tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4649577934211582612024-03-05T21:56:32.128-08:00Go in peace, not to piecesKT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.comBlogger125125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-32265693329052755322017-05-06T12:44:00.002-07:002017-05-06T12:53:38.657-07:00On peacemaking and being safe<div class="MsoNormal">
A couple of months ago we received word that a friend of ours, Michael (MJ) Sharp had been killed in the DR Congo. Our family had met him back in 2005 when we had all been working in Europe/England as mission workers. Since then he went on to work with Mennonite Central Committee in Congo and then with the UN. While he was out with a colleague investigating some mass graves, they both were killed.</div>
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This news rocked the peacemaker and Mennonite and non-Mennonite world. One day when I talked to a friend about MJ, the friend asked if he had guards with him when he was taken. This question made me think about some of my feelings when I was working with Christian Peacemaker Teams in Iraqi Kurdistan. I wrote this poetic piece.</div>
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<u><span style="font-size: large;">Are You Safe There?</span><o:p></o:p></u></div>
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<u><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></u></div>
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The question from the bank teller, as she passes over my US
dollars<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had said, (as she asked about my travels), “I am going to
Iraqi Kurdistan”.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well, usually I feel safe”, I replied</div>
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(<i>except the time
there was live gunfire in the city square, or when I get into a taxi).</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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As I left she called,” Have a good trip- I don’t want to see
your name in the newspaper.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Oh--- she did not want to see that I was dead</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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SAFE- no severe mutilation or death in the line of being a
peacemaker and going into “dangerous” places without body gear that protects
all vulnerable parts or an armoured vehicle or guards with guns or gated
communities to hide in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>No- Ms bank teller- I guess I am not safe there</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My life is almost as vulnerable in my peacemaking in far away lands
as the peoples I walk alongside.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But mine is a choice. I get to sign the waiver saying I am
aware that my organisation will not pay ransom or send in armed troops to save
me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am the one who can get onto a plane to go and then again
to leave if the situation gets dicey.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My Kurdish, Syrian, Palestine friends can not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Most must stay in their homes, cities, regions—hoping and
praying to be safe.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>But also- ma’am, I am not safe here.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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My life may end early even in my homeland in my peacemaking
work - walking across a road or riding in a car or meeting a wrong person during
my day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>No ma’am, I am not safe and you may read my name in the
Winnipeg Free Press</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But those of us who go or those of us who stay have decided
that this is our life: our choice; to be one of the peacemakers. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Whether we follow Jesus or Allah or Creator or none<o:p></o:p></div>
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We have decided that<b style="font-style: italic;"> </b>nonsafety is <i>not</i> something that
frightens us enough to stay home.<o:p></o:p></div>
KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-35179075857098371242016-12-30T10:08:00.001-08:002016-12-30T10:08:09.724-08:00Missing Sulaimani: Watching the bazaar awaken(Click on the first photo to see them all in larger format)<br />
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I have been back in Canada for many months after I left Sulaimani and the Iraqi Kurdistan team for the last time at the end of March. For some reason I was not able to take the time to look at photos and to think about my time there. I guess the New Year coming and a time of holiday gave me the push to take a look and to post photos on this blog.<br />
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While I was in Sulaimani I had thought many times about going to the bazaar as it woke up. I had passed this activity in a car many times, but I wanted to walk from the CPT house through the streets to see the sellers come out slowly to their stands. When I mentioned this, my friend Rezhiar said that he would gladly go on this adventure with me. We woke very early, around 6 am, I think, and began the 30 minute walk to Sulaimani's bazaar. It was everything that I hoped it would be. After walking around and greeting some people and taking some photos, we headed to Rezhiar's favourite breakfast spot. I guess early morning is similar to later night with regards to women being present at these establishments. But they served us well with the typical Kurdish breakfast.<br />
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Mosgowti Hazrati Ibrahim is right across the street from the CPT house. </div>
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The dawn was just beginning so it was still lit up as we left the house.</div>
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The street cleaners must get up even earlier than we had. They work to make</div>
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the streets neat and ready for the influx of shoppers.</div>
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<i><b>Then gradually, the people began to come out to begin their day</b></i></div>
