The First Nowruz in Tikrit POW Camp No. 16

Compiled by: Hassan Beheshtipour
Translated by: Fazel Shirzad

2026-3-25

It was in December 1988 when I, along with about 150 other prisoners, was transferred from Tikrit POW Camp 12 to “Camp 16,” just a few kilometers away, on the charge of “indiscipline.” The Iraqis called it “Qafas,” meaning “the cage.” And they were right. More than anything else, Tikrit Camp No. 16 resembled a large cage, with five barracks and an attached prison known as the “Mulhaq.” More than 3,500 Iranian POWs were held in this compound, most of whom had been captured after 1987.

That camp was filled with bitter memories for all of us: barbed-wire fences, longing for our families, and the painful ache of being far from beloved Iran. Then February and March arrived, and the weather slowly grew warmer. The spring breeze, indifferent to the tangled barbed wire, slipped through during our outdoor time and brushed against our faces (a breeze that reminded us Nowruz (New Year) was near. It was Nowruz of 1989).

The challenge of the date and time

The first problem in celebrating the New Year was that we didn’t know the exact moment of the New Year’s transition. We had no calendar, and no one knew the time of the year’s turning. Our only sign of the passage of time was the occasional Iraqi newspapers (Ath-Thawra and Al-Jumhuriya) that reached us. Seeing their Gregorian dates, we realized that the next day, March 20, corresponding to Esfand 29, was Nowruz. But the exact hour still remained a mystery.

Since the previous year in Iran, the new year of 1988 had begun around 13:08, I thought that this year it should be about 5 hours and 49 minutes later. But one friend, with a sharp and calculating mind, said: “No! The year 1988 was a leap year, and the interval this year differs from ordinary years.” His comment occupied my thoughts. Later, when I was released and returned home, one of my first questions for my family was about this, and they were surprised that such a thing mattered so much to me. I checked the previous year’s calendar: the new year of 1989 had arrived at 18:58 in the evening.

Clean clothes instead of new clothes

In that camp, time was mostly symbolic. We chose a time ourselves. Everyone had tried to wash their clothes with the little water and soap available. During those three years, most of us had no more than two sets of clothing: one yellow, resembling military wear, and the other a navy-blue jumpsuit. New clothes were out of the question, but at least the old ones could be worn clean.

A Haft-Seen as vast as a surah

But for the Haft-Seen table, we had nothing (not grass, not fruit, not coins, not hyacinths). The table that was supposed to bring the scent and color of Iran into the camp was empty. Then a friend named Mostafa, a Qur’an teacher, made a suggestion that deeply touched our Iranian souls. He said:

“Let’s recite Surah al-Nas together. This surah has seven words that contain the letter ‘S’. That will be our Haft-Seen.”

At that moment, I understood that identity does not depend on Sabzeh or Senjed. What binds us together is rooted far deeper than outward symbols. Iranian-Islamic culture has shaped Iranian identity for centuries. That Haft-Seen symbolized wisdom and resilience. We recited Surah al‑Nas together. Our Haft-Seen was not made of nature, but of God’s words.

May those days be remembered

The next day, the first of Farvardin, was also a familiar day to the Iraqis because the Kurds of Iraq traditionally celebrated “Eid al‑Rabi‘.” Because of that, Raed Khalil, the Iraqi camp commander, seeking to show goodwill after the ceasefire between Iran and Iraq in August 1988, loosened restrictions a little. On the first day of Farvardin, he allowed the prisoners to cross the barbed‑wire barriers between the Mulhaq and the barracks to visit each other. Thus, the tradition of Nowruz visitations took shape inside the POW camp.

At sunset, one friend with a pleasant voice hummed a poem from Hafez in the style of singer Shajarian:

“May the day of lovers’ reunion be remembered /

May those days be remembered.”

That single opening couplet was enough to change everyone’s mood. When his voice reached the couplet:

“Though friends are heedless of our condition /

May thousands of remembrances reach them from me,”

We cried. Tears ran down tired faces. No one continued. There was no need. Those two couplets alone revived such a vivid picture of home (of streets and alleyways, of Iran’s bustling neighborhoods, of mothers’ colorful holiday tables) that it was as if all the rivers and gardens of our homeland were flowing through the barbed wires of Tikrit at that very moment.

Nowruz: the bond between Iranian identity and resistance

That day, our insistence on celebrating Nowruz was not just about holding a simple ceremony; it was a form of resistance. A struggle to preserve Iranian identity against the Ba‘athist enemy (right in the heart of enemy territory, in a POW camp not even shown to the Red Cross). For all of us, Nowruz was a living bond; even for those not particularly tied to religious beliefs, it held a special meaning that day because it reminded us of dear Iran.

By celebrating Nowruz, we showed both ourselves and the Ba‘athist guards that we were still alive, still Iranian, and still hopeful for tomorrow.

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