Monday, March 08, 2004

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...)

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