IRAQI KURDISTAN
Ignore him, you don’t have to cover your head,” said the group of men accompanying me, just as we stepped into the museum in Barzan village. Nestled in the scenic Zagros Mountains and surrounded by oak-covered hills, Barzan is about three hours from Erbil, the capital of the Kurdish regional government in Iraqi Kurdistan. Their reassurance followed a guard’s quiet request that I cover my head—an exchange that, in retrospect, captured much of what I encountered in Iraqi Kurdistan: a society negotiating the delicate balance between tradition and modernity.
The Kurds are the fourth largest ethnic group in the Middle East, native to regions now divided among Iran, Iraq, Turkey and Syria. Of them, only the Iraqi Kurds have succeeded in establishing a degree of autonomy, secured after the 2003 US-led invasion that toppled Saddam Hussein. But my visit was less about politics and more about memory: specifically, how a people remember their past, while continuing to build their future. In Kurdish society, this memory finds powerful expression through museums, monuments and symbols. These are not only tributes to sacrifice but instruments of self-definition, providing a voice to a history often silenced.
Roots that rise: Graves of Mustafa Barzani, the iconic Kurdish leader hailed as the “father of the Kurds”, and his son, Idris.
During my time in Erbil, I visited the Barzani National Memorial Museum and the monument to the Barzan genocide, both located in Barzan village. These sites are more than historical markers—they offer an intimate window into Kurdish identity, endurance and reverence for those who came before.
The museum is dedicated to Mullah Mustafa Barzani, the iconic Kurdish leader hailed as the “father of the Kurds”. Fittingly, a cave-like structure is constructed within the museum compound that echoes the rugged life he once led in the mountains, capturing the spirit of the man and the movement he inspired. Inside, the museum’s exhibits are carefully curated—photographs, personal belongings, maps and mementos tell the story of Barzani and, by extension, the Kurdish struggle for recognition.
Photographs and other remains of the Barzani genocide victims.
Among these items, an old Nescafe tin mug caught my eye. Simple and unpretentious, it stood out amidst the solemnity of history—later, we were served the same brand of coffee in the museum’s canteen. It was a small but touching echo of a personal life lived amidst politics and conflict.
The first thing we saw after entering the museum was a striking mosaic mural made from natural stones sourced from across Kurdistan, all arranged to form the face of Barzani. The symbolism was unmistakable: a unified people, despite being scattered across multiple countries and faiths. Kurds are often stereotyped as monolithically Muslim, but they practise a range of religions—Judaism, Zoroastrianism, Christianity, Islam and the Yezidi faith among them. The mural quietly asserted this diversity.
We were warmly welcomed by Amed Demirhan, the museum’s director, who gave us an overview of Kurdistan’s geography and deep historical roots. “Kurdistan is not a modern invention,” he said. His narrative was rich in detail, recounting key moments in Barzani’s life, including a remarkable escape from a burning vehicle after taking a bullet to the leg, and his strategic dealings with the Soviet Union. These stories offered a portrait of Barzani not only as a guerrilla fighter but also as a statesman with moral conviction.
Though the museum bears Barzani’s name, it does not centre solely on his life. It honours a wider pantheon of figures who contributed to the Kurdish cause. Demirhan traced the lineage of the Kurdish flag to Salahuddin, perhaps the most well-known Kurd in global history, who recaptured Jerusalem in 1187. This blending of legend, leadership and lived experience lends the museum a rare depth.
Outside the museum, Barzani’s grave rests quietly. Unlike many national memorials, it is stark and unadorned, indistinguishable from the other Barzanis buried nearby. The humility was striking. Barzani died in exile in the United States, was first buried in Iran, and only returned to Barzan after the 1991 Gulf War. His return mirrored the broader Kurdish story—of longing, exile and eventual homecoming.
Mannequins in traditional Kurdish dress, with their hands bound and eyes blindfolded, recreating the final moments of many victims.
Given that Barzan is the ancestral home of the Barzani tribe, whose descendants remain politically prominent through the Kurdistan Democratic Party (KDP), which now rules the Iraqi Kurdistan, I expected the museum to be a grand family estate. Instead, it was a modest, modern two-storey building. Unlike India’s stately memorials in central Delhi, the Barzani museum stands far from the capital. Before I could wonder why, I learned that Barzan village had been destroyed 16 times. Each time, it was rebuilt. The decision to place the museum here, rather than in Erbil, felt purposeful, grounding the memorial in a landscape shaped by both loss and perseverance.
Just 20 minutes away lies the Barzan genocide monument, also known as the Anfal Monument. The site commemorates one of the darkest chapters in Kurdish history: the Anfal campaign of the late 1980s, when thousands of Barzani men were taken by Saddam Hussein’s forces. Many were never seen again. The monument, built in the form of an amphitheatre, is painted in the colours of the Kurdish flag—red, white and green, with yellow representing the sun in the flag. As we arrived, the sky darkened and the first drops of rain fell. The setting felt cinematic, even elegiac as if the heavens themselves were about to mourn.
Dreams beyond the dust: A burial site of Barzani genocide victims.
The site includes 596 graves, representing a small portion of the estimated 8,000 Barzani men who disappeared. Most were forcibly relocated to southern Iraq and buried in mass graves. Some, we were told, were buried alive. Today, many remain unidentified, but they now rest in their homeland, honoured and remembered.
A small adjoining museum offers a visual account of their suffering. Among the exhibits were recovered human remains, articles of clothing and a haunting display featuring two mannequins in traditional Kurdish dress. With their hands bound and eyes blindfolded, they silently recreated the final moments of many victims. The tableau was simple but harrowing.
Being a weekend, the museum was crowded with local families. Many women wore traditional Kurdish dresses with vibrant colours, their presence turning the sombre site into something living and collective. The layout was modern, with clear signage in both Sorani Kurdish and English. Unlike many such places that feel frozen in time, this one felt active—a place of mourning, but also of continuity and education.
As we left Barzan, we saw new construction sites dotting the landscape: new homes, new roads, new dreams. The juxtaposition was powerful, a people haunted by the past yet intent on building a future. Throughout my journey, moments like that brief exchange at the museum entrance kept resurfacing—reminders of how Kurdish society navigates a complex identity. As a woman travelling alone, I found kindness, curiosity and respect. This was not modernity for its own sake, nor tradition for the sake of stubbornness, but a society in conversation with itself.
We ended our day with an unplanned stop at a local home. There, I was reminded of Indian households I have known: an open door, tea and snacks and a courtyard where family members drifted in and out, tentative greetings that slowly gave way to laughter. It was a quiet reminder that memory, identity and hospitality are universal. And that even in a place shaped by tragedy, the human spirit endures.
The author is a doctoral candidate at the Centre for West Asian Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi.