To be honest, I know three things about Mustafa Barzani. First off, he was a massively respected leader of the Kurds in their fight for independence; secondly, he died in late 1970’s; and thirdly, his words hang on a placard beneath his painted portrait above Mayor Krmanj Ezzat’s desk in Soran City: "Who is in charge ought to be in the service of his people,” it says.
And if that is the way this man is remembered 40 years later, then I don’t need to know much more to conclude that he was the sort of fella we’d all like to have around. And, Iet me tell you, Mayor Krmanj is made up of the very same stuff—he’s the mayor of 125,000 people, of which a vast majority of them have his personal cell phone number. At any point when you are with him, he might very well take ten calls because his people need him. And yet, at no point do you ever feel he doesn’t have time for you.
Indeed, these two men remind me much of a leader I admire and love who said he did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life in exchange many.
I so look forward to sharing more as I venture to put the last months into writing. Thank you to all those I've met and been loved by thus far—I am indebted.
Their Long History of Suffering
125,000 thereabout, of which 65% of them are refugees who’ve come back to Iraq over the past decade. Diana is the capital: meaning “Christian” in Kurdish, as it was historically a small village of Chaldeans long before the refugees came. To this day the Chaldeans still inhabit an area of the the city, and continue to live in peace with their Muslim neighbors.
Those that fled Iraq to Iran decades ago during Saddam's regime later returned and settled in and around the district of Soran, as their home villages were unlivable piles of rubble still threatened by the PKK and bombs from the Turks.
As of late, the Yezidi people of Sinjar in Nineveh have been added to the montage of folks in the district. Following ISIS' Yezidi massacre in August 2014, they, too, found safe harbor in Soran. And though Soran is lacking in funds from the Iraqi government to support even themselves, they are doing anything and everything to accommodate the influx of people—knowing full well more are expected to arrive in the coming months and years. Unarguably, Soran's “hospitality” towards the newcomers can be attributed almost entirely to having been alienated once themselves.
Which makes me think, could it be that suffering can deepen us as people, perhaps soften us to empathize with others in such a way that can light the darkest valley—that what is meant for evil, meant to destroy, meant to kill can later become a thing for good?
The Supreme Religious Challenge
"The supreme religious challege is to see God's image in one who is not in our image, for only then can we see past our own reflections in the mirror to the God we did not make up."
-Rabbi Jonathon Sacks
Soran City Golden Hour
Perfect spot to sit during the golden hour before sharing a meal with an this wonderful Arab family living in Kurdistan. It's been a good day.
March for Kurdistan Independence Referendum
Flags high as Soran city supports an independence referendum for Kurdistan.
Equally Grateful As I Am Exhausted
I'm pretty sure the only way to stop making images here is to either:
a.) close my eyes and never leave the house, or b.) walk around like a fool with a bag on my head.
It makes no difference where the sun hangs in the sky; whether a fella, lady, or little one passes me by; or if arms are linked in dance or one's simply bending to tie a shoe—this place and her people teem with images just waiting to be made.
And for that, I am equally grateful as I am exhausted.
Indebted
Indebted—that’s what I am. I sat with a Yazidi man and some of his extended family in a camp the other day and heard their story of fleeing ISIS to the place we sat today. Perhaps it all sounds like humanitarian hogwash to you because everyone says this when they visit the places of the world where people have so little—but try your best to hear me now.
They said they were grateful. And when I asked if they were mad at God for all that they had seen and all they had lost, they replied unanimously and without hesitation, “No? No?!”—as if my question were absurd. They agreed that God has taken care of them; and that they are grateful.
So I just sat in the quiet, looking at them looking at me—trying to give it some time to move from my head down to my heart.
La-Z-Boys and Lean Cuisines
“They live in two lives. I know they live two lives,” Sami explained of his daughters. “[But] I cannot change and be American 100 percent and do what Americans do.”
“No, no, no.” I lamented, knowing he was right.
“When you live like two persons,” he continued, “you have two faces–it’s not easy. You cannot stay like this forever and ever.”
