21.11.2024
From Glasgow to Baghche
Yassamine Mather recalls her time in Kurdistan and the courage and determination, as well as the failings, of the militant Fedai opponents of the Islamic Republic
This article is about the Iranian left in Kurdistan in the early 1980s, based on my memories of the time I spent there.
The background lies in the repression meted out against those sections of the left opposing the Islamic Republic - which started almost immediately after the revolution of 1979. Large sections of the left were forced underground, the Organisation of Iranian People’s Fedai Guerrillas (Minority) being no exception.1
After its first congress, held in secret in the spring of 1982, it faced major issues - one of the farms where members used to work and produce their weekly paper was raided by the security forces. Several comrades were killed, while others actually committed suicide, using cyanide tablets, that rather than falling into the hands of the regime. From those who survived a new central committee was reconstituted and some of the cadres were sent to Iranian Kurdistan - mainly as a matter of survival.
In 1979 Kurdish militants initially made territorial gains in Mahabad and temporarily drove regime forces from the region. However, a large-scale offensive in the spring of 1980 by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps reversed the course of the conflict. The start of the Iran-Iraq war in September 1980 saw the Iranian government intensify efforts to suppress the Kurdish rebellion - the only post-1979 uprising that persisted, in part due to the province’s proximity to the Iraqi border. By this time, the Fedayeen minority and other smaller groups had moved their armed peshmerga from Kurdish cities to the countryside. We settled in a large village called Baghche, between Mahabad and Baneh.
Country base
Here, in this article, I want to concentrate on several key political questions but also recount some of my general observations. I arrived in Baghche in September 1982. I had travelled from Glasgow, where I lived at the time, via Turkey and Iraq, returning to Iran as part of my duty to support the organisation. Before the journey, I had spent some time in Zurich getting basic training from German comrades sympathetic to the Fedayeen, who had set up a clandestine radio station.
As we travelled through high, green mountains down to the valleys of Kurdistan, the first thing I noticed was the warm and welcoming attitude of the peasants. Although we were not Kurds, as soon as they saw fighters wearing peshmerga clothes, they gave us food, a place to stay, water to clean ourselves ... We were treated as liberators.
The same was true of the peasants at the base in Baghche. Those who have studied the history of the Iranian left will know that in 1971 in the village of Siahkal, the group of young leftist idealists who waged an armed struggle against the shah’s regime were denounced to the local gendarmes by the villagers - hence my surprise at the welcome we received in the Kurdish countryside.
I assume the location of the main base had been chosen after some detailed studies of the area and the organisation had taken over the village school. It was a regional school, not just serving this particular village. The larger rooms functioned as both a meeting place and communal dining area during the day. At night some of the peshmergas slept there. Consequently, the inhabitants of Baghche and its neighbouring villages, whose children attended this school, were affected. Some may have resented us, but no-one spoke out. The villagers accepted the presence of the peshmerga as part of their contribution to the ongoing civil war.
Sleeping quarters were segregated, because the OIPFG, like other left groups, was conscious of the peasants’ sensitivities. We were well aware that the Islamic government had sent propaganda about how communists did not respect families and had no moral principles.
Women slept in a separate outbuilding of the school to avoid any allegations of impropriety. A few weeks after my arrival, the women peshmerga were moved to a house in the village. We all wore headscarves (although it looked somewhat bizarre with combat gear!). Before I arrived, there had been some conflict with the peasants about ‘cow dung’ - a valuable commodity, as it was used for fuel. I never found out exactly what had happened, but the accusation was that some peshmerga had used more than their share, prompting scuffles with the villagers.
In general, the villagers were actually quite proud of the presence of an Iranian organisation. Our organisation included a good contingent of Kurdish fighters, but it was not a nationalist Kurdish organisation. As far as I could see, the locals saw the takeover of their village as part of a contribution to the ongoing civil war.
The village had its mosque, and on occasions when our comrades were killed in battle, the left-leaning mullah allowed us to use the mosque for political ceremonies commemorating their lives. In exchange, he expected our help with his ‘technical’ problems, such as repairing faulty wiring, connecting the main minaret to the loudspeaker, or fixing his record player. Overall, relations with the peasants were positive, although both sides were aware that, once the regime’s forces inevitably recaptured the area, the peasants would likely pay a very heavy price for supporting a Marxist group.
We had medics amongst our forces. They were very popular. The peasants had lost the school, but they had gained a clinic with two fully qualified doctors staying in the base. Every couple of weeks one of our doctors, Mastoureh Ahmadzadeh, took time off from her many duties (including membership of the central committee) to drive to neighbouring villages and provide medical support, including preventive vaccine injections for children. This was all pre-arranged, and on one occasion when I went with her, there was a long queue of peasants in every village we visited. All waiting to see her.