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Father and son bringing bottles of water...</div>
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into the alley that has small eating establishments and tea houses.</div>
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Another street cleaner in the main square, Maidan Sara</div>
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The newly renovated market square.<br />
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The bakers had been out much earlier as well.<br />
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This man served free food from his street food cart.<br />
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And these young people enjoyed the food before their day of work in the bazaar.<br />
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Brushing off the dust from his merchandise<br />
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Poor bunnies don't know what is ahead of them this day.<br />
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Getting ready to polish many shoes<br />
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The egg, yogurt and cottage cheese salesman<br />
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Our lovely Kurdish breakfast- fresh bread, eggs, yogurt and honey.</div>
KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-23891034534621426332016-03-04T07:06:00.001-08:002016-03-04T07:08:43.077-08:00Humanity in the Residency Office<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Background:</span></span><br />
-2.5 million refugees and internally displaced persons in the region of Iraqi Kurdistan; some have basic needs cared for, others do not.<br />
-CPTers from foreign lands receive a 15 day visa on entry to the region, then they must visit the residency office to request a year visa.<br />
-our team mate Mohammed is our sponsor. He must go with us to this office.<br />
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Last Thursday morning I made my last trip to the residency office. I needed a 25 day extension to my year visa to allow me to stay until 17 March when my last plane flies out of Iraqi Kurdistan.<br />
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I really don't like the residency office. The rules change every few months and there is the feeling that anyone can, at any minute, question the legitimacy of our query. This time there was a new office to enter and a new signature to obtain. Mohamed and I sat on the black plastic couches awaiting our turn to speak to the official.<br />
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As we waited for his answer an older woman with a head-covering entered and sat down. She did not have papers or a passport. The official gestured to her to speak. I could tell that her language was Arabic, so the only words I could recognize was Ranya (a small city two hours away) and Kirkuk (the oil-rich disputed city, also two hours away). She told her story with the beginning of tears in her eyes. He listened patiently, said a few words, reached for his wallet and pulled out 15,000 Iraqi Dinars ($13). I really could not believe what I was seeing, but I did have a very warm feeling toward this man.<br />
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After we received his signature I asked Mohamed to clarify my observations. The woman had fled the violence in Kirkuk with her family and now lives in Ranya. She asked him if he could organise the ones working at the office to give her some donations because the family had nothing. He told her he could not because his employees rely on government salary which has not been paid in 3 months. However, he had money that he could personally give to her. Thus he handed over the 15,000 ID.<br />
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This incident is rich on so many levels. It speaks to the abject poverty of the millions of refugees and IDPs. It tells of the government workers (approximately 75% of the population) who have not been paid in 3-5 months. And it shows that even an official can show compassion. He had the power to call the security guards to throw her out but he did not and gave her so much more than a usual donation to the poor.<br />
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Two weeks ago our CPT trainees posted a video. It tells the story of the government workers of Iraqi Kurdistan who have not received their salaries. Some are on strike, waiting for the day that the government finds the funds to pay them. Others are still working, serving the public and also waiting.<br />
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<br />KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-24543339077063143302016-02-14T10:54:00.001-08:002016-02-15T00:16:46.029-08:00Changing the small things-Iraqi Kurdistan CPT trainingThursday, January 28, 2016 at 6 pm was the long awaited minute. The CPT Iraqi Kurdistan team had scurried all over the city of Sulaimani buying flip-chart paper here and toilet paper there. We needed extra supplies of kerosene and two rechargeable lanterns for the inevitable electricity cuts. We found all the handouts on our computer, had them printed and bought red binders to hold them.<br />
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The moment arrived and supper was hot. They began to enter the CPT house-the eager, excited, laughing new CPT trainees.<br />
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I stood in the doorway to our team's kitchen looking on the scene. The new lantern was put to immediate use, so the florescent glow lit the faces and the steam from the food. I felt joy and anticipation fill my chest. We were beginning the journey.<br />
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About half of the trainees are also working or studying full time so our schedule is different than a usual training in Chicago. Instead of spending 30 days together, they all come on Thursday evening for supper and then spend over 3 hours, late into the night, intent on learning the material. Then bright and early on Friday morning- the usual day off- they are ready to begin again. By 930 pm many of them go home and the week begins again.<br />