At 19, Sami fought with Saddam Hussein’s special forces, but defected his duties after witnessing harrowing atrocities and joined the Peshmerga: guerrilla fighters in Iraqi Kurdistan. At 25, in the mid-90’s, he fled to Turkey via Iran in attempt to relocate his family to safety in Europe, but was detained. He spent three months on a frozen concrete prison floor in Iran where beatings ensued and boys were raped. He returned home after deportation to Kurdistan, only to flee to Turkey once again in the same pursuit of freedom.
He made it to Van, Turkey, and lived on the streets–stealing to survive. A Turkish fella befriended him and helped him with the logistics of gaining his UN refugee status. Four months later he returned to Iraq, collected his family, and snuck them past guards and guns over the mountainous Turkish border. In 2000, Sami and his wife, Beyan; 6-year-old Malala, and 8-month-old Shene flew to Houston, Texas to begin life in America–with 35 cents in their pocket.
I met them in Portland, Oregon, 16 years later, where they’d moved in 2006. The littlest two, Abby and Rozeen, were born in 2007 and 2012. Over the course of five nights, a dozen Kurdish meals, and countless pots of strong chai, I unfolded a story that wouldn’t likely make “headlines” like the bold and beautiful story of their coming to America. It wasn’t one of bullets and bombs, but of an odyssey not meant for the faint of heart.
My first morning there, Beyan and I sat over chickpeas and tomatoes smothered in olive oil and tahini while the kids were at school and Sami worked local freight delivery. She recalled the waist-high snow, the mountains, and sedating babies at the Turkish border to sneak them past guards without a peep. She told me about their first weeks in Houston–and about sugar. Apparently it was difficult and...chancy...to shop for. One might very well return home with a bag of salt because of the unhelpful picture-less packaging. She told me about the nice American lady named Sue–and her little notebook–always fervently jotting down the pronunciation of various Kurdish words whilst maintaining a pleasant smile.
Heavens, it’s true...how good it was for them to be safe and sound in America with all her tidy supermarkets and smooth highways. It brought opportunity to transcend social stratums of kinship and caste, and brought access to education their daughters would’ve only dreamt about. It was new, and big, and free–yet not without its fair share of heartache.
The Land of Liberty is some 7,000 miles from mothers, fathers, and neighbors that shared meals and burdens with them. It’s 7,000 miles from the cool concrete home that smelled fresh and clean after each wash, and the summer nights atop the roof sleeping under the stars. It’s 7,000 miles from that languid land, where springtime meant picnics in the hills of Zen Abden among the yellow Nergiz blooms.
“Every night after dinner, all the family visits [together] in one home.” Beyan recalled of her homeland, “You never feel lonely. But in America–you feel lonely– sometimes it’s no one but you and your husband.” During their first years in Houston, Beyan stayed inside safe with the kids, while Sami braved the new world of the self-made man. She had no market to visit, and no friend to join. The neighbors didn’t sit outside to chat because in America everyone is so busy–busy keeping to themselves.
And Sami? It was he who brought the family to the land of milk and honey–this land he knew so little about–and he’d be the one to blame should the endeavor fail. It was he who was solely responsible to protect and provide for his wife and daughters–without a single friend to show him how. And to exacerbate things, Sami and Beyan had converted to the Christian faith during their journey to America, which not only added tension to extended family relations, but also alienated them from Stateside Muslim Kurds. And to top it off, Beyan had yet to bear a son. Not doing so means Sami is cut off from his family–considered illegitimate–never mind the fact that he had two incredible daughters, and two more yet to come.
Now, as much as Sami and Beyan aimed to acclimate to the newfound ways of the West, one cannot easily dismantle a lifelong framework upon which their understanding of the world and God are built. To the Eastern mind, all decisions pivot around communal life–the family. Parents expect their children’s allegiance as much as folks in the West expect their children to fend for themselves after the age of 18. Failing to keep a tight rein on daughters, in particular, could mean toting the abominable line of family dishonor. And bear in mind, a young woman in the Middle East merely chatting with a fella in the market is credible evidence for “suspicious behavior;” behavior the father is held responsible for and should prevent with apt supervision.
Oh how different the Westerner! All decisions pivot around self-actualization: you make life whatever you fancy, pursue your education, and realize your dreams–regardless of the family you were born into, and regardless of gender. Overcoming personal obstacles and limitations is the great ethos of our nation.
