I recently returned home from volunteering with refugees in Kurdistan, Iraq, and since my heart is already longing to go back, I thought I'd reminisce through writing so someone else could get a taste of this magical place, too.
There were so many things to fall in love with and miss: Little children running up to me at parks and throwing their arms around my legs simply because I'm an American who smiled at them; flashing, colorful, bright LED lights everywhere--in potted plants, in children's shoes, on Christmas trees in the mall, on doorframes of stores; the dinars, so colorful and beautifully designed, and so worn out that sometimes there's more tape holding them together than actual money left; looking up at the sky and finding my favorite constellation, the Seven Sisters, and wondering at the fact that it's the same sky I see back home, yet I'm all the way across the world; seeing Arabic and Kurdish on everything and trying to read it. I even miss the times I'd walk onto our apartment's balcony to hang up clothes to dry and suddenly realize that I was wearing short-sleeves and quickly dropping to the floor to crawl back inside to get my cardigan. (Imagine walking outside in your underwear in America--you'd drop to the floor, too, right?)
Mostly, though, I miss all the friends I made. I'm so grateful to live in a time where live video chat exists--it seemed so magical and impossible when Ash and Professor Oak could do it in Pokemon, and now we're even more advanced--our video communication fits easily into our pockets! At the same time, nothing can take the place of giving your friends kisses of greeting on the cheeks followed by a happy hug. I met so many wonderful people, friends who opened up their homes to me and embraced my curiosity with grace and openness. Friends who have been through horrors and are still kind. One woman, Ruth*, was always ready with homemade Iraqi cookies and a delicious meal called Dolma. (Grape leaves and hollowed out zucchini, onions, eggplant, etc. stuffed with seasoned rice.) We'd go outside together, and she'd gasp at the beauty of puffy, white clouds putting shadows onto tall mountains. She's so good with kids, so good with adults...so good with people! Ruth is from Mosul, and her sister and nieces are still trapped there, waiting to see if they'll make it out alive. They've been held hostage by IS members for two years now, and now that the offensive to take back Mosul from IS has begun, there's never a moment when the news channel covering Mosul isn't on in her apartment where she lives with her mother. They hear from her sister at a scheduled time once a week for about 10 seconds--a "hello, I'm okay, gotta go"--and that's how they know she's still alive. ISIS (also known as Daesh) cut all the internet and phone lines once they took over Mosul, and if you're caught with a phone, you'll be immediately killed. People have figured out ways of secretly communicating out and finding cell service, but it's extremely risky. There's so much to say about the situation in Mosul, so much pain that Ruth and her family have gone through, but somehow she's managed to stay an incredibly positive person, full of patience at our lack of shared language and joy whenever we got to see each other.
Some other friends I got to know well: A Yazidi family who lived in a refugee camp. I visited their concrete, one-room home every week, and I'll forever cherish all the moments we had together in-person. I couldn't speak any Kurdish, and only one of the daughters could speak a bit of English, but after my first visit or two we figured out our own way of communicating. (Thank goodness so much of communication is non-verbal anyway! Also, I'm pretty sure I could enter a professional tournament for Charades, now.) I became really good friends with the daughter who spoke some English, *Gaby. Gaby told me about what it was like to flee Sinjar Mountain after Daesh trapped and attempted to massacre her people. I saw photos and videos on her phone of previous happy times with hundreds of people she knew and friends she had had who had been killed. She showed me a picture of her with her dad and her sister, him with his arms around them, looking down at her with a smile on his face. Their dad went missing when they fled, and to this day, two years later, they still don't know if he's alive or not. Her stories would bring tears to my eyes, and Gaby put a big emphasis on the importance of not crying and of moving forward in strength. Otherwise, how could they go on? I was so shocked to learn that refugees there were used to a basically American lifestyle, with lots of material things and wealth. They went from being well-off financially with a big, beautiful house filled with fancy furniture, their own rooms, the best TVs and technologies and smartphones to having what was left of their family (about eight people) crammed into a one-room, uninsulated, concrete house with a few black and white photos printed on paper taped to the walls. That's a world-shaking change. Still, they're the most hospitable and welcoming people, offering whatever they have including fruit and chai (tea) to me, cheering with excitement whenever I remembered a Kurdish word they'd taught me, giggling joyfully when the grandmother had me put on her traditional Yazidi-grandmother attire, and glowing when they taught me the "pinky" dance, a traditional, Yazidi dance done at weddings. They are a family full of light and love and warmth, and they're forever burned into my heart. Thankfully, they still have their smartphones, which means that even though I'm home now, we can still keep in touch with each other across the miles. But, oh, how I miss their hugs.
Sweet Kurdistan, thank you for opening up your arms to me, someone who knew so little of your language and customs and people, and reminding me how much there is to learn in life. I'm so glad to have expanded my knowledge that this is a big, beautiful, eccentric, diverse world. The more of it I get to know and experience myself, the more able I am to see from another's point of view, and the more capable I am of stepping out of my own comfort zone to comfort another. I don't imagine this is goodbye--just a "see you later."
Love,
Holli
*Names have been changed.