Tales from the Arabian Nights, Part 1: Venturing Out of the Bomb Shelter

The night of my arrival in Beirut, Lebanon, I ventured into the Music Hall to check out the Lebanese “entertainment culture”. It's really lucky that I arrived in time to experience a Beirut weekend. Before I tell you about Music Hall, though, I want to tell you what it is like to be living for 4 months in Iraqi Kurdistan, and then suddenly finding myself walking through a street in Beirut, Lebanon after a couple short plane rides: frankly, it's like emerging from a bomb shelter to discover that the world is actually 50 years into the future, a la “Blast From the Past”, starring Brendan Frasier and Alicia Silverstone. As I walked wide-eyed through a street teeming with cars and people, though it was dark out, I was shocked by the sight of so many women dressed so scantily, elegantly, and fashionably. No demure covering to speak of around here! Nor neon-bright, tacky outfits, Santa dresses, or bumblebee outfits. Only short, stylish dresses, trendy jeans, checkered scarves, and fashion boots. And they all had beautiful, flowing dark brown hair and perfectly made-up faces. Geez, was this for real? I was positively dizzy from sensory overload. Don't laugh, but I actually took a picture of the entrance of a Hallmark store. It was so beautifully decorated for Christmas and the products inside were so adorable and beautiful and of such good quality! Sigh...I really spoiled myself silly during my stay in this country, but it was all totally and utterly worth it. You could say, I picked up the mindset of the Lebanese people (why save when you can spend?) with admirable ease and efficiency during my short stay there. And it all started with Music Hall...

Not really, but what a great transition that would have been! Before Music Hall, I spent the day walking through the city, whiled away time at a coffee shop (!) called De Prague, learned the difference between Iranian and Turkish rugs (one has geometrical designs, the other floral), and watched the tempestuous waves of the Mediterranean Sea seething and crashing against the rocks. I chatted for a long while with the young, friendly couple who owned an artisan crafts shop along the Corniche (the waterfront along the Mediterranean). They had lived in Seoul for six years during the '90s boom years, working for the Lebanese embassy there. They told me a funny story about how their son wouldn't stop crying one night, though they couldn't figure out for the life of them why. Finally after hours of trying everything they could think of, they called downstairs in the dead of night and asked for help from the Korean hotel receptionist, and figured out that all he wanted was rice. Only he was saying it in Korean- not in Arabic or French or even English. It was a story that was both funny and telling. The couple had moved back to Lebanon to raise their sons in a linguistically saner environment. (Only three languages to learn, not four.)

Later, I wandered through Gemayzeh street before it became a crazy party scene, and chatted with the youthful owner of a godfather-themed Italian restaurant there called Corleone Trattoria. He had become owner and manager of the successful business at the youthful age of 21 through sheer hard work. He was proud of his accomplishments, yet regretted not being able to enjoy his youth. He never had time to go out for dinners and drinks and parties like his peers because of his work. And yet, his restaurant was a beautiful success, set right in the heart of the Beirut party scene. This was not an unusual tale in Beirut, I realized later. Many Beirut-ers spend all their time working just to survive in their expensive city. Others work and spend, work and spend, and don't even try to save. It may be that they don't save for the future because their future might be bombed any day. The Lebanese live for the present and party like there's no tomorrow because, in fact, there may be no tomorrow.

I left Gemayzeh street eventually, and wandered through the beautiful downtown where stands a gorgeous mosque commissioned by the late Prime Minister Rafik Hariri. I toured the tent-memorial of Hariri, whiled away more time at the Apple Store there, flipping through artsy mac covers, whiled away even more time at the Virgin Records bookstore where I read through JK Rowlings latest book, The Tales of Beedle the Bard, and then finally made my way to Music Hall around 1 am, when the streets were still lit up and lively with weekend revelers. 

