Runaway Cow

I forgot to mention! Have you ever seen a cow run? Neither have I! Until last weekend that is, when during the drive to Sulaimaniya, we drove past a whole herd of cows running! Am I the only one that finds this fascinating?

Hidden Gems

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. 

Rediscovering Self-Reliance

Lately, I've become more withdrawn. At first it was because of my cold, and then it was because of a particular experience that made me realize that I was becoming too reliant on others. Regardless of the reason, though, now, in the evenings, I spend a lot more time alone in my room rather than in the company of the other teachers. 

There's a certain danger in being alone too often: it gives you room to think uninterrupted, and makes you more aware of the isolation that was so jovially masked by the voices and laughter of your former companions. Last night, I realized  I missed this illusion of comfort and belonging cast by the others, and so I went up to the Balcony Bar for a bowl of curry and a dose of team GB (Great Britain). They really are the best.

Time, like energy, can be neither created nor destroyed, so where has all the time normally spent socializing flown? My books have been at the receiving end of a lot of this spare time. I'm currently reading Obama's first book, “Dreams from My Father“, and it is quickly becoming a favorite. He is a lyrical writer, and his story, though remarkable (as in not your average growing up story), has flavors of the familiar. Not so much the particular experiences he had growing up, but the feelings and realizations that he describes in such a personal way makes it easy to relate to. You come out of the book feeling like that could have been your story.

I once heard or read that the reason why Obama is so popular is because he has a way of making each person see himself or herself in him, and this turns out to be true. During his college and early Chicago days, he was just as confused, his future just as uncertain; his sense of not belonging just as strong, or stronger even. There was no indication of something so impossibly grand as the US presidency in his future; only an idealistic desire to make a difference- to make a change- in a community. There are points in his life that makes you think that he could have turned out to be nothing more than your neighborhood shopkeeper, or a druggie even, or a company man, had he not had this one conversation or that one experience that made his life veer along a different, but equally uncertain, path. It's no lie: life is a series of chance occurrences. This is the other Uncertainty Principle.

The less random forces, though, that pushed and pulled his toward what would eventually be the 2008 US presidential campaign were his gift for articulation combined with his idealism, his searching nature, and his intense desire to feel like he belonged, to be able to define himself. The best thing about the book is that you come out of it with a certainty that all that talk about change and hope and unity that some pundits disregard as empty words actually comes from a place deep within his heart. They are not artificial political gimmicks. They are not themes created specially for the campaign. Rather, they are themes that defined his life and many of the decisions he made, starting from his youth. His story is encouraging: even in the most uncertain of times, don't abandon your youthful idealism, it says. 

Besides my books, this more withdrawn Angie has also been of service to my job and my students. My work lately has become a huge focus of my life, and I spend a good deal of time thinking of how to explain this or that math concept to my 2nd graders more clearly, what methods are best for them whose native tongue is not English (and so they have trouble with word problems), how to get them to practice their multiplication tables. During the day, I've been using my break hours to hang out with my students and get them to practice their times tables, and after school, I've been sitting one-on-one with my slowest student to give her even more help. I'm becoming immersed in my work- why? There is no grand reason, no “children are our future” bullshit. Simply, I really really want them to do well on their upcoming exam, and I believe most of them have what it takes to do well. That is all. 

I Hate Homework

Never again will I give such a long homework assignment. It's taking forEVER to correct these things! If only they didn't make so many mistakes. Or do extra problems incorrectly. Their enthusiasm is great, but the skill is not all there yet.

Skinny President

Funny Times article here.

"Yesterday morning, I woke up to a new world. America had elected a Skinny Black Guy president..I never thought I’d see the day. What were the chances that someone who looked like me would come to lead the most powerful nation on earth? Slim. No one stepped up for a long time. Michael Jackson was black and skinny, but also pretty weird, and after a while he wasn’t even black any more, although he did retain his beanpole silhouette. We thought we had a winner in Chris Rock, but then he started in with his infamous “There are Russians, and then there are ... Georgians” routine and we decided he was too raw for the national stage."