The rest of us benefited from the popularity of the medics, as their patients often brought small gifts, products of their land, in exchange for medical support. They brought us eggs, cheese, bread, fruit and on rare occasions a chicken. This was important, because we did not have much food.
Another medic, Dr Said, was very popular too - both in Baghche, where he set up the clinic, as he had fewer political responsibilities than Mastoureh and in another base, where I was sent. There he used a nearby house for his medical consultations. The medics also dealt with our own health problems, often caused by malnutrition, freezing cold temperatures and poor hygiene - as well as the wounds of fighters injured in armed confrontations.
Dr Said, who later died in exile in Paris, should be remembered as someone who had a very sceptical view of Kurdish nationalist organisations. He was sharply critical of the misogynistic and feudal attitudes of the Kurdish Democratic Party’s leadership. For several months, he stayed at the Fedayeen (Minority) military base near Vardeh, which primarily served as a hub for establishing a radio station. During quieter moments, when there were no patients or injured fighters, he would assist me with technical tasks for the radio, always making it clear that he expected similar cooperation when he was performing a surgical operation! (Unfortunately, my squeamishness made me unfit to help with any medical or surgical procedures.) At the base, he embraced every responsibility - from cleaning (known as ‘labourer’ duties) to cooking and dishwashing - with enthusiasm and a cheerful attitude.
Before he died in 2015, he documented some of the harrowing events we experienced, including shootings, deaths and devastating injuries. One particularly poignant story from his memoirs, now accessible on several Farsi websites, highlights the significance we placed on independence from foreign powers. He recounted the arrival of several Rahe Kargar comrades at our base one snowy winter evening. They had lost their way in the mountains, mistaking snow reflections for the lights of a distant village. Tragically, despite their best efforts, two of their group succumbed to hypothermia. The survivors arrived with severe frostbite, their fingers and toes frozen to the point where gangrene was a serious risk.
The doctor urgently required a clean space, which we found in a nearby peasant’s house, along with hot water, alcohol, bandages and improvised surgical tools. The injured comrades had previously been advised by French doctors, akin to today’s Médecins Sans Frontières, that treatment in Kurdistan was futile. They were told to travel to Iraq and manage the pain with aspirin. However, by the time they reached Darveh, the infections had advanced too far, leaving the doctor no choice but to amputate several fingers and toes to save their lives.
After the operation, he took pride in his work, feeling that the procedure had at least preserved their limbs. In a rare break from protocol, he had a couple of glasses of alcohol and reflected passionately on communist ideals, emphasising our duty to be self-reliant. At the time, he deeply respected the comrades’ decision to avoid seeking help in Baghdad and felt gratified that his efforts had prevented even greater loss.
Odd women
After one military operation - a surprise attack on the town of Sagghez - the Fedayin peshmerga returned with two Pasdar (Islamic Revolutionary Guards) prisoners. One of the Pasdars was bragging about how many communists he had tortured and killed. Some were keen that he should be executed. Others disagreed. A debate took place and arguments for and against the death penalty were heard and the issue was put to a vote. I was pleasantly surprised that most of my comrades voted against the death penalty. The prisoner was later exchanged with a supporter of the organisation held in prison.
We women were a bit of an oddity. There were far fewer of us than the men. We wore Kurdish trousers, tops, battle jackets, and carried huge guns - in my case, an artillery piece that was bigger than me in terms of height. And now and then women from the village would bring us their lovely Kurdish clothes, their long skirts decorated with mirrors, and embroidery. I think they felt sorry for us, and wanted to make sure, as they kept saying, we had ‘proper clothes’. We kept having to tell some that the reason we were wearing trousers was because we had a lot of tasks that required more practical clothes.
Most of the women in the base were there temporarily. Nastaran, the comrade responsible for the workers’ organisation in Tehran was at the base when I arrived. She was there waiting for the plenum which took place a few weeks later. Another comrade who arrived while I was there was Ashraf Behkish, responsible for Jukhe haye Razmi, an armed combat squad that the Fedayeen had decided to set up in Tehran (not exactly a brilliant idea under the circumstances). The day after Ashraf arrived, there was a shooting competition in the base and she won against all competitors. Both Nastaran and Ashraf were competent comrades, but the fact they held such important responsibilities in Tehran was primarily because as women - often covered head to toe under a hijab and long veil (chador) - they could escape security/army check posts and could travel regularly to and from Kurdistan. Ironically the forced hijab, imposed by the Islamic Republic had promoted women in the Fedayeen to higher positions. Both Nastaran and Ashraf were arrested and killed in detention. In the case of Nastaran, she had tried to swallow her cyanide tablet, but the Revolutionary Guards stopped her. She died from injuries incurred during torture in Evin prison.
