The Waiting Place...: Up in the Air

Sunday, July 04, 2004

Up in the Air

I asked Eva last night if she had any news on Meran - where he is, what he's doing?

She said yes, she did. He will be going to Al-Qayyarah, south of Mosul a little bit in the next day or so instead of Ba'qubah like previously mentioned. The reason was because he was reassigned from Special Forces and requested an assignment in the North. He told her that depending on where he gets assigned and how much leave he can take, that will determine if he still wants her and the boys to come over there. It is looking more and more as if he may not get assigned where he wants, and that he will just decide to come back home.

I asked, so he's not tied into another contract then yet, I'm assuming?

His contract was never really like tied anyways, he is free to leave any time he wants, Eva responded.

Nice contract is all I can say. Wonder how that works! Maybe after one year, there are options and it's easier to leave after that. Who knows. I'm hoping he comes home, but at the same time if he really wants to help over there, I can understand that, too. I'm not so sure it's the best thing to do, however, considering all the other factors that have recently come up...

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The poem below was written by a human rights activist that befriended Meran in the Turkish refugee camps. It is all true, based on recollections and memories shared with her by Meran. It was published in a book called "Kurdistan Times," a bi-annual publication of the Kurdish Human Rights Watch, Copyright 1997...

MY HOME IN KURDISTAN
By Margareta Hanson

My home, so
my father told me
was in a valley
in the mountains,
with a river
clear and cold,
its water running
from the snowfields.

In the garden
fruit trees grew.
We had cucumbers,
grapes and melons.
In the barn
there were, of course,
cows and sheep and
my father's horse.

In our home,
heated by
the baking oven
were handmade carpets
of all colors.
It was my home
until 1980 when
I was two years old.
Then came Saddam's soldiers.
Iraqi troops
bulldozed our house
and the barn,
destroyed the garden
and drove us out
from our valley
in the mountains.

Hunted, homeless,
frightened,
we had to flee.
My father's horse
carrying some
blankets, pots and pans
and my older brother
carrying me.

For years we walked
at night
lighted by the stars.
We were hungry,
cold and ill,
sleeping in a tent
as from place
to place we went.

Like that
we lived
until 1988
when I was
ten years old.
Then planes flew by
and chemical bombs
exploded in the sky.

I had run, was
hiding in the mountains.
When I returned I found
that my mother,
my father, and my brother
were laying dead.
Peshmergas helped me
bury them, and then I fled.

Four years went by.
I stayed with
thousands of other Kurds
in a Turkish camp.
We lived in tents.
For heat the sun,
for light at night
the shining stars.

Now I am in another world
of neon lights and cars.
Here in the United States
I go to school and work at night.
I call myself a man and say
"Forgotten is the pain,
I am on my way."

But when I sleep
I am a child at home
in the valley
in the mountains
with the river
cold and clear,
it's water running
from the snowfields.

In the garden
fruit trees grow.
We have cucmbers,
grapes and melons.
In the barn
there are, of course,
cows and sheep
and my father's horse.

In my dream
I clearly see them,
my father, my mother
and my older brother,
in our home
in the valley
in the mountains
in my country, Kurdistan.

I am asking you, my friend,
is there a Kurdistan,
a land that is mine,
that will welcome me?
Is there a land
of peace and democracy
where all people are free
and living in harmony?

Where hate and murder
does not exist
and every man and
woman is a friend?
If so, Kurdistan, I am
your long-lost son
who wants to go home
and never leave again!