Three weeks after the photo was taken, Sadam's gas shells fell on Haraabja.
Kareem died on the road to escape, his lungs burned through by chemical agents, his last breath spat out black blood mixed with tissue fragments.
Although my father survived, his lungs were permanently damaged, and his spirit collapsed. He sat by the window day after day, gazing northward, eventually passing away in illness and depression.
Tor Khan flipped over the photo frame.
On the back of the hard cardboard, in his father's trembling handwriting in Kurdish before he died, in faded brown ink: "Never betray your compatriots for power."
His fingers brushed over the lines of writing, the rough pads of his fingers feeling the slight raised traces of the ink.
Tears welled up without warning, scalding hot they slid down his cheeks, dripping onto the back of his hand.
Tor Khan bit his fist, suppressing the sobs rolling in his throat, his shoulders shaking violently from the forcibly restrained crying.