There were some contradictions between the organisation and the women in the base. One of the regular activities of the base was sending teams of peshmerga to Joleh. A group of 20 to 30 would go to a nearby town, by then under government control, with leaflets and copies of the organisation’s paper in Kurdish, Rigayeh Guel, distribute them in the town centre, sing some revolutionary songs and, as the Islamic Revolutionary Guards or the army were on their way, they would disperse and go back to the base. Occasionally some were arrested, but, if they succeeded in escaping the security forces, they would return to the base in the early hours of the morning.
Young women peshmergas had asked to be part of these operations and were refused permission. On the whole, if you did not have specific duties, life in the base could be very boring. The routine was repetitive: exercise, breakfast, cell meetings (you were exempt if you had specific tasks - in my case preparations to set up a radio station), duties for organising communal lunch, cleaning up, reading groups, afternoon long walks, supper and general meetings afterwards. Those on shift duty worked nights to guard the base. A couple of women comrades, who had no specific tasks, asked to be included in the Joleh team and indeed other military operations, but for a while the organisation refused this on the basis that, if Revolutionary Guards captured/arrested a communist woman, she would face torture and terrible indignity.
Eventually, the central committee gave way regarding Joleh and at least on a couple of occasions while I was there women peshmerga were allowed to join the team. The fear of women Fedayeen members getting arrested and imprisoned by the regime was a serious matter. We all had cyanide tablets under our tongues in urban areas, in bazaars ... but the fear was that we would be too late using it or the Revolutionary Guards would manage to stop us from taking it and that we would end up as a prisoner of the regime.
Much later, at another base in Kurdistan, I used to go to an open-air bazaar to buy oranges - a true luxury. The bazaar was full of smugglers, who were selling everything from guns and heavy weapons to alcohol and food. On one of the trips I realised the young peshmerga who was sent to ‘protect me’ had his gun constantly aimed at my head. I knew enough about organisational discipline to realise that this was no accident or mistake. When we got back, I asked the base commander why this was the case and he replied, “The gun is aimed at you, so that if it looks like you will be arrested he will shoot you. Believe me, given what we know happens to women communist prisoners, if this happens, you would be very grateful if he aims correctly and kills you instantly.” I never questioned this again.
Speaking of women, I also need to write about Mastoureh. What distinguished her from other members of the central committee was her modesty and humility. She was the only CC member who took her turn in kitchen and cleaning duties. The rest were too busy. Her appearance was also different: while the other members of the central committee took great care of how they looked in their peshmerga clothes, matching colours, etc, she would wear the worst clothes you could ever imagine, walking around with trousers that did not match the top she was wearing. Some of her tops seemed to be torn in parts, but she never seemed to care about that. In Baghche, when the women all slept in a room initially situated in the outer buildings of the school and later in a village house, she always chose (or ended up in) the worst place for sleeping, because she came to bed later than the rest of us after endless CC meetings.
Like other women cadres, Mastoureh regularly travelled to Tehran and in her case, the journey was far more dangerous. She was on a poster showing ‘wanted leaders of terrorist organisations’ wearing glasses. She travelled back and forth all covered up and wearing contact lenses and, although the rest of us were very concerned about her safety, she never seemed to be worried.
Political disputes
I should also mention the politics within the base, very briefly. Some of the issues below would require much longer articles to go into properly.
Before I travelled to Kurdistan, we heard rumours about a second split with the Fedayeen minority. A pamphlet critical of political decisions at the first congress had been published - no-one had a copy, but when I met Homa Nategh2 in Paris, she informed me that she supported this faction - the revolutionary socialist tendency. When I arrived in Kurdistan, all I could find was the central committee’s response to the tendency, written by Tavakol (his first name was never used). I sympathised with the tendency and soon realised that I was not alone. However, there was no possibility of discussing or organising around this. An older comrade, Babak, who was later killed in Tehran, warned me that Kurdistan was not the place to discuss such matters.
However, the text written by Tavakol had one paragraph I could not stand: “Socialism in Iran will be built with the industrial and political support of the USSR and the socialist camp.” This was such a flagrant denial of everything the Fedayeen (Minority) had stood for that I used one of the general meetings where we could ask questions to the central committee to explain how this sentence differed from the policy of the ‘official communist’ Tudeh party and its “non-capitalist road to development”. Tavakol’s reply was worse than anything I expected. He said: “The problem is just the nature of Tudeh. If we take up the same slogan it will be revolutionary.” I never took him seriously after that. I was right to oppose him: Tavakol ended up as an opportunist Stalinist, who played a significant role in the subsequent destruction of the Fedayeen.