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In mid March the region has the Spring holidays for Nawroz. The trainees will then come every day -early until late- so that all the material can be covered before early April<br />
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This training is unique to any I have attended or facilitated in the six years since I joined CPT. There are ten trainees: one from Poland, one from Colombia and eight from Kurdistan-Iraq and Syria. It is a multi-faith group: Christian, Muslim, seeking and those that have a deep spirituality but who do not identify with a specific organised faith.<br />
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We facilitate the sessions in English with space for those more fluent to explain a concept in Kurdish. Then while we are on break time, Kurdish is the dominate language, with explanations in English for those of us not as proficient as we should be.<br />
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Most of the trainee's lives have been directly impacted by the violence in the region. We heard several times on the first day indications of this. One person asked permission to keep his phone on with the tone turned off. His father was heading to the front line and he needed to aware of when that would happen. Others spoke of people they have lost due to separation or death due to the war that is happening throughout their countries.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Our first role play where they simulated walking alongside farmers </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">in Hebron who were harvesting olives.</span></i></div>
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One of our first spontaneous activities was to attend a vigil to remember and grieve for the 58 people including 25 Iraqi Kurds who drowned in the Aegean Sea last week. These are the things we had to process on our second day of training.<br />
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I sit in the room with these amazing people as someone who has had six years of experience with CPT. I facilitate my sessions with some knowledge of what we want them to learn or think about. Yet, I know that when I leave Iraqi Kurdistan on 17 March, I will have learned so much more from them.<br />
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This week we began to work on the module where they plan a public action. They agreed to an topic that faces a small bit of the oppression that is happening in this region. The trainees had to think hard of ways to get the message across in a way that would not endanger any of them. They knew that arrest in this country can bring with it beatings and, for some of them, deportation back to a war-torn country. Yet, they also knew that it is very important to speak to the powers that are causing the oppression. The consensus came down to a simple message with a subversive undertone. This week they will continue the planning to bring about the action next Friday.<br />
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One morning, as I ate breakfast with Jahne who is from Rojava (Syrian Kurdistan) she said, " The reason I want to be a part of CPT is that CPT works to change the small things. I can not change the war, or the government in my country but I can change the small things. That is what CPT does."<br />
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This amazing group is on the beginning of their journey.We have already grieved and danced and discussed and agreed and disagreed. They have a lot of listening, thinking, pondering and changing to do before the CPT training graduation at the beginning of April. I know that they have dreams of transforming the big things, in this region, in these countries, in this Middle East. However, along the way, they can start on the small things.<br />
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Amen and may it be so.KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-48632268648441084322016-02-04T04:33:00.000-08:002016-02-04T04:37:18.727-08:00A poem" The boats, the sea, the lives" <i>Yesterday morning our team joined together for our gathering/worship time. The internet had turned on after the night and so people were taking a quick look at their Face Book and emails. My team mate Mohammed showed me a photo of a teenage boy and a woman. I looked at him with a question on my face. He said, "he was my student". I said, "he drowned?" Mohammed's face told me that I was correct. Yad had been in his class two years ago. The impact of the deaths drew near to us.</i><br />
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<i>Lukasz immediately changed the topic for his gathering. We sat in silence and drew and wrote out our feelings. Last week 28 Kurds died in the Aegean Sea, yesterday 103 were on the boat, including young Yad from Sulaimani. I wrote this poem as we sat together. </i><br />
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<i><b>The boats, the sea, the lives</b></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Kurdistan, oh Kurdistan<br />
How I hate to leave you<br />
But how I long to leave you.<br />
Political crisis, financial crisis<br />
No electricity, no salaries, no school<br />
There is no life, there is no hope<br />
There is no future for my son.<br />
We must leave<br />
<br />
I heard about thousands drowning in the sea<br />
Surely they were not prepared<br />
Surely they paid the wrong smuggler<br />
Surely they bought the fake life preservers<br />
We will do better<br />
We will stay in the boat and live<br />
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Today the son is a photo on Facebook<br />
Yad- his fourteenth year was his last<br />
There is no life, there is no hope<br />
His body will return to Kurdistan.<br />
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<br />KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-10647035912502347872016-01-30T08:08:00.000-08:002016-01-30T08:08:31.345-08:00"My tent is beautiful"<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Ahmed* watched his brother disappear in the smoke. “<span style="background: white; color: #141823; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The bomb
hit and I couldn't even see him to save him. I haven't seen him since. Then we
had to quickly run away”. As the Iraqi militias faced the ISIS invaders, Ahmed</span>
fled with his wife, three small children, and 8 members of his extended family.