I know it’s hard, but can you imagine living straddled between two such cultures? And imagine trying to raise your children there; mix that in with the universal challenges of raising teenagers. Maddening!
Malala, who is now 22, and Shene, now 17, grew up making their beds in the East, yet dined on plastic trays in lunchrooms full of Westerners, never settling really in either. Because how do you grapple with the fear that to live wholly in one world might mean destroying the other? Detaching from the world your father fled from could bring unbearable shame, yet so would holding back from the one he brought you to.
Which makes me think of La-Z-Boys and Lean Cuisines.
You see, my mama use to sit and fiddle with the remote on her La-Z-Boy recliner–back and forth between flat and upright–as if it were a ride on Coney Island. There wasn’t much she could manage on her own thanks to a decade and a half bout with a brain tumor–and all that goes with it–which is why daddy eventually hired some gals to help out three days a week while he traveled for work.
In those days, I sometimes took the shift from 4pm, when Stephanie left, until 9:30 the next morning when she came back. Nice afternoons might be spent pushing mama in her chair outside. Other days we’d watch Oprah–which she didn’t actually watch because she couldn’t actually see. For dinner, I’d microwave her favorite Lean Cuisine, then pour sweet tea over powdered liquid thickener in her Disney princess sippy cup (because they don’t decorate sippy cups with 58-year-old women in mind).
I’d lift her from the La-Z-Boy to the wheel chair, roll her to the kitchen, and tie a bib around her neck. She never seemed bothered by the fact that her spoon-fed meals necessarily meant a 2-year-old in his high chair could out perform her. Her diaper change at PJ time didn’t trouble her either. And she never noticed the strange thickness of the water used to wash down her pills at bedtime, nor that she was no longer the one to brush her teeth. Nights were restless because she’d forget when she’d last peed. I’d lift her onto the bedside toilet, then back to the bed, only to do it again five times more every five minutes after that. She didn’t know what she was doing, or what had become of her.
But I did. I knew exactly what was going on. I knew my mother was that lady– the one who gifted parents in mall food courts tangible opportunities to teach their children that sometimes people come packaged with clunky wheelchairs and adult drool. And though the cavalcade beckons your gaze, you are to resist! Keep your pointed fingers wrapped about your milkshake cup and press on toward Old Navy like you don’t give a damn.
I knew she use to be the sort of woman who competently balanced a 31 year corporate career and family of five with neighborhood chili parties and soccer coaching. She was the one who gave my dad untold confidence that he could be the president of the soccer association–and the one who use to dance with me in the kitchen to the Beach Boys. She was brilliant, gutsy, and–might I add–quite a “looker.”
I remember that woman; and I remembered her especially on nights like those. “What in God’s name happened?” my heart would protest, “This should not be!” Oh, how dark and demoralizing was that valley.
Now, I do like the Bible, but I wasn’t scrounging around for a verse to make sense of it all. And, actually, even the world’s greatest listener wouldn’t do the trick. Casseroles are always a hit, but I’da managed fine without one. And to be understood? Good lord...doubtful. And though I would have accepted it, it wasn’t a shoulder to cry on, help with laundry, or even a sense of normalcy that I needed most. Do you know what I wished for more than anything in all the wide world?
I wanted the doorbell to ring.
I wanted someone–anyone–to show up and say, “I’m in. I’m in all night long. I got a bottle a wine and some cheap crackers–let’s make dinner. ‘Cause if the two of you gotta be up until morning, we might as well make a night of it. Wanna watch a movie and pop some popcorn?”
My God, that would have been a sweetest gift. It would have changed my whole world and filled that dark place with light and life. Yet I never asked a soul to do that. I prolly shoulda. But I didn’t. I knew I’d be imposing...
And I can’t help but wonder, could it be that that is what Sami, Beyan, Malala, Shene, Abby, and Rozeen–along with countless other refugee families–ache for too? And dare I say it’s not a “one and done,” quick turn-around, dust your feet off and go sorta thing, but an odyssey where their ups and downs become your ups and downs. Don’t just drop off the casserole, but be there for the years when everyone’s beat trying to reconcile the old world with the new.
