“ISIS” organization to fight with his brothers in the Kurdish Yazidi majority region known for its laity history.

The news of the death of Goran Muhammad spread in 29  of October when local media published in the Kurdistan region a body image, quoting one of the jihadist sites.

However, the city, once better known as being synonymous with the spirit of Kurdish resistance and nationhood since its population was gassed by Saddam Hussein in 1988, is growing an unenviable reputation as being the primary source of Kurds abandoning the secularism of their people to serve Islamic State.

The Kurdish intelligence organ­isation, the Asayish, claims that of the 85 men from Halabja who have joined Islamic State in the past 18 months, 23 are known to have been killed, 18 have ­returned voluntarily, 25 are known still to be active, while the status of the others is unknown.

Another Halabja man fighting with Islamic State, Ikram Khalid Ahmed, 19, gained prominence four weeks ago when he fled a truck packed with 500kg of TNT during an aborted suicide attack on Kurdish forces near Jalula.

“He lost his nerve and failed to detonate,” the intelligence officer continued. “Now he’s in jail.”

Halabja’s complex recent history makes it vulnerable to ­extremism. The city, once a cultural centre famous for its poets, was left devastated after the Iran-Iraq war and Saddam’s bombing. Islamic political parties, foremost among them the Islamic Movement of Kurdistan, rose to prominence in the 1990s and by 2001 Ansar al-Islam, a militant group with links to al-Qa’ida, had seized control of mountain villages above Halabja, before being driven out in heavy fighting in 2003.

“About 80 per cent of the current wave of young men from Halabja joining the Da’ish (Islamic State), mostly in their teens and early twenties, have some sort of family link to Islamic political parties,” a second intelligence official in Halabja claimed. “But the deciding factor was the start of the war in Syria. Many imams in the city started preaching that Syria’s war was Islam’s war, and called for (President Bassar al-Assad) to be toppled. By the time they realised the implications it was too late.”

Saddam’s gas attack, which killed 5000 at the time and resulted in thousands more deaths in later years, played its own part in legacy radicalisation.

“There is the trace of memory among a new generation that the greatest suffering here, the gas ­attack of 1988, was committed by the so-called secular regime of Saddam,” said imam Kamil Mohammed, reflecting on the three young men from his congregation at Halabja’s Noor Mosque who left to join Islamic State. “It is not the main reason, but it is an element.”

Nevertheless, the city’s violent recent history and mixed political allegiances have produced a surprising open-mindedness — even compassion — among residents towards those families whose sons have joined Islamic State.

Though funeral ceremonies for dead Islamic State fighters are banned in mosques in Halabja, wakes are permitted, unlike elsewhere in northern Iraq, and the prevailing attitude towards the families of local Islamic State fighters appears to be one of sympathy rather than anger.

“No one has said a word against my family,” said Kazi’s mother as she wept briefly in her home. “They are sad as we are sad. He was a great son. Had I known what he was thinking I would never have let him go. Now our life has become a wake.”

Halabja residents are still mostly loyal to the regional government as 30 of them were killed over the past few months in battles against ISIS militants .

However, the city, once better known as being synonymous with the spirit of Kurdish resistance and nationhood since its population was gassed by Saddam Hussein in 1988, is growing an unenviable reputation as being the primary source of Kurds abandoning the secularism of their people to serve Islamic State.

The Kurdish intelligence organization, the Asayish, claims to the Times Newspaper that of the 85 men from Halabja who have joined Islamic State in the past 18 months, 23 are known to have been killed, 18 have ­returned voluntarily, 25 are known still to be active, while the status of the others is unknown.

Another Halabja man fighting with Islamic State, Ikram Khalid Ahmed, 19, gained prominence four weeks ago when he fled a truck packed with 500kg of TNT during an aborted suicide attack on Kurdish forces near Jalula.

“He lost his nerve and failed to detonate,” the intelligence officer continued. “Now he’s in jail.”

Halabja’s complex recent history makes it vulnerable to ­extremism. The city, once a cultural centre famous for its poets, was left devastated after the Iran-Iraq war and Saddam’s bombing. Islamic political parties, foremost among them the Islamic Movement of Kurdistan, rose to prominence in the 1990s and by 2001 Ansar al-Islam, a militant group with links to al-Qa’ida, had seized control of mountain villages above Halabja, before being driven out in heavy fighting in 2003.

“About 80 per cent of the current wave of young men from Halabja joining ISIS (Islamic State), mostly in their teens and early twenties, have some sort of family link to Islamic political parties,” a second intelligence official in Halabja claimed. “But the deciding factor was the start of the war in Syria. Many imams in the city started preaching that Syria’s war was Islam’s war, and called for (President Bassar al-Assad) to be toppled. By the time they realised the implications it was too late.”

Saddam’s gas attack, which killed 5000 at the time and resulted in thousands more deaths in later years, played its own part in legacy radicalisation.

“There is the trace of memory among a new generation that the greatest suffering here, the gas ­attack of 1988, was committed by the so-called secular regime of Saddam,” said imam Kamil Mohammed, reflecting on the three young men from his congregation at Halabja’s Noor Mosque who left to join Islamic State. “It is not the main reason, but it is an element.”

Nevertheless, the city’s violent recent history and mixed political allegiances have produced a surprising open-mindedness — even compassion — among residents towards those families whose sons have joined Islamic State.

Though funeral ceremonies for dead Islamic State fighters are banned in mosques in Halabja, wakes are permitted, unlike elsewhere in northern Iraq, and the prevailing attitude towards the families of local Islamic State fighters appears to be one of sympathy rather than anger.

“No one has said a word against my family,” said Goran’s mother as she wept briefly in her home. “They are sad as we are sad. He was a great son. Had I known what he was thinking I would never have let him go. Now our life has become a wake.”