He left his farm with its fertile fields, vineyards and orchards to live in an
tent camp just outside Sulaimani, Iraqi Kurdistan. He says, “We have not slept
one night in a house since we left Salahadeen 18 months ago. It is so cold
here. I had never seen snow before.”</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The world media has given news about ISIS and the Syrian
refugees that fled to nearby countries. They have also told of Ezidis(Yazidis)
and Christians of Iraq who left
everything behind to live as internally displaced persons (IDP) in another
region of Iraq. However, there is another group whose story has rarely been
told- the Sunni Iraqi Arabs of the province of Salahadeen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Allied forces hit this region hard during the latest Iraq War.
Then in the summer of 2014, ISIS invaded these impoverished communities. As they are Sunni Muslim, ISIS overlooked
them, as long as they obeyed the religious laws decreed by the militants.
However, in central Iraq the Shia militia have the goal of pushing ISIS out of
the region. They reclaimed the land, leaving the families living there in a
precarious position. The militia viewed them as collaborators or even as part
of ISIS. They were forced to flee for their lives using underground routes to
reach the IDP camps of Iraqi Kurdistan.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Ahmed knows that there is nothing to return to in his former
home. “I used to be a farmer”, he says sadly.
Soon after their escape his neighbor sent photos of the house burning
and of the militia chopping down all of his fruit trees<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">.
</span><span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The text on the phone read, “You're
all ISIS and Saddamis, We will do the same to you that Saddam did to us for 30
years”.</span><span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> </span>This message references the
cruelty that Saddam Hussein laid on the Shia people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The IDP camp in Sulaimani is not perfect. Ahmed still has
anxiety that he might be falsely accused of being an ISIS member and that Kurdish
security forces will imprison him or send him back to the danger. Their new home in the camp is small and the
neighbours are very close and noisy. When the temperature is cold in winter
they cannot use kerosene heaters in the night for fear of fire. Then in the
summer the unbearable heat beats down on the treeless camp. However, the canvas
with the large UNHCR letters painted on the side represents security to Ahmed
and his family. “We had a house with brick walls and a roof but there was
violence and pain. We ran away in fear for our lives. Now I see our tent is a
place of beauty. We are safe.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">*Name changed for protection.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; line-height: 16.8667px;">A drawing by a boy from Salahadeen depicting life in his home on the farm and life in the camp.</span></div>
<!--[endif]-->KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-79452599392187025102015-12-05T08:27:00.001-08:002015-12-05T08:27:59.471-08:00Gently, slowly, change will happen<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20.8444px;">"Bend it slowly, gently, give the tree time to curve, let the fibers change shape. Slowly, gently". The women followed the instructions of Diane Maytwayashing and her partner, Girard as we guided the saplings to form the skeleton of the sweat lodge. This was to be the dwelling for the sweat ceremony on the second evening of the Grassy Narrows Women's gathering held at Slant Lake blockade site on Septemeber 25-28, 2015. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20.8444px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20.8444px;">The women were using ancient building techniques to create a small room. Twenty tall birch saplings had been cut and tobacco offered as an offering to give thanks to Creator and to the trees. Girard dug twelve small holes equidistant around a circle where the poles were pushed down deep. He guided us to begin bending each pole, two at a time to meet in the middle. Then the women tied strings of twine around both of the poles, creating an arch. Dianne and Girard kept reminding us," slowly, gently".</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20.8444px;"> I was pleased to be invited to join in the creating, the birthing of this lodge. It was amazing to see how a tall tree could be encouraged with firm pressure to bend without breaking. I lifted my hand to help a woman with the last arch. I thought that I was being gentle and slow but shortly after I touched the tree there was a crack. The