Inflection Point (Graphically Speaking)

October 22, 2008

Today marks a turning point, I think, in my teaching experience here. For the first time since I started, I have begun to think of my little kids as actual human beings. For the first time ever since September, I found myself relaxed enough and on top of things enough to sit back and observe my kindergarteners interacting- not with me, but with each other. I watched as little pigtailed, cartoony-looking, cartoony-voiced Shene told some little anecdote in Kurdish to the other 4 kids at her table. I watched, amused, as troublemaker Jotiyar took a chip from his neighbor without asking, before intervening in order to teach him to ask before taking. I watched as pumpkinheaded Abdulrahman showed off his spiderman socks to his neighbor, while they sat shoulder-to-shoulder against the wall, waiting for the bell to ring, signaling the end of the school day. 

My 2nd-graders are no less adorable, and much more fun to work with because I get to teach them much more complex concepts than abc's and counting, and more importantly, they are so amazingly enthusiastic about math class, it's both gratifying and so hard to believe. When I tell them they've got math twice in one day, they actually cheer. It's really an American educator's dream come true to hear kids cheering and yelling “I love math!” without the least drop of sarcasm. These kids are really something, and here in Kurdistan, teachers are loved unabashedly by the students. Boys, girls, it does not matter, they come up and throw themselves at you for hugs and kisses, and stick stickers all over you, and give you candy and pictures they drew, and the girls fill their notebooks with “For Miss Angie” messages adorned all over with hearts. It's really really unreal, and I wish to god that teachers were considered and treated with half as much love and respect in America. The job is so much more enjoyable when your students treat you like a rock star.

They are so enthusiastic in class that I've had to train them to tone it down a bit. Whenever I  would ask a question, they'd practically explode, wanting to be the one to give the answer, bouncing in their seat and waving their hand frantically in a very Hermione-ish matter. “Calm down, you guys sound like a bunch of puppies!” I said one day. Now I only have to say “What did I say about no puppies?” and they remember to stop bouncing and whining. Kids, I've learned, are very malleable- like puppies actually. Unlike old dogs, you can teach them new tricks very easily, as long as you spell it out for them and repeat it over and over again for a couple weeks. Tell them exactly what you want from them, and they will listen. 

This job is not easy, but one major upside to it is that I never find myself drowsing on the job. It may be hard to get up every morning, but once I am up and in the classroom, there is no room for lethargy. Of course, there is plenty of room for fatigue- the feeling of being spent of energy- but I have never once felt sluggish or sleepy because the job of standing in front of a classroom engaging young kids into learning is such an active one. This is a huge difference from some of my previous jobs in which I would, for example, be sitting in front of a computer wondering if I was moving near the speed of light because time seemed to be moving so so slowly, counting the minutes until my lunchbreak, and drowning in meaningless, mindless, repetitive, purposeless drudgework. 

"An Historical" Moment

I could not help drawing a parallel between the gracious words of John McCain's concession speech, in which he called the much younger Obama “my president”, and the words of Sir Ector who bowed down at the feet of his adopted teenage son Arthur, and called him “my king” with equal humility and nobility. I'm so excited to see what is to come in the next four years! 

They asked in the news, “where were you when history was made today, when the first black man was elected president of America?” I was as far away from history in the making as one could get (and in fact, I was celebrating the British political holiday, Guy Fawkes Night, standing around a huge bonfire with the other teachers, watching a burning effigy of Guy Fawkes and eating jacket potatoes), but the excitement was contagious even all the way over here in Iraq, thanks to CNN and BBC. 

One major difference I noted while watching their various broadcasts was the global reach of his election's effects compared to previous president-elects. Not only citizens of America, GB, and other world powers celebrated ecstatically, but also Kenyans and Indonesians and even the Japanese of the town of Obama! I'm currently reading his first book, “Dreams from my father”, and I am amazed by all the different cultures he was exposed to as a boy.

Also, I just discovered a serious reason to hate Sarah Palin: she says an historical, pronouncing the 'h'! That is just wrong! If you're going to say “an”, you should treat the next word as starting with a vowel sound, as 'istorical; or else, just drop the act and say “a historical” like a normal human being! And that's human, not 'uman'!

