The Waiting Place...

The Waiting Place...

...Contemplations on those who left, by those left behind

Tuesday, March 30, 2004

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

posted by Trish | 11:45 PM

Sunday, March 21, 2004

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.

posted by Trish | 12:50 AM

Thursday, March 18, 2004

...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.

posted by Trish | 12:50 PM

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...)

posted by Trish | 3:36 PM

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The Weblog Review says

"...focuses more on the human aspect of the Middle East conflict...marvelously refreshing" and "...a portrait of a genuinely loving marriage, and what happens when two people who love each other are torn apart by circumstances."

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Click here to see more images from Eva's visit to Iraqi Kurdistan, to visit Meran in late 2003

I spoke with my daughter and son-in-law tonight. Meran said he wasn't nervous. He sounded resolved, certain that what he was about to do was the right thing. Maybe a bit of his confidence was to help Eva and his sisters feel better about it and not worry for him, but I think he truly believes he should be doing this.

...it's been indicated to Meran that it's more likely that when he's deployed, he won't be going to Kuwait, but Northern Iraq since a northern front is now being established and they'll need Kurdish translators and interpreters onsite.

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 biannual 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!