Though I was dressed ultra-casually in blue jeans and a hoodie  under my red coat and sneakers, I had no trouble getting into the concert hall because the party had started awhile ago,  maybe a couple hours ago, and they could tell I was a tourist. It was dark inside, and I remember red lights and then a huge audience seating area in front of the bar set in the back, as in a theatre. And a big stage below with a Reggatone band jamming away on it. It was very crowded with people dressed to the nines, all the women in elegant party dresses. People were seated in groups in red, semi-circular booths, eating fancy food, but others were on their feet dancing Lebo-style with their hands in the air to the music coming from the stage. This is what went on at Music Hall, every weekend. It's like a casual concert that you don't need tickets for in advance, that shows a dozen bands each night of a variety of music genres, accompanied by neon-bright roaming stage-lights; where people dine and drink and dance the night away. In between bands, they play recorded music and people dance to that too. House music is very popular, but they play and show all kinds- even a girl who did a remix of Stevie Wonder. The best part was at the end when an old man in his 60's with long silver hair came out with a stick and started dancing a jig of sorts and spinning his stick around like a ninja stick. This was Tony Hanna, a Lebanese musician beloved by his people, young and old, a symbolic figure, and clearly a crowd favorite. 

I didn't leave until around 3 or 4 that night, but there were still taxis around and cops stationed at street corners so it didn't feel weird or scary. Before going back into the Royal Garden hotel, I grabbed a cheese pizza from the pizza cart across the street that is open 24/7, and stood at the window of my 4th floor hotel room munching on it and watching the scene below. It was nothing interesting, but just the fact that there was something going on, that there was life on the streets at this hour of the night was enough to captivate my sorely-deprived senses. 

40% of the Lebanese population is Christian

Rafik Hariri's tent-memorial set in the shadows of the beautifully-lit mosque set in Downtown Beirut, commissioned by the late Prime Minister himself. He was assassinated in 2005 by a truck-bomb that blew up his entire motorcade. A cab driver drove me past the location of the bombing. "Hariri, BOOM!" he explained concisely.

The older crowd generally praised Hariri for the bottom-up post-war reconstruction of Beirut, while the younger crowd complained that he had sold half their nation to rich Saudis and brought Lebanon neck-deep into debt.

The cedar tree is the national symbol of Lebanon, growing abundantly in their snow-capped mountains.

Hariri's tomb. The white flowers are changed every few days. The wheel-shaped objects hanging on the walls and also covered with the same white flowers are a tribute from each of his children and grandchildren.

Hariri's bodyguards who were also killed in the 2005 truck-bomb assassination.

Music blared from speakers all the while; the flag of Lebanon marked with dozens and dozens of signatures.

I sat outside on the stoops of the mosque playing with my camera.

Ornate towers with octagonal balconies jutting up from the mosque.

Pretty lanterns

Music Hall

I climbed the Saint Nicholas Steps on Gemayzeh Street, beautifully lit for the holidays, lined with bars and restaurants, packed to the max on Saturday nights.

Along the Corniche (Waterfront) at sunset.

Un-posted Entries

I was looking through my old journal entries and discovered that I had never posted a bunch of entries I had written about my winter trip to Lebanon and Egypt. Here they are, with pictures. Verbose as always.

Where did Moses Go?

Epiphany:


There doesn't seem to be a well-formed concept of afterlife in the Jewish religion . How strange! I always assumed that a well-defined Heaven was one of the things that the three major monotheistic religions- and many others besides- had in common. 

Balls a-Flying

Almost four years ago, during my college years, I tried my hand at juggling with damaging failure. Eventually, I got tired of picking up balls from the grass, and so I cursed gravity and dropped the hobby instead.

Nearly four years later, this past June, the night before the first group of us teachers left Iraq for good, Tom put his juggling balls in my care. Oh the irony. What possessed me to keep them remains mysterious...perhaps something akin to nostalgia...but I kept them.

