The Morning Without Her: The Execution of a Kurdish Schoolgirl in Iran
Kurdish Girlhood in the Post-Revolution Era
After the 1979 Iranian Revolution, the Kurds of Rojhelat (Eastern Kurdistan) were promised rights that never came. Instead, Kurdish parties were banned, Kurdish language and education were restricted, and the new Islamic Republic sent armed forces into Kurdish towns to crush any signs of resistance. Among the movements that rose in response to the Iranian state's back-peddling was Komala - a leftist Kurdish organisation calling for workers’ rights, social equality, and Kurdish self-determination. Komala was also one of the first Kurdish parties to arm its female peshmerga members - placing girls and women directly in political and military roles during a time when such participation was unthinkable; a stark contrast between the lavish rule of the Pahlavi monarchy and the austere, authoritarian Islamic Republic that replaced it.
In the early 1980s, in the cold shadow of the Iranian Revolution, hundreds of Kurdish teenagers in Rojhelat, Eastern Kurdistan, were pulled from their homes, classrooms, and street corners. Many never came back. They were accused of resisting the new Islamic Republic, of spreading "separatist ideas," and of having involvement with banned Kurdish parties. Most were still in their school uniforms. The Islamic regime's crackdowns were swift and merciless. Young men and women, some barely in their mid-teens, were imprisoned, tortured, executed, and left buried in unmarked graves for their families never to find. For years, these memories lived quietly in the shadows of Kurdish existence.
When news broke in 2022 of Jîna Aminî's death, a native of Saqqez, at the hands of Iran's "morality police," the grief was not new to many in Kurdistan. For those who had lived through Iran in the early 1980s, it was a wound torn open again, reminding a new generation that Kurdish women and girls have been resisting, and paying the price for decades.
One of those girls was named Wahîda.
This is the story of a Kurdish teenager executed at sixteen for her activism, as told by her closest friend, Azita, who carries her memory across forty years of silence, grief, and survival.
A Revolutionary Household
Wahîda was born in 1967 in the Kurdish city of Saqqez, located in the Rojhelat (Kurdish region of Iran). The eldest of three siblings - her sister Speda and her youngest brother, Waheed. She came from a well-known family in the community. Her maternal grandfather was a respected poet and religious sheikh, whose name carried weight in Saqqez. Both her parents were trained nurses, and both were politically engaged. Her mother was not only a nurse but a committed activist for Komala, the Kurdish resistance party. Her father also supported the Kurdish cause as one of, if not the only, anesthesiologists in Komala. Politics and the fight for Kurdish rights were deeply intertwined with family life. Azita remembers that their families had known each other for years, but the two girls only became close when both their fathers joined the Peshmerga ranks to fight for the Kurdish cause. Their mothers, both young when they married, were educated and also active. Wahîda’s mother played a significant role as an educator in the community, and the two families blended naturally. "We were two families united by the cause," Azita recalls.
School Years and Early Activism
At the age of 14, both girls entered Pêrweresh High School in Saqqez. Wahîda and Azita chose science so they could stay in the same class, but it didn't work out as hoped - they ended up in different classes, in the same school. The two friends were also neighbours, so they made the most of walking to and back from school; Wahîda’s family lived directly behind Azita's grandmother's house. Azita's home was often crowded, especially while her father was away in the mountains fighting; the visiting wives of fighters frequently stayed with them. There was little privacy. Wahîda's home, by contrast, was quieter. Azita would often visit there in the mornings to walk to school together, and spend afternoons there when they walked back from school. By their mid-teens, both girls had naturally become involved in activism. Wahîda's path was shaped by her mother and uncles' involvement in Komala. Azita's own family was split between Komala and the Kurdistan Democratic Party of Iran (KDPI). "At first, I didn't know which side to lean towards," she remembers. "I was still figuring it all out, but most of my friends were with Komala, so I drifted into that way too." The two friends' activism was small but significant: distributing pamphlets, sharing political updates, and collaborating on tasks for the cause. "We were only fourteen and a half, barely fifteen," Azita says. "But we wanted to be part of the movement." Wahîda was plain, unproblematic, and intelligent. She dreamed of becoming a nurse like her parents. She had a deep appreciation for music, books, and poetry, all of which were gifts from her grandfather, a well-known poet. Her first crush was on a local boy; they barely spoke and exchanged only shy glances from across the street. "She laughed at everything," Azita recalls. "Anything could make her smile; she had the most beautiful dimples."
Azita (left) and Wahîda (right) together in class, 1982, Saqqez. (img_0278)
The Crackdown
In the bitter cold of December 1982, everything changed. The Iranian government began a sudden and ruthless crackdown on pro-Kurdish activists in Saqqez. Armed officers in Technical trucks - uniformed, weapons in hand - patrolled the streets, arresting men, women, and even children. The targets were clear: young Kurdish activists and students, many of whom were under the age of eighteen.
Azita heard the rumours of the crackdown before they reached Wahîda's street. She went to her friend's house to warn her, "Don't stay here tonight. You're at risk." Wahîda promised she wouldn't. "She gave me her word," Azita says. "I believed her." Azita stayed for about an hour, then left in a taxi. On the way home, she saw one of the government's Technical trucks drive past. "In my gut," she says, "I believe they were going to her house when I saw the truck drive past me. I think she ran out of time. Maybe she didn't even have the chance to get ready to leave after I said goodbye. And maybe, if I'd stayed any longer, they would have taken us both." That night, Wahîda - then only fifteen- was arrested along with older students from her community.