Running Into Colors & Canines

Politics aside, today I ran for the first time outside of school grounds, and it was the most magical run ever! I ran through the workers' compound and made a right-turn into the setting sun. It's orange glow was visible just over the tall slopes of the smooth, dimpled mountains that define Khanzad's geography, but it disappeared from view as I ran closer to the mountains. Then, as the path curved again to the right, it moved the mountains aside and suddenly, the view opened up into a wide sea of the most beautiful, ethereal-looking colors that faded into one another like a series of dreams. From a certain spot, the cables looping from pole to pole looked exactly like the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. 

I turned right again and ran through an opening in the fence and into the mountains, heading for a peak which would afford me an even better view of this evening's roj awa.

By the time I headed back, however, night was falling, and suddenly I got scared shitless by the wild dogs that started barking at me from either side of the road. Dogs here are not adorable, nor fluffy or pettable. They are short-haired, long-legged, mean-looking and wild, barking and roaming the mountains and plains and city alleys with abandon. &%#@! I think I will borrow a Kalashnikov from one of the guards for my next run. Prepare to die, ye deranged canines!

Blackout

Once in a while, the generator shuts down momentarily, and the entire campus and the security station on the mountains just beyond are left without electricity. I'm not sure why it happens, but it's been happening more frequently lately-  nearly every day. 

Speaking of which, the lights just went off again! I'm sitting in complete darkness on my balcony, save for the light coming from my laptop, and the light of the full moon casting its glow upon the mountains in front of me. Eerie! And now the bugs are flocking to the only light source currently available- my laptop screen. Yuck. 

For some reason, whenever the lights go out, the residents of the apartments feel the urge to emerge from their rooms and step out onto the balcony, as if they were expecting something exciting to happen outside because of the lack of electricity inside. Well this time around, there is nothing spectacular going on out here, but two nights ago, when the lights shut off once again, I stepped out onto my balcony and into the ocean. 

So it seemed. The immense night sky was of a dim blue hue and clouded in such a way as to give the illusion of the deep sea. Sea foam-like clouds rippled all the way down to the hills, and with no lights around, the landscape felt muted and much more vast, yet enclosed. Infinite, yet bounded.

We, the residents of the apartments, stepped out onto the ground below, shadows and silhouettes in this peculiar fishbowl universe, gazing upwards and at each other and oohing and ahhing at the peculiar sky and the darkness.

The blackout is temporary. Soon enough, the lights flicker back on, and it is back to our usual business- lesson plans and whatnot. Watching bootleg movies, or football, reading, eating Cerelac baby food, popping black market Valium pills, cleaning, or just chillin on our pink beds and thinking of home...

The Early 20's Defined

Being 22/23 years old means that feeling that if you sleep for one minute, life will pass you by and leave you in the dust. This age is both thrilling and exhausting. Just the mere idea of being alive is a miracle, just the mere thought of life pumps even more life into your veins, and makes you want to jump up and make your voice heard throughout the infinite corners of the world which in your 23-year-old mind is teeming with life and possibilities of places to go and people to meet and adventures to stumble into. You wonder how anyone can waste a single minute doing this boring thing called “sleep”, in which your eyes are closed and your body is still. But eventually, you learn that sleep is important, rejuvenating, and puts you in a better mood during your daily tasks, and that opportunities to do it can be hard to come by. Realizing this, you begin to treasure every one of these chances to get some...zzz's I mean. This is the age of 24. I am 24! I love love love sleeping. But it is 3:52 am- why am I awake? Good MORNING, WORLD!

Something Akin to Fear

October 8, 2008

Today, one of my 2nd graders raised his hand and said, “Miss, you are a funny woman.” Heh. I think I come off as somewhat of a strange character compared to their former teachers who were much more grown-up looking and probably avoided (accidentally) sliding towards the whiteboard in flip-flops, and saying things like “Nechirvan, why do you have such a hard time sitting? Is your chair on fire? Do you have needles in your pants?” Maybe it's no surprise that they can see right through my stern, severe teacher act. It was unfortunate at first, because it meant they were not scared of me, the way their former teachers scared them into listening. But with the help of the Star Chart and lots of feigned severity on my part, and constant reminders, 85-90% of the time, they listen now. And still they fight to give me stickers and hugs and high-fives every day, so it can't be because they have suddenly become scared of me. Kids are strange creatures. I was one once! 

You've Been Stickered!

Connected Again!

OMIGOD internet is back in the apartments! 

