These days it's difficult to show casualties of war on evening newscasts or in any American media outlets. The images become politically charged; take on meaning beyond their face value. But more often than not, the violence is just too grim, too hard to stomach at dinnertime.

Omar's Arm

As we await Meran's return for a long-anticipated visit, Eva sent me this update about a friend of Meran's that was charged with murdering his wife back in 2002. A trial date has finally be set after long delay. Eva feels the new evidence casts more doubt on the likelihood that he is guilty. The wife was American, and he is Kurdish. There is an 11 year age difference (she was older). I think it's quite probably that these factors will be played out as part of the prosecution's stategy. It will be interesting to see what facts come out in court, and what they will reveal.

...a city on a hill cannot be hidden.

It grows increasingly apparent that the Syrian Kurds are attempting to leverage the political advances their southern Kurdish brothers and sisters have been obtaining in Iraq, to their own advantage in Syria. At the same time, the Baathists in power in Syria are continuing to persecute their Kurdish population. Demonstrations within Syria by native Kurds, and around the world in support of them, are trying to bring attention to these situations. Time to be seen and heard.

We filled the hillside with laughter, the very thing, I suppose, that those people died fighting for, the men joining in as well, joyfully bouncing the football around the fabric, some unable to work because of wounds from their time in the resistance. They really needed to play like children.

Jo Wilding shares experiences in northern Iraq/Kurdistan earlier today. At the end of the long but special day, she had this to say...

We took the scenic route home. Literally: I don't mean we were lost. We went the slow way, through the mountains, diving into landscapes of green slopes, clear streams, red flowers, still just buds, somewhere between a rose and a poppy, and Shenoor says when they open, it's spring; a mud hut by the water with a few ducks around, air you could breathe, really breathe, cool and soothing for lungs brutalised by the Baghdad atmosphere which assails them with a hailstorm of particles...

I don't think I've ever been anywhere more beautiful in my life.

Her parting words made me think of Margareta's poem based on Meran's memories of his home in Kurdistan that he left behind (see sidebar...)