Then one day, about a month ago, I picked them up from their dust-gathering place in the bricked corner of my Freak Tent room in Philly, and I started juggling again. First one ball, then two, then I tried my hand at three.

I was as atrocious as ever, but this time I was a more perceptive learner. I learned how to throw, how not to throw, and most importantly, I paced myself. When I made it to 3 tosses in a row, then to 5, I congratulated myself and set a new goal of 6. A couple weeks passed in this fashion, my record number of tosses in a row never exceeding 8.

Then, sometime last week I hit the double digits- a record 12 tosses in a row! A couple days ago, when I hit a major stride and made it all the way to my age (25), I nearly choked my roomie Melissa with my exuberant hugging.

Today, I reached another important landmark, 42. I juggled the answer to the universal question! (The question itself remains mysterious.) I nearly crushed Sarah with my exuberant pummeling. Juggling turns me violent, it would seem.

The Return of Orion

After all the guests had gone, I remembered that there had been a spillage on the table on our rooftop. I went up armed with paper towels and windex to clean it up. It was freezing out, the biting air of winter approaching slowly but surely. When I looked up, I saw that the night sky was filled with stars, and it took my breath away. A starry sky was a rare sighting in Philadelphia. And there was Orion's Belt! It had followed me all the way back from Iraq, each of its extremities safely intact. Orion was like a constant celestial companion- returning every winter without fail, wherever I may be, ready to accompany me on my latest journey. 

I've been back in Philly for nearly four months now, and really life couldn't get any better. I live in a house that has a roofdeck with the most amazing view of the Philly skyline stretching from end to end. My bedroom is like a giant tent with rainbow curtains for walls and one built of brick, and I get to share it with Sarah. Preparations for grad school are in the works, and aside from that, I've been really delving into the arts since my return, taking dance classes with some amazing instructors and shooting around the city with my brand new DSLR camera.

And best of all, I now have a special earthly companion (who's also often got a twinkle in his eye but for a very different reason) who has made me feel rather like Jasmine when Aladdin takes her for a magic carpet ride. I never imagined I'd be able to relate to a Disney character. From him, I received my first bouquet of flowers- giant sunflowers blooming with fresh scents, spontaneity, and romantic intentions. And to hear about all the things that he's done makes me, in turn, dream bigger than ever. Dangerous, I know. But anyway, besides the grand stuff,

Earlier today, when I went to the neighborhood grocery to buy a drink, I saw pumpkins sitting on the shelf. I should make something with pumpkin for the potluck, I thought to myself. 'Tis the season, after all. But what could I make besides the usual pumpkin pie? Normally, I'd brainstorm for a bit, then head home to google pumpkin recipes, find one, go back to the store, get the rest of the ingredients, etc. But this time I picked up my phone and called Adam. 

"How about pumpkin dumplings?" he suggested.

You can make dumplings with pumpkin? Who knew? Well they turned out to be more like fried pieces of gnocchi than dumplings, and in fact, it was the only food at the party that turned out bad. But still, as I hung up the phone, I thought about how nice it was that I could just call someone instead of going it alone all the time.

Poe, Edgar

All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.

I saw this line on a journal cover at Barnes today. It accompanied a mysterious, whimsical cover picture of a black (or silhouetted) cat pawing at a tree against a deep purple background. Sort of Halloween-ish. The line reminded me of the nursery tune Row, row, row your boat (...merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream!)

Here is the rest of the poem by Edgar Allan Poe (a Poet with a silent 't'):

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep - while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

The Sound of Language

I like how language turns into music when you don't understand it. That's how I found out my French was deteriorating, in fact. One day, I sat on the steps of Union Square in San Francisco listening to a French couple nearby chatting intimately in the language of windchimes and bells rather than defined words. 

...all the more melodious and rhythmic for their meaninglessness.

Coming to a Train Station Near You!

OH MY GOD, this clip makes me so happy! HAPPEEEEEE!!!!