Kala'a & Halloween in Iraq

Yesterday, on Halloween Day 2008, I stood within the fortress-like walls of the oldest continually-inhabited city in human history- the Citadel of Erbil. 

Until then, I had only seen this imposing structure from the bazaar below. It stands atop a steep dirt mound rising 30 meters above the ground that seems completely out of place in the middle of the bustling streets of Erbil city center. Rather than standing awkwardly, though, it gives the city center a feeling of unity because of its circular build and central location; of protection because of its awesome fortress-like walls and lofty place in the clouds, not to mention the humongous stone statue of ??? that guards its entrance; and of pride in ancient glory, it being one of the few structures still left standing to bear testament to the old history of the people of this city.

Like the walls of the citadel (”kala'a”, as the locals call it- meaning “castle”), the position and power of Iraq may have crumbled and deteriorated, especially in recent years- they've gone from the “Cradle of Civilization” to “war-torn developing nation”- but also like the walls of the citadel, Erbil at least is undergoing renovation. It is like a phoenix rising from the ashes, to use a well-worn metaphor, slowly rebuilding its nest twig by twig after its destruction by the various fires of human history. Whether this rebuilding is happening under the guidance of a good power is questionable, because power placed in the hands of most men is doomed to corruption, but what is entirely unquestionable is that the current government is a zillion times better than Uncle Saddaam (not your average Fun Uncle). And so for now, Kurds in general are more inclined to praise rather than decry the Barzanis. 

The sun was just beginning to set as we ventured up the steep dirt path that led to the entrance. We had spent the afternoon searching high and low for Halloween costumes (will you believe it when I tell you how successful we were). When we finally reached the bazaar, we were famished, and so we stopped to grab some really delicious, perfectly salted shwarmas from the nearest shwarma stand. By the time we made our way to the camouflaged man who stood guarding the way to the old castle, dusk was on its way, and so the view from the top of the mound was already incredible. The contrast between the stark, hollow ancient city now empty of inhabitants, and the modern streets below, bustling with electric lights and cars and people and voices and honks and peddlers' shouts of “yek hazar, yek hazar!” struck me immediately, but not as something inharmonious. Just an interesting juxtaposition of two very different times.

The outer walls are carved with lofty, arched entrances and small, curved windows. Unlike architectural specimen of later centuries, this oldest of buildings lacks any sort of artistic touches. No engravings of fleurs-de-lis, no abstract geometric patterns, no curly-cues or arabesques. Just stark, crumbling stone. Once we are within the walls, I am freaked out by the dozens of stray cats that roam the narrow streets and haunt the ancient cobblestone alleys. What a story one could come up with about the lives of these cats that have found a convenient home in this empty “lot”! There are street signs just like a real city, a couple garbage cans, and even arabic graffiti on the walls, but it does not feel like I am standing in a real city. Rather, I get the feeling of standing in a large dollhouse.

I choose a path and walk up, warning the creepy felines to stay away, and soon, I find myself approaching a textile museum. The textile museum is full of colorful locally-sewn tapestry hanging on every inch of the walls, and draped over the rails of the balconies. In the center of the ground floor there is a glass-encased table displaying the different patterns of those Muslim hats (forget the name), one pattern for each tribe of Iraqi Kurdistan. I recognize the family names of some of my students there. A man advises us to go to the antique shop next door, so we head out. 

To my delight, the antique shop is jam-packed like a rich great-aunt's attic with not only tapestry, but shepherds' bags, purses, silver jewelry boxes and genie lamps, paintings, pillows, rugs, figurines, and all sorts of random knick-knacks, all crafted by locals (supposedly), and all for sale! Finally, a place where I can buy some really cool souvenirs (I've found Erbil shops and bazaars to be sadly lacking in authentic goods- almost everything seems to be imported from Syria, Lebanon, Korea, even H&M stores in America! Second-hand of course.). A painting of Saddaam Hussein hangs with the ranks of Talabani (president of Iraq) and other distinguished men of Iraq. A cobalt blue hamsa hand hangs on another wall with the ubiquitous evil eye dangling just under it. The coolest thing I saw was this ivory/porcelain-crafted sword with Arabic writing across the handle and blade. I have no idea what it says, but it reminds me of something from Lord of the Rings or Arthurian legends- magically-crafted swords with spells engraved into them, you know?