I promise, you don’t have to understand what it’s like to be a refugee. You don’t have to have all the right answers or be sure how to reconcile the goodness and sovereignty of God with suffering. Pretty words aren’t necessary. Heck, you don’t even have to speak their language! You just have to show up and ring the doorbell–because all of us know what it’s like to feel marginalized, dejected, and overwhelmed.
And no, I’m not naively suggesting we all go about that same way, as none of us have the same thoughts, skills, resources, or availability. But I am suggesting you ask God what that is and do it. I am suggesting that some of us–perhaps all of us–choose to stay “all night long,” because they’re probably not gonna ask us to do that. Yes, that is inconvenient. Yes, it is a tall order with all the things you’re currently juggling. Yes, it is a commitment. But it is the sweetest gift–a gift not just for them, but also for you.
Westview Cemetery with My Sister and Mama's Dog.
Three years ago yesterday my mom died. It was about 12:26am. I remember my left hand clung to my dad’s, and the other to my mom’s. My cousin Jennifer Parks was on the other side of the bed. The three of us watched as her breaths became shorter and further apart. We waited in stillness about 90 seconds after the last one.
We all nodded, agreeing that she was finally gone. Daddy jumped up and laid his body atop hers. He cried sweetly over and over and over, “You did so good! So good! That was beautiful!” With his hands on her face, he kissed her between laments of, “Linda, that was beautiful! I love you!”
The room changed. I’m failing now to find proper words to convey how it changed because the furniture didn’t budge, the corner lamp didn’t brighten nor flicker -- yet most assuredly I was standing on Heaven’s edge.
Daddy said to me, “Stay here. Close her eyes....and close her mouth.” He and Jennifer left the room to call the family. I did what he said--stared. Mama was absolutely not there, so to the space around and above me I whispered, “I love you, mama. I’m tired. And I wanna go sleep now.”
And before all the family showed and the funeral home came to take her body, I was upstairs in bed. Strangely enough, peace like river attendeth my soul. I slept in Jesus’ arms, and I knew mama was there too.
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And if I may, I want to admonish you with a snippet from an email I sent my dad on the ferry from Paros to Athens, Greece, en route home to kiss mom goodbye. Knowing what came of the days and years that followed, even the moment described above, I can say with gladness that what the Spirit of God was telling me then about His benevolence and care in such a place mystery can be banked on now just as much as then, and is just as true for you as it is for me.
Here's some of the email, December 2011:
“I know that is a daunting and unpleasant topic, Daddy, but hell...I'm all alone floating in the middle of the Aegean and have to tell someone, even in email. No one here would understand my English ‘ranting’ anyhow. Despite my seclusion, I don't feel alone really. I have not ceased to feel the presence of someone greater than the Aegean in every moment on this trip, especially this last month heading into the ‘dark valley.’ Everything feels timely and intentional. I am very cared for.
It is no mistake that the course of events have begun with me across the world. And it's no mistake that I have stood on a high peaks just beyond the turquoise sea, with the clouds hovering like umbrellas under the sun. It's no mistake that I have met some beautiful people in the hills, with nothing to show their unexpected love but with sweet homemade wine, goat cheese, and warm bread around their kitchen table.
And frankly, how can you look at such places and meet such people and fail to consider the One who put it all together with such obvious intentionality? How can you look at such places and meet such people and not be reminded that if God cares so highly for the beauty of those hills and the harvest of those farmers, does he not care also for me and my family? In those moments of wonder, I do believe with certainly that God put me on that plane the very day I turned 26--just months before all of this--so I could marvel at all God so beautifully crafted and remember that He is still creating. And it's not just the landscapes or the rising sun, but my life, our lives, our stories...that they would be even more beautiful than the most beautiful Parian landscape.
I think of Jesus' words, 'See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon and all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you...?'
Daddy, how good it is to be loved and cared for by the one who rules it all. It is astounding to know that 'Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.'
Of course, it all still hurts. But He's here.”
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Anyway, God cares so deeply for us and our stories. He cares about our needs, our hurts, the things we fear, the shit we can't kick, and stuff we're waiting on, dreaming about, and giving all we've got.
How quickly I forget.
Thanks for reading,
Jessie