Azita (left) and Wahîda(right) together in class, 1982, Saqqez. (img_0280)
A photo of Azita taken by Wahîda at school in 1982, Saqqez. (img_0279)
Azita's Escape
After leaving Wahîda's home that afternoon in a taxi, Azita arrived at her friend Halala's. When Halala's grandmother returned home from visiting the neighbours, she insisted that Azita stay the night. Azita was surprised at the suggestion until Halala's grandmother explained the news that had broken while she was out, Wahîda had been arrested by the state forces and taken from her home. In a state of devastating shock, Azita numbly agreed to stay. By evening, she fell ill, her body collapsing under the weight of the shock. "It felt like my whole body was falling apart," she remembers. At five o'clock the next morning, Azita's mother arrived at Halala's door carrying a suitcase. "You must leave here immediately," she told her daughter. Within hours, Azita, her mother, and her younger brother were on their way to Kermanshah, where an uncle lived. After a four- to five-hour journey, they boarded a coach to Shiraz and arrived unannounced at her aunt Shahla's house. Her mother stayed only a few days before returning to Saqqez. Azita would remain in Shiraz for three years.
Wahîda in Prison
Meanwhile, Wahîda was held in custody for eight months. She turned sixteen in prison, alone. On 13th August 1983, the Iranian state executed her by firing squad. Two other girls and several boys arrested that night were killed alongside her. Most were teenagers: Fatemeh Mohamadi, Shola Mohamadi, Saideh Kariman, Mahin Abdulazadeh to name a few.
As was standard practice by the Iranian government, Wahîda's parents were sent a bill for the bullets used to end her life. The 'bullet fee' is a financial charge imposed on the families of prisoners, a final act of cruelty that forces grieving families to pay for their children's executions. The Iranian state’s policy of billing families for the bullets used in executions was widely documented in the 1980s, and it has not disappeared entirely. Recent human rights reports and testimonies following the 2022 uprisings suggest it still occurs in some cases. Wahîda's body was never returned. She was buried in an unmarked grave to be forgotten. Her mother spent years going back and forth, searching for her daughter's resting place. The state never told her where her grave was, and so she was never to be found.
Return and Reunion
Azita learned of Wahîda’s execution months later, still hiding in Shiraz. The news came carelessly, dropped into a room full of guests: “They executed so-and-so’s daughter today.” Azita froze and asked, “Who?”
When her grandmother spoke Wahîda’s name, the room fell away. Azita recalls standing up from the floor she was sitting on and walking out without a word to be alone - grief had arrived like a blade, silent and all at once. "I was so far from her," she says. "I couldn't be with her mother. I couldn't mourn with them." When she finally returned to Saqqez three years later, she avoided Wahîda's home. It wasn't fear of the authorities; it was the weight of not knowing what to do or say to her friend's mother.
One day, she saw Wahîda's little brother playing in the street. "Do you remember me?" she asked. "Yeah," he said, "you're Wahîda's friend." He took her hand and led her home to the same doors where she had last seen Wahîda. "When I saw her mother, she just hugged me. We didn't speak; we just cried," Azita recalls.
The Family Aftermath
Wahîda's father continued fighting as a Peshmerga for a few years before the family relocated to Sweden in the late 80s. Her father, soon after arriving, succumbed to cancer, the result of many years of fighting and the injuries that came with it. Her mother, after some years, returned to activism before also passing away from cancer in her 70s. Wahîda's siblings, Speda and Waheed, are the only surviving members of her immediate family.
Forty Years On
Four decades later, Azita still carries her friend's memory - the girl who laughed at everything, had dimples that lit up her face, loved poetry and music, and dreamed of being a nurse. And she still carries the knowledge that on that cold December night, her own life was spared by minutes.
"I was lucky," she says quietly. "But she was not."
Almost three years after sitting with Azita to record this story, I hold two precious photographs of Wahîda in my hands, photographs she trusted me to preserve for The Jiyan Archives. Across every conversation, every pause, every return to this story, the moment Wahîda’s name is spoken, Azita becomes emotional. Forty years on, the wound has not closed, and I cannot stop thinking about the moment Azita described leaving Wahîda’s house; seeing the state trucks approach, feeling something tighten in her chest. That girlhood instinct, the gut feeling you share in a sisterhood, the kind that sits between fear and denial - often shrugged off because the best is always what we hope for someone we love. Azita has lived with the knowledge that she walked away, and Wahîda did not - a kind of grief that has become part of her bones. Yet, in this painful story, there is also survival - not just Azita’s, but the survival of memory. Wahîda’s grave is hidden. Her body was never returned. Her parents died without answers. But she is not lost. Through Azita’s voice and through the archive, her story has a place, her life has language, and her resistance has witnesses. She was sixteen, Kurdish, and full of possibility, and the Iranian state executed her for it. Memory is what remains, and memory is what now refuses to let Kurdish girls like Wahîda disappear.