After spending some time there, I wander back out to explore more of the citadel, but by the time I step out, it is late and the citadel is closing. The view from the top of the citadel mound is amazing at sunset. Half the sky is awash with brilliant streaks of orange and yellow; the shambly, low-hanging rooftops below spread out for several blocks until my gaze reaches the taller rectangular structures of the unfinished American embassy; the streets below are still lively at dusk; and minutes later, “God's fingernail” has risen now, over the silhouetted rooftops in the distance to the east.  I vow to myself to come here and to the bazaar below every week, and explore every nook and cranny until I know them both like the back of my hand. It's like a giant playground, the coolest place I've seen in Iraq so far. Finally some place to go to other than the damn Edge and the “malls”! 

Not that the Edge is such a terrible place. Later that evening, we headed over there for the annual Halloween party, dressed up in actual Halloween costumes that we found in a little hideaway shop at Lenge bazaar- another fun maze of a place to wander around and get lost in. 

The 5th Edge Experience is characterized by minimal drinking and maximal dancing in outrageous outfits, as well as angry shattering of glass and pumpkin-smashing, and sitting alone on the porch swing by the empty pool outside. I was in the company of a gypsy, a jester, a hippie, a witch, Elvis/Evil Knievel, several black fros, and the usual mercenaries. As for myself? I was dressed as a porcelain clown doll, in a one-piece, orange and white clown outfit with ruffled wrists and ankles, multicolored scrunchies in my hair, red gloss on my cheeks and lipstick, and my green shoes. Happy Halloween 2008!

The Biology of Tears

What is the mechanism of crying? Why do we cry when we are sad? Like laughing, I don't think any other animal does it, but it could be because humans are the only animals with brains developed enough to feel sorrow deep enough to induce crying. What were the evolutionary benefits of developing this strange involuntary reaction? And why do we cry when we are happy? Crying is strange. Would a severely dehydrated man be able to cry?

Everyone has different thresholds for crying: some cry at the drop of a hat; others only cry once in their lifetime, like at their mother's funeral. As well, different people are made to cry by different sorts of sad situations. Saddam Hussein could witness a genocide and not shed a tear, but then his pet cat might accidentally fall into its bowl of milk, and then perhaps the old tyrant would burst into tears. Of course, he's dead now, so we'll never know. 

Don't Mind Me, Kids, I'm Just DYING Is All

I feel like I say this every week, but truly, this week has been one of the hardest so far. I've had this wretched cough for the past 2 weeks- the kind of cough that leaves you with a 6-pack (on the upside I guess) and hacking up very un-ladylike into the sink. Sorry, that's disgusting. Every day, I would come home from work exhausted with my voice nearly gone because kids being kids, they don't give a damn about others' conditions (a nice way of saying this would be: they have yet to realize that the world exists beyond their own needs and desires; an even nicer way of saying this would be: they have yet to learn to empathize; but I'm so not in the mood to talk nicely right now, those selfish brats!), and if I lay dying on the floor, they'd probably just look on in curiosity for about 5 seconds and then continue talking and running around and hitting and laughing obliviously. Anyway, it's been another trying week, but tonight, my cough has shown faint signs of dying down, and all of a sudden, I feel re-energized and hopeful again. Tomorrow is Thursday Eve, and I am excited for the Halloween weekend and pay day, yeehaw! I'm also excited about going to Egypt/Lebanon this winter break- camels and pyramids and getting lost in the crazy streets of Cairo! Lots to do, lots to see, lots to plan, so little time!

To the Edge & Back Again

My 4th experience at The Edge is characterized by vomiting and tears. And drunk darts. I've always assumed that a darts game played under the influence would automatically spiral into a dangerous form of Pin the Tail on the Donkey, where someone's ass becomes a pincushion. But no, it turns out, I play better under the influence!

Filing & Carpentry

Yesterday, I used a nail file for the first time in my entire life. Nail files are pretty sweet. It's like sandpapering your newly-installed wooden porch. To extend the analogy, I've also painted my wooden porch a shimmery, pale pink. 

Morning Glory

I love mornings.