In Kurdistan I witnessed national sensitivities and chauvinist attitudes regarding language. In Baghche, in particular, comrades had come from all over Iran and, because local branches encountered security issues, the most active members were sent to Kurdistan. We had Turks, we had Lors (from Lorestan), we had southern Iranians, we had people from Hamadan, and the banter between various peshmergas was about their nationality. So the Kurds used to joke and tell Azaris that they weren’t as revolutionary as Kurds because their religious leader was Ayatollah Shariat Madari, who was soft, while “we Kurds follow Sheikh Husseini, the red mullah”, who was a radical cleric in Kurdistan! Comrades from Lorestan had a large number of historic martyrs among the founders of the Fedayeen, so they would tell the Kurds: “We’ve got the history, our comrades were true leaders ...” and so on.
There were occasional arguments about the language of the songs played on the loudspeakers. Farsi speakers complained that too many Kurdish revolutionary songs were played and they wanted more in Farsi. So, as I say, in Baghche there was a lot of nationalist banter, but mainly in reasonably good humour.
The situation was different in the base near Vardeh. Most of the peshmergas were Kurds, except the medic (who was a Lor) and I. That is where, in the absence of other nationalities, we witnessed the contradictions that existed between northern and southern Kurdistan: the debate often took the form of arguments about which city was more revolutionary, which one fell first to the regime’s advances ...
In the winter of 1983, the organisation had a plenum in Baghche (a three-week walk from where we were!), and the military commander of our base was called to attend. Before leaving he told me: “There will be no military situation. We are in a safe place, the heavy snow will help, no Pasdar (Revolutionary Guard) will venture this far. If any political issues occur, I am sure you can deal with it!”
One night I was asleep, and one of the older peshmergas came to the door of the house, woke me up and informed me that the disagreement between southern and northern Kurds had escalated to the level where there was a real risk that the two sides might open fire on each other. I had no idea what I could do and I was very scared, but I had to go and separate the two groups. This was in the middle of the night and all I could do was recall what I had read in a booklet published by a Maoist French group, led by Alan Badiou, on contradiction: circular contradictions and antagonistic contradictions. I asked everyone to sit down and talk nonsense for about 20-30 minutes and the peshmergas got so bored they put their guns down declaring they had enough and they were going back to sleep. So basically, I diffused the situation not by any clever means, but by boring them.
It should also be said that in this base alcohol from the bazaar was available. And on that particular occasion, of course, consumption of alcohol, although forbidden, had played its part. However, for me the incident showed the dangers and pitfalls of trying to follow nationalist lines in a multinational country such as Iran. And in an all-Kurdish group the division was between north and south Kurds.
The older peshmerga who woke me up that night was a Yazidi - a Kurdish religious minority, found primarily in northern Iraq, south-eastern Turkey and Iran. He was in charge of the generator and, the first day I arrived in the mountain base, he proudly announced to everyone that he would refuse to operate the generator (an absolute necessity for a radio station) if a woman was in charge. However, over time he changed his position and we ended up having a long conversation about the discrimination Yazidis faced; plus the fact that many of his relatives lived across the border in Iraq and how they were affected by decades of conflict between Iran and Iraq. Although by that time we were in the midst of the full-scale Iraq war, the conflict had a much longer history, going back to the shah’s era.
In retrospect, a few months later we came to realise that the time from the summer of 1982 in Baghche to the spring of 1983 in Vardeh were good for us. That winter, the base in Baghche hosted the much-delayed plenum (which also mourned the terrible death of 12 Fedayeen fighters caught in a trap set by the Islamic Revolutionary Guards).
The Kurdish episode coincided with the start of the worst period in the history of the Fedayeen. Spiralling internal conflict in the absence of open discussion led to one disaster after another. Historians looking at that particular period, where leftwing Iranian opposition groups were caught in a war zone between Iran’s Islamic Republic and Iraq’s Saddam Hussein, will remark on these organisations’ increasing dependence on Iraq - initially simply the right to travel across Iraqi Kurdistan to Iranian Kurdistan, but later financial support and eventually dependence on the Iraqi dictator and his brutal security service.
Iraqi Kurds had a similar relationship with Iran’s Islamic Republic! However, the whole concept of financial dependence on a foreign state - a taboo for the founders of the organisation - became the norm. Many of the dozens of splits from the Fedayeen Minority justified the acceptance of funds from dubious forces, including far-right European parties and the National Endowment for Democracy in the US.
No wonder that today none of these groups are capable of taking a basic anti-colonial, anti-imperialist position, when it comes to the war in Gaza.
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The organisation split over the nature of the regime. A majority on central committee believed that the Islamic Republic was somehow progressive. A minority thought otherwise and had majority support amongst the membership.↩︎