Jersey Woods

Our campground in Jersey was a huge open field of neatly trimmed grass, surrounded by a circle of forest, and more campgrounds on the other side of the gravel path. We were a five minutes' drive from civilization. In the middle were four picnic tables plus a fire pit with stacked wooden planks for seating around the fire. The eight of us pitched our four tents as soon as we arrived, and proceeded to live out a most amazing weekend of uninhibited relaxation and ridiculous games, during which running around barefoot and neglecting hygienic duties became the norm. It's not something I could do for an extended period of time, but for 2 or 3 days, it's the most liberating experience ever. 

For two days, we drank, grilled manly meats and vegetable shishkebabs, played euchre and catchphrase, drew balls on passed-out victims like grade-schoolers, drank some more, played frisbee, had a dance-off to the choicest 90's techno and reggaetone music,...and so on. I adore Sarah's classmates from her BMB program because they're all so fun and interesting. I could go on and on about their distinct personalities, but I'll spare you. There is one, though, who was particularly fun to have on this trip. 

Matt is one of those people who will, when he's bored, think of the most random games, or else re-invent old ones. As soon as he arrived in the boys' car, he got out and started throwing his axe at a tree. It didn't take him long to figure out how to nail it consistently to the bark. Later, Sarah and I decided to give it a whirl, and I ended up nailing it six times. I won't say how many times I actually tried. Suffice it to say, 'twas enough for me to get six hits. And after doing a bunch of push-ups the night before the axe-throwing game, my right arm is seriously sore from the activity. 

On day two, we ventured into the woods to explore the sandy trails and gather firewood on the way back. We crossed a few shaky bridges and saw many different varieties of trees like holly and ones with serpent-like branches wrapping and curling around the main trunk. We came upon a lovely brown river (see, it wasn't blue!) that I wouldn't dare swim in, but still liked the look of it. On the way to the river, Yosh stopped me in the middle of my awesome rendition of “The Ants Go Marching One-By-One” (I was on five-sies. The last one stopped to eat-a-baked-potato-with-sour-cream-and-CHIVES)- 

“Shhh!” he hushed us. We all turned into stone (or pillars of salt, if you like), staring in the direction he was pointing in. It took me ages to see what he was seeing- a gorgeous, tan-colored deer with full-grown antlers staring at us from afar. I waved to it. It stared back with unblinking eyes. Then it bent its crowned head back down to continue eating, then quickly snapped its head back up as if it were only testing us. Eventually, it bounded off into the trees. We moved on and continued our expedition through mini-mounds crawling with daddy-long-legs, past blueberry bushes, and things of that nature. 

When we got back with the firewood, Matt and Yosh started tossing a frisbee around. Then Sarah joined them. I watched, envious of her frisbee-throwing skills (we are clearly not identical!). As the frisbee was spinning toward Sarah, Matt ran and intercepted it, and the game turned into Monkey-in-the-Middle. No more than a minute into this new game, he grabbed a 12-foot-long piece of firewood and started using that to block the frisbee. This game was called “The Stick”, the most ridiculous, most hilarious game to play and watch. I tried spinning with it randomly because I figured it was so long, it was bound to hit the frisbee along its path. Eventually, I got too dizzy and abandoned the stick entirely and proceeded to just tackle people for the frisbee, which was more manageable than using the ridiculously long and unwieldy Stick. 

A new drink was invented, called the Heartburn shot: Hershey's chocolate syrup + sriracha sauce, squirted directly in the mouth, chased down with a shot of vodka. It was a violent unification of contradictory flavors that somehow came out tasting good. The whole was for sure more than the sum of its parts.