For the past week, in an attempt to recover from a cold, I've taken all the hours usually dedicated to socializing and spent them sleeping. I would sleep so early that my body would wake up automatically at 5 in the morning or earlier even, and that is how I discovered that I love mornings.

Mornings are when the rest of the world (it seems) is still asleep. Mornings are when you've got the whole day ahead of you and the opportunities and hours needed to accomplish all your tasks seem endless. Mornings are soft and tranquil. These days, mornings are when it is still dark outside and the wind howls like a thousand ghosts between the mountains.

Preach On, Powell!

Colin Powell on the Muslim Question: 

"I'm also troubled by, not what Senator McCain says, but what members of the party say...'Well, you know that Mr. Obama is a Muslim.' Well, the correct answer is, he is not a Muslim, he's a Christian. He's always been a Christian. But the really right answer is, what if he is? Is there something wrong with being a Muslim in this country? The answer's no, that's not America. Is there something wrong with some seven-year-old Muslim-American kid believing that he or she could be president? Yet, I have heard senior members of my own party drop the suggestion, 'He's a Muslim and he might be associated terrorists.' This is not the way we should be doing it in America."

Colin Powell on the Experience Question:

Even though he watched W. in 2000 make the argument that his lack of foreign policy experience would be offset by the fact that he was surrounded by pros — Powell himself was one of the regents brought in to guide the bumptious Texas dauphin — Powell makes that same argument now for Obama.

“Experience is helpful,” he says, “but it is judgment that matters."

(The same argument applied to two very different people.)

The Edge Reprised

I've just returned from a crazy night of dancing at the Edge- the very place I had said I would not go back to after that swimming under the stars experience, saying it was a let-down. I keep saying, “Oh, the Edge is not my thing,”, but every time I go (which is 3 times now), I have a great time. The reason I have a great time, though, is because I love being there with my colleagues. The Edge would be a very dull place without the company of my comrades. The Kurdish dancing at the engagement party was fun, but truly, there is nothing as fun as down and dirty, hold-nothing-back American style dancing. They played everything from the Monkees and Beegees to Black Eyed Peas, and even that Outlandish cover of “Aisha”. Tons of '80s favorites (it's an older crowd that frequents the Edge). Then for the ride home, we all piled into the back of a huge jeep driven by a guy named Ivan and fell asleep on the ride home, stopping in the middle of a field for one person to puke, and 2 others to take a wizz. I fell into neither category, thanks very much! 

Duhok

October 2, 2008

For this Eid holiday, six of us decided to go on a mini-road trip up to this city in Northern Iraq.

It took us 2.5 hours to get there (would have been shorter but there were like 10 checkpoints to get across), and along the way, we saw 53 Kurdistan flags, 32 donkeys, and acres upon acres of dry-looking mountain region. 

You could tell how close you were to Duhok by the color of the mountains: when we started out from Erbil, they were the usual light brown color, then they became a yellowish-brown, which darkened later into an Arizona red, and then as we were closing in on Duhok, actual green vegetation could be seen sprouting from these mountains. So if you ever go on a road trip up Northern Iraq and get lost, just watch for the color order of the mountains: if the spectrum goes brown->yellow->red->green, then you heading north; if it goes green->red->yellowish->brown, then you are going south. Who needs a compass really? Unless you are colorblind.

Duhok is a major contrast from Erbil/Khanzad. You don't see any of those tall, flashy mansion-sized houses in random fields in the middle of nowhere. I guess the rich businessmen and diplomats who have to live in Kurdistan don't choose to set up house in Duhok. It is a city built low in the valley, surrounded by fortress-like mountains that glow red in the sunset, with the Kurdistan flag perched proudly against one of the peaks, visible from practically any spot in the city.(Seriously, I have not seen such patriotism for one's nation since the weeks following the World Trade Center bombings.) As you drive into the city, you see hundreds of little pastel-colored houses stacked in crowded fashion like legos at the base of the mountains. 

In the middle of the city, there are two main roads, lined with hotels and little shops and eateries where you can either dine in or grab a shwarma (lamb on pita bread) to-go. These busy main roads split off into dozens of smaller cobblestone roads and alleys lined with old-style houses made of stone- the beginnings of what we started calling Legoland. As you go further toward the mountains, it begins to feel less like a (relatively) modern city and more like a village.

