only we have the courage to embrace them.

The rockets that missed, the shrapnel that didn't find its mark - these were not just lucky escapes. They were opportunities. Opportunities to appreciate life more deeply, to hold our loved ones closer, to find strength we didn't know we possessed. In the face of such constant danger, every moment became an opportunity to affirm our humanity, our love for each other, and our determination to survive.

This is the legacy of our time in Balisan - not just a story of endurance, but a testament to the human spirit's capacity to find hope and meaning even in the most desperate circumstances. It's a chapter of my life that continues to shape me, reminding me daily that in every challenge, every setback, there lies an opportunity. An opportunity to grow, to connect, to make a difference, it is this belief, born in the crucible of war-torn Kurdistan, that continues to guide me through life's journey.