Later, long after the sun went down, we teepee-ed a bunch of really long firewood and built a bonfire whose flames reached higher than 5-foot-11 (the height of the tallest person in our group). It was so impressive a fire that the eight of us simply sat or stood around it, magically silenced, watching in reverence as its light orange flames flickered and roared soundlessly, being pulled this way and that by the rather strong winds that blew that night. We watched the flames licking the logs, the logs burning and smoldering, glowing like blacksmiths' iron as the flames surrounded them and seeped through them mercilessly, flames flaring up through the cracks in the old, dead bark. We watched as a strike with the axe sent a million sparks flying like a swarm of brilliant, horny fireflies raining skyward, and disappearing suddenly into the dense, inescapable dark. The teepee-ed logs, too hastily arranged, soon collapsed sideways, lighting a stray shoe on fire. 

It had been cloudy all the second day, and so we were expecting that the moon wouldn't be able to light up the sky for us like it had the first night. How wrong we were. That night, the four of us lay on the blanket, watching smoky clouds moving swiftly and continuously past our lone satellite, and clearing up here and there to reveal a smattering of stars- more than I've seen in a while. Whenever I see clouds moving past the moon, my brain always interprets it falsely as the moon moving against a still sky, so I always have to take a minute to adjust the perception. Adjust and stare. Not a bad view for Jersey, the supposed Armpit of the United States. Crickets and who knows what other creatures buzzed all around us. The night is never quite silent. I learned this fact the night I slept on a bench on the banks of the Cher River in France, back in 2005. Such a cacophony of noise I had never heard before, including creepy dolphin cries, Sincerely! 

The fields in Jersey are much quieter, though. Someone remarked that the celestial movements looked like CGI. My eyes followed the treetops that formed the periphery of the expansive circle of sky above us. The border of treetops curved around and down toward my feet and then I couldn't follow it anymore. I raised my head to see where it led, and saw instead, the silhouette of a giant walnut tree, its inky branches hung with walnut bulbs and leaves, and curving and angling upward into the navy sky, unable to reach the moonlight. 

Lyrical Moment in 21 Grams

I heard the beginning of this in the movie, 21 grams, and had to look up the rest. Here it is: 

The Earth Turned to Bring Us Closer

   by Eugenio Montejo

   translated by Peter Boyle

The earth turned to bring us closer,

it spun on itself and within us,

and finally joined us together in this dream

as written in the Symposium.

Nights passed by, snowfalls and solstices;

time passed in minutes and millennia.

An ox cart that was on its way to Nineveh

arrived in Nebraska.

A rooster was singing some distance from the world,

in one of the thousand pre-lives of our fathers.

The earth was spinning with its music

carrying us on board;

it didn't stop turning a single moment

as if so much love, so much that's miraculous

was only an adagio written long ago

in the Symposium's score.

Camping in Jersey tomorrow! Tents, peanut butter & jelly, beer, and no showers for 2 days- oh, and there may, or may not, be an accordion involved. Life can only get so much better! This too was written in the Symposium's score.

Bethany Beach

Delaware's not so bad. I've been sponging off of Sarah's friends since I haven't been back in Philly long enough to form my own bonds. Thanks to that, I got to go to a beach in Delaware and experience this:

Angled bridge

Lit like a spotlight onstage

by fluourescent white lights swarming with flies.

On either side, wild grasses grew

from white sands.

Lit unnaturally

by white fluourescent lamps

I tread the angled bridge in flat silver shoes,

stopped.

& lost my breath, my eyes grew wide.

Never have I seen 

such blackness staring me down.

It stretched across the dimensions

ready to swallow me whole

into its deep, dark, infinite abyss

Empty space, 

neglected by the Creator of things

I tread the length of the angled bridge

approaching the abyss.

Kicked off the silver shoes

and walked straight into the abyss.

I was not afraid. I knew the nothingness

was only an illusion. 

Things were there, should light be cast on them.

Just now, the light was fast asleep.

As all should be, 

but not were we.

Bare feet

Soft sands beneath the toes, 

Grains between the toes

We paused at the edge of the dry sands

& the beginning of the wet sands

From here, the abyss

was no longer empty.

We heard the woosh and crash of 

the surf against the shore

It thrilled me! Electrified me!