I did not get a chance to explore this older section of the city until the next morning. The day before, we spent a while searching for a vacant motel, during which we ran into Jala, one of the Kurdish teachers at our school

and made friends with some colorfully outfitted Duhoki kids

Notice the little girl on the left dressed in a Santa outfit. After we successfully procured a room, we went off to explore the heart of Duhok and hit up Dream City, the Iraqi amusement park franchise, where I saw a fountain that looked like a giant dandelion puff

and went on a rollercoaster with no safety bar. There was one major drop at the bottom of which I bashed my nose into the front of the car. At night, we searched desperately for a place to sit down and have a drink, but all in vain, for Duhok is a very conservative city: alcohol is forbidden, and there is no Christian neighborhood like Ainkawa in Erbil that one can escape to for a little respite from the harsh Muslim standards. (Isn't it funny how the Christian neighborhood has become the Red Light district of the Muslim city?) If you want to drink in Duhok, you buy your booze from one of the shops along the one little street that sells booze, and take it back to your home or hotel to drink in private. Like a true alcoholic. My poor friends whose night out would not be complete without having a drink or two or three in a booth with loud music and cigarettes were sorely disappointed by the lack of nightlife around here.

But then, our taxi driver saved the night. With me as translator (so you can imagine how long it took for his idea to get across), he somehow communicated to us that he knew of a great place to drink that was not our hotel. At least, that's what I thought he was saying. In Duhok, just a couple hours north of Erbil, most of the Sorani dialect I learned became like glasses to a blind man- utterly useless. Anyway, I told my friends what I thought the taxi driver might be saying, and so we bought our booze, piled back into the taxi, and hoped for the best.

10-15 minutes later, we were still in the taxi, but it wasn't until we left the main road and entered the highway that I started to worry. Where the hell was he taking us? I thought to myself. “Where the hell is he taking us?” my friends asked out loud, echoing my thoughts. It was nearly pitch black along the highway, there were no longer any shops or houses around, we were six foreigners in a cab somewhere in Iraq, and 20, 25 minutes later, we were still driving. “Halas (finished)?” we kept on asking the driver. He just kept signalling that we were nearly there. Um...but then someone noticed that the the night sky was filled with stars like freckles on an Irishman, and so I forgot about the current problem and enjoyed the sight of a night sky unpolluted by dust or city lights. The others were not so easily distracted however, especially when the driver made a sudden turn into an even darker road that sloped up and around as if we were going up a mountainside. Hm...

Soon, though, to our relief, he finally slowed down and pulled into this pitch-black grove of trees. We tumbled out of the cab, and stared breathlessly at the night sky, which was peppered with so many stars like you wouldn't believe! It seemed as if the entire Milky Way had made its home in the skies of Duhok. The only place I've ever seen a more brilliant showing of stars was at the campsite in Arizona during our summer 2006 road trip. As I stared and stared in awe at the twinkling display overhead, I wondered for a brief moment whether anyone was staring up at me and my planet in the same way. For me, the stars made it worth coming all the way out there, despite all the uncertainty.

As the others found seats on the bench and rocks, and wasted no time in cracking open their bottles, I wandered further into the trees, stumbling over rocks and brambles made invisible by the dark. Eventually, the trees thinned out and opened up into a breathtaking panoramic view of mountains and cliffsides and a little patch of lights far far away, nestled between two of the large, shadowy mountains. These were the lights of Duhok proper, it turned out, where we had been a half-hour ago, searching high and low for a place to grab a beer and chill. What a surprise we had in store for us, though we had no idea then! Only the taxi driver had an idea, a brilliant one.

I woke up at 6 the next morning on accident (no one wakes up at 6 am on purpose, so it must have been an accident), and decided to go for a meandering walk alone toward the mountains. I wandered through rows of the aforementioned old-style houses made of stone, a man sleeping on his rooftop, a door with no house, leading into an overgrown wild garden, and a wild, grassy area with a sad little creak running through it full of garbage, and smelling like garbage. 

I paused for a long while at the houseless door that led into a garden because it made me think of the secret garden from Francis Hodgson Burnett's wonderful children's novel, and suddenly, I was feeling all nostalgic for my childhood and the countless hours I spent getting lost in imaginative, magical worlds that only existed in someone's mind. I wish I had brought my Harry Potter books with me! I thought to myself. I stood wistfully in front of that houseless door for far longer than anyone need ever stand in front of a door. Eventually I moved on.

