In the mood to get out and explore, and inspired by reading about Obama's forays into “the center of people's lives” during his early Chicago days, I decided to head out myself into town. I wandered through the crowded bazaar streets, and tried to keep my eyes on the ground before me so that 1) I wouldn't trip over the rugged, unpaved paths, and 2) I could avoid the wall of stares. I decided to leave the bazaar fairly soon for some breathing room, and headed to the citadel, but they didn't let anyone in after 5, and so I turned back and just wandered along the main roads teeming with orange-and-white taxis zipping by, past a colorful bomb wall, through some alleys where only a few shops were open because it's Friday today, their day of rest, and ended up at a square of sorts, at the center of which stood a huge statue of a turbaned fellow. I asked the armed guard patrolling the street who it was.
“Sher Mahmoud,” said he, using a guttural r similar to the French r. I found this strange because the Kurdish language as far as I knew did not contain the guttural r sound.
“Sherrr Mahmoud?” I asked.
“Sherrrrrrrrr Mahmoud!” he said. We stood there spitting at each other until I realized (soon enough) that he was probably saying “Sheikh”. Hm, I've always wondered how that word was pronounced. Now I knew! I asked if he was a renowned person in Kurdistan, and he nodded vigorously. Hm, who was this guy? I'd have to wait to Wikipedia it to find out that he was the leader of several Kurdish uprisings in British-controlled Iraqi Kurdistan during the 1920's, former governor of Sulaimaniya (the former capital of Kurdistan), and self-proclaimed King of Kurdistan- a kingdom which lasted all of 2 years before the British bullied him into exile in India. In the meantime, I asked the friendly guard the way to Minaret Park, and he pointed me back toward the bazaar. I thanked him and headed toward the park, though it was already growing dark by then.
Outside the park, I peeped in through the gates and smiled to myself at the now-familiar sights and sounds of Iraqi Kurdistan glamour: lavish fountains, neon-bright Christmas lights strung haphazardly over trees and lampposts, and cheesy American ballads (think Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, and okay Chris de Burgh, he's not bad). When I first experienced this brand of glamour so particular to Kurdistan, I had the impression of a child playing dress-up, adorning herself with an assortment of oversized sequined and ruffled dress, strands of gaudy jewelry, floppy hats with plumes, high heels 5 sizes to big, and bright red lipstick smeared all over her face- all in the hopes of looking like a lovely lady, grown-up, refined, and elegant. Now, after having witnessed this look at the fanciest restaurants and parks, in all the Dream Cities (I've been to 3 so far), and in all 3 major cities I've visited so far in Iraq, the look is finally growing on me. And haven't I always wished for a fantasy land in which Christmas lights were kept up year-round?
One thing is for sure: living in a developing nation has trained my eyes to see beauty in rubble. It's easy to see beauty while standing atop Mount Rainier, or sitting on a log at Golden Gardens Park in Seattle, or standing on a hill in San Francisco overlooking the bay. But in a place like Iraq, aside from the gorgeous sunsets and orange moons, one has to search deep within the rubble, look past the monochrome light brown, the ubiquitous dust, the Western knock-offs, half-constructed buildings, the trash, and the childish glamour, in order to find the beauty within. It may lie in the chaos of the bazaar; in the unearthly light that shines into Lenge, making the covered women shoppers look like dark angels; in the first pink rose to appear in the sad little plot of muddy garden outside your balcony window; in the courageous intent behind the childish glamour and Western knock-offs and painted bomb walls; in the clear blue eyes of the wrinkly old face; and in the hearts of strangers who invite you into their humble homes and bestow gifts upon you.
At the park, I met a family from Duhok with two adorable 4-year-old twin boys. Twin meeting twins! Their names were Mohammed and Ahmed- typical Muslim names. We wandered through the fountains and Christmas lights together and tried out the sports park (a playground outfitted with gym equipment; I've only seen one other, in Redwood City, CA), see-sawed illegally on the seesaw built for tots until they kicked us off, and sat on a bench eating knock-off cheetos. While we attempted to chat with my broken Kurdish, I saw one of the little boys struggling to pull down his jeans. I pointed to him, saying “toilet? toilet” to the mom, and the next thing I knew, the little dude was shooting a stream with a length to match his (albeit short) height, straight out into the grass. Hm...I'm gonna think twice next time I consider taking a seat in the grass, or on any public grounds for that matter. In the beginning of the year, as we drove through the city center in our shuttle, we counted two boys defecating in plain sight right onto the sidewalk, surrounded by people. We were told this was NOT the norm in Erbil, but that was twice in one trip! And don't forget the drunkards coming back from the Edge. Who are we kidding? We're savages, plain and simple.
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