Leaving the others behind, my bare feet took off running down the wet sands

Hands flurried to strip off the remaining flowing garments

Tumbled playfully in the sands along the way

and dove into the abyss

Cold, black Atlantic! 

Pale bodies floating in a sea of tar

Above us another sea of tar

speckled with stars, 

no moon 

only Venus and Mars

I try to surf with the tide incoming

Massive, mammoth monster rising

But black force pounds my face and engulfs all my senses drowning

My sight is struck with stars

Thunder crashes around my ears

I lose all sense of when or where

As ruthless waves toss me hither and there

My clothes are ripped askew

All I can do is gasp and sputter

and crawl on my knees,

dragging my self, beaten and stripped, to the kinder shore.

Woah, rush! Again and again, over and under,

I battle with the tides over and over

What a rush, What a rush, the need to suffer...and fight and conquer

Back to shore I drag my self 

through the heavy molasses I drag my self

Bare feet back on solid sand 

and light and slender air

I become a spectator as others battle

their own tempestuous waves

On this planet, I see

no colors but black and white

Black sea, white crests

Black sky, white sands

Pale luminous torsos glow

like stars fallen into the jet-black flow

Crests race in from sea to shore like 

white stallions in battle form

Two front lines charge toward the shore 

Diagonal lines close in and roar

Clash and explode.

Another races from side to side

I watch, hypnotized.

I think we are standing at the edge 

of a strange planet

One jump will take us into deep space

off this strange planet

But I know this place, this lonely planet

And feel no desire to abandon it

Why would I want to leave?

Why would I want anything better?

We are here, and we don't know it

We are home, and we don't know it

Know it, know it, seek it, love it!

And then abandon it.

Mind vs. Eye

I went running for an hour yesterday! We ran along the Schuylkill River all the way to Boathouse Row and back to our house, and I'll be damned if it wasn't the most beautiful day ever, with so many other runners along the same route, which is inspiring...and perspiring.

When we reached the still waters of the beginning of Boathouse Row, where the canoes floated idly against the dock and the trees reflected their mossy green in the shaded water, two things happened. One, I was struck by the beauty and tranquility of the scene, so like an impressionist painting. This is as beautiful as it gets in gritty Philadelphia.

And two, it occurred to me suddenly that water is not supposed to be clean. In imagination, I always picture natural bodies of water to be blue and clear, but in real life, I am always unpleasantly surprised by how green or brown and unclear they are. The Schuylkill in Philly is always bashed for its mysteriously murky, hazardous-looking water, supposedly full of dead bodies; and the waters of Greenlake in Seattle reflect its name due to the excessive growth of algae and milfoil underneath its calm surface; and the Nile and Tigris, both acclaimed rivers in ancient times, but when you actually see them, you can't help but cringe at the thought of stepping foot into their murky depths. But maybe that's how natural bodies of water should be and the fault is really with my idealization of rivers and lakes.

We probably do this more than we realize- kind of like how we draw stars with 5 triangle points, but in reality, stars look nothing like that. Or how we often draw sheep as these fluffy, cloud-like things, but in reality, sheep hair is long, straight, and mangy and not white. Sigh...I always suffer such disappointment whenever I run across a real sheep! They are not at all like the cute and fluffy sheep you see in cartoons. Mental and physical representations probably rarely ever match up with the real object it represents. But that's ok because representations don't necessarily have to be accurate, right?

Mystery Phone Call

The other day, I was woken up by a phone call way too early in the morning. The number on the phone began with 964 and looked ridiculously long. I opened the phone anyway.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” replied a little girl's voice. 

Who the hell was this? My girlfriends tend to be in their twenties or older, not ten.

“Hello? (*Major static*) Miss Angie?

Oh my, it's been a while since I've heard that name! 

“Miss Angie, this is Abdulrahman.” 