Doors, as it turns out, can be fascinating objects. As I wandered through the old cobblestone alleys, I began to notice the distinct characteristics of the doors of these residencies in Duhok. They were short, hobbit-like wrought-iron (?) doors painted in various pastel shades like Easter eggs, and sculpted with patterns of either hearts, or flowers, or flowers made of hearts. Diamond or square shapes popped up every once in a while, but they certainly had a thing for hearts. Several of the houses had graffiti marks on their stone walls- mostly just the house number and arrows pointing in random directions and at random objects like pipes. But for some reason, a good number of them had marked their walls with a red heart shot through with a Cupid's arrow.

Observing all this graffiti made me think of the rock art anthropologists find in ancient caves in Egypt and other areas of ancient civilizations, and I began to wonder what anthropologists of the future were going to make of the graffiti of our times. Back in the States, they would uncover enormous, gorgeous murals like those you'd find in Philly, as well as the crass “fuck you” and other distasteful sayings. Anthropologists always interpret rock art as paintings of real events, and the animals, swimming people, and other objects as representations of things that the ancient artist had actually seen, touched, done, experienced. Why do they always assume this realism? Did human beings thousands and thousands of years ago lack the ability to fantasize and invent and to paint at a more abstract level? Imagine what wacky conclusions future anthropologists would reach if they assumed this same realism in our often fantasy-laiden wall art.

As I was walking around taking pictures of doors, the old village began stirring with life. 

An old woman saw me and invited me into her home. I was grateful for being given the chance to see what sort of life hid behind these doors that I loved so much, and so I followed her without hesitation through her own pale yellow door, numbered 11. We entered into a little courtyard with small rooms on either side- a kitchen, living room and pantry-type room to my right, with an outdoor sink, and a bedroom or two to my left. Straight ahead was a white, stone staircase that led to the rooftop. She showed me the soup she was cooking for breakfast, and then led me into the bedroom where her 24-year-old daughter was sleeping on the floor with the blanket pulled completely over her head. Her daughter, it turned out, could speak fairly fluent English! She had studied English in school, had read all the classics like Bronte, Hemmingway, and so on, and she was afraid of losing all the English she had learned because all her British/American friends had gone away so she had no one to talk to.

The two of us climbed the stairs to the rooftop, where it was warm and the view was of her mother

and of low rooftops extending as far as the eye could see. We chatted for a long while about her culture, about her dream of getting out of this country (by marrying a man who wanted to leave the country) where it was hard for a woman to get a decent job and be treated like an equal, about her brothers and her beautiful sister who married young and to this day cries because her husband won't let her go back to school. She showed me pictures of her sister's and friend's weddings, where the brides' faces were painted a ghostly mask-like white which I found frightful, but I guess the Kurds find beautiful. She told me about her friend who had a baby that was born blue and died 8 days later, though the doctors couldn't tell her what the cause of death was. At one point, she had a conversation with her neighbor who was hanging up laundry on her own rooftop. I asked afterward what they were talking about, and she said this woman had just returned from 8 days in the hospital because her baby was sick, and still the doctors did not know the cause of illness. She told me about how women here would get surgery done so they couldn't have any more babies, but they'd end up getting pregnant anyway, and often they'd return from the surgery with infections because the hospitals and their instruments were unsterile. None of these problems would exist, I found myself thinking, if they could just get out of this place. Help and cures were just a plane ride away, but to these women, a plane ride was an impossibility. Money was a barrier. Getting a visa was a barrier. Perhaps even ignorance of outside help was a barrier.

The problem is not just a women's problem. As I found out last night, there is an employee here at the school who has a son whose kidneys and abdominal muscles are failing, and there is nothing this man can do about it so he drowns his sorrows in toxic $5 bottles of whiskey. If he could just get his son to a modern hospital, his son could get a kidney transplant and have a chance at life. For people who have it, money may not buy happiness, but for these folks, money is the difference between life and death, and could very well buy happiness. What they need is either to get out of here, or have the competent doctors come in, but currently, neither is happening.


And so they carry on in places like Duhok.