Near the Haj Omran area northeast of Erbil, a stark crossing opens toward Iran and feels more like a mountain gate than a border post. Sharp winds slice the air while snow blankets narrow paths, and the mountains erase footprints within minutes. Across an unseen line, a dangerous livelihood continues every day, and locals call this work kolbar, a Kurdish term with blunt meaning.
The word combines back and carrier into one burdened identity, so people replace trucks with their own bodies. They turn steep slopes into work sites shaped by fear, and this reality defines Kolbar border survival along the frontier. Each journey lasts up to twelve exhausting hours, and porters walk, stop, climb, and reroute constantly. Consequently, the terrain drains strength and patience together. From afar, the workers form a dark moving chain, and they keep distance, focus downward, and rarely speak.
Moreover, each load tells an economic story because the packages look small but carry heavy meaning. Cardboard, cloth, and rope hold electronics, cigarettes, or fabrics, and traders buy these items in cities like Erbil. Then, porters deliver them through remote mountain passages into Iran. However, the story starts far from the snow line because it begins in cold kitchens across Kurdish villages.
Families count dwindling supplies and face empty cupboards, so many ask the same painful morning question. They wonder how they will eat that day. Contrary to stereotypes, the work includes many ages and genders, and men in their fifties walk beside women on the same trails. The path shows no mercy to weaker bodies, and one woman, Amina from Piranshahr, shared her story. She said harsh economics forced both her and her husband outside. Inside Iran, no single authority tracks kolbar deaths yearly, so independent groups gather scattered reports.
These accounts describe dozens of casualties every year, and gunfire causes some deaths. Others die from avalanches, falls, mines, or freezing nights. As a result, danger comes from nature and human action alike. Officials often blur lines between smuggling and survival, and unprotected walkers pay the highest price.
They cross snow lines where bullets sometimes answer footsteps, and this pattern continues across the range year after year. Ultimately, Kolbar border survival reflects a broken regional economy, and poverty pushes people onto paths carved by desperation. Still, they return, driven by family need and limited choice, and the mountains witness this cycle every winter where Kolbar border survival remains a daily reality.