It wasn't a little girl! It was one of my kindergarden boys calling me from Iraq! And his English was rockin'. Go Abo!

Good Timing

I think I left just in time. The location of the latest bombing was uncomfortably close to Erbil, and right in the region of that Syriac monastery we visited a few months ago. Timing is everything!

Final Citadel Survey: Muddy Waters

June 20, 2009

I shut the cab door and turned around. Facing the inside of the bazaar, suddenly, I felt like exploring, not shopping. Good thing there was an ancient citadel right across the street! I made a detour from bazaar to citadel, bought a couple of those shepherd bags from the tapestry shop underneath, and headed through the archway and up the stairs for what would be the last time, though at the time, I was thinking I'd be coming here at least a couple more times before leaving. As usual, there were a couple lone men perched on the edge of the flat top overlooking the city, watching the hubbub of the bazaar traffic below. The sky that day was a uniform, hazy white, so heavy with dust that the buildings along the horizon appeared smoky and gray. 

I entered through an opening on the side this time. Fortress walls enclosed the path on either side and reached up to the sky. Treading this path, I came upon an old mud-brick wall in a permanent state of crumbling. Staring up at it, I realized it was not just a single wall, but layers upon layers of it. Underneath the crumbling parts, older layers of wall could be seen, as well as old doors and windows that had been built then blocked up later on. Some patches of brick were smoother than others. Some patches looked like old man's teeth, all crooked and leaving gaps and halfway pulled out. Bricks grew out in clumps from flatter surfaces like the mossy growth on ancient tree trunks. I couldn't believe it was still standing because it looked like a Jenga game that's been going on much too long.

I meandered like one of the citadel cats through some alleys with my camera, until I saw one of the guards walking toward me. I nodded agreeably as he gave me the usual friendly warning to not stray from the main road, and dutifully followed him back. About a dozen or so members of the pershmerga lounged around the circular podium there in their army pants, but as soon as they saw me approaching, their leader barked at them to get into formation and they started doing these hilariously lame, outdated exercises. I managed to get a picture of them while they were still lounging around. 

Looking up from the picture, I noticed an ever-so slight brownish tint of the sky that had not been there earlier. Dust was gathering. It hit me then just how brown everything in here was today. The mud-brick buildings, the dirt ground, and now even the sky was reflecting an off-white tint.  

I made my way up the main road toward the other archway in the back of the citadel, pausing to take photos of an adorable Creamsicle-colored cat lurking at the top of a railed staircase behind some old bricks and leaves. Seriously, it is the cats that rule this place now. Akkadians, Babylonians, Persians and Greeks have come and gone, and now only the felines remain. 

By the time I passed under the back archway, the dust had thickened so much the sky seemed to be dropping down on the city, the smoky film along the horizon having spread forward to turn the clear outlines of distant buildings into indiscernible shadows shrouded in mist.

I climbed up some old crumbling staircase along the right side of the citadel walls, over loose boards, stones, and mounds of dirt. There was supposed to be an amazing view of the city during sunset from a window up here somewhere. But even as I began climbing, I could see a guard out of the corner of my eye making his way toward me. Argh, since when have they become so annoyingly thoughtful of the tourists' safety? I sat down on a cement block and pulled out my camera, indicating to the guard that I was just going to sit here taking pictures. He seemed to be fine with that, though he lingered to keep watch. I'll come back another day and try to get up there, I thought. Of course that day never came.

Perched on the cement block and leaning against the old mud-brick wall, I watched as this one came to an end, the sun sinking slowly down from its lofty roost. Its gold light cast a yellowish hue over the westerly sky, diffused by the intense dust clogging the atmosphere that day. The entire sky seemed to glow with a soft, nebulous light.  Strong gusts of wind blew that infernal dust my way. I shielded my eyes with my hands, and futilely tried to brush my bangs away against the direction of the wind. The winds were shifting, the air hung heavy. Gee, the day sure felt ominous. I toyed with my camera for awhile until suddenly, a fat raindrop splattered on it, and I looked up to see that the world had been drenched in coffee. 

Or so it seemed. Brown, brown, everywhere brown! Muddy brown skies hovered over a muddy brown city with brown buildings and white buildings that looked yellowish-brown under the strange glowing light from above. I was impressed, but also, I had to get out of the rain that was about to be unleashed. 

I ran down and took shelter underneath the arch next to a young girl about 12 years of age, but already as tall as me. Possibly, I have not grown since I was twelve. We huddled against the bricks and watched the muddy rain drumming down, heavy as pebbles. 

Soon, though, the wind was sweeping the downpour sideways, so we were getting wet anyway. A soldier motioned for us to get inside the old security station. Grateful for the tiny, but dry shelter, we sat down on the old stone bench and sighed with relief- but I yelped and leapt up a second later because water was dripping down from the ceiling onto the bench where I sat. So we stood side-by-side, waiting for the storm to pass. 

The girl's name was Raman, and she was visiting from Denmark with her grandfather. Raman dreamed of living in Kurdistan forever. The houses here were big and beautiful, she said, and nowhere else has she ever seen such beautiful things. I liked how she could say these things about her homeland even in the midst of a giant, disgusting mudstorm. A shattered window directly in front of me framed an old man standing under the eaves of a house across the dirt path, one hand resting on a large, yellow garbage bin, the other wiping the rain off his balding head. The old man was her grandfather, a school headmaster. The rain slashed down like needles past this viewing frame. 

We watched the river of coffee flow and splatter past the doorless entrance. It reminded me of a time more than a dozen years ago, when I stood under the protective eaves of a storefront somewhere along the route to my aunt's house in Korea, watching a muddy river rushing madly by through the cobblestone street. Now that was a rainstorm. I had been exactly Raman's age, but unlike her, I remember being scared stiff by the torrential flood that looked like it could easily sweep me away if I tried to step into it to get home. All I wanted, though, was to get home, so I braved the torrents and blindly made my way back to my aunt's house eventually. I remember my lovely aunt yelled at me for not taking an umbrella. Hmph. As if an umbrella could have held back a rushing river. She must have been mistaking me for Moses.

This time, I waited. Quite suddenly, the downpour slowed to a trickle, then stopped completely. We stepped out of our tiny cement shelter, amazed at the transformation. Having dumped all its dirt onto the city below, which remained a murky, muddy brown, the sky looked positively cheery: light and clear and fluffy with clouds. Had it been a cartoon, it would have started whistling a tune. Had it been a deer, it would have started frolicking after a butterfly. How beguiling. Raman and I joined her grandfather and the few other tourists heading down the hill and out the citadel. Her grandfather invited me to their home, so I waited with them in the flooded streets for a cab, taking care to step upon the more solid islands of mud. The sun had sunk low and was glowing a pale orange, visible just over an old brick wall across the street. I followed them into the cab for an evening of ice cream and babies at Raman's aunt's house. 

“If I had all the money and time in the world...” We ended up playing this game somehow. Raman said she would live in Kurdistan and help other people. Wait till she finds out just how many ways there are of doing that. How would she choose? Her younger sister would be a princess. Would that be a full-time occupation? I guess in this day and age, depending on which realm you're in charge of, being a princess might entail getting involved in politics on top of wearing the tiara and pretty dresses. In the old days in Kurdistan, a princess was also a warrior (Remember Princess Khanzad, the 12th century Kurdish warrior princess? The Yezedis, before the Islamic conquest, did not care much for distinct gender roles.). Her older cousin was studying to become a civil engineer, which sounds a lot less glamorous than Occupation: Princess, but in a developing region like Kurdistan, would be a hundred times more useful. 

In the corner of the room, swaddled in blankets, the littlest sister, still just a baby, cried out in her sleep. I wondered what dreams had startled her from her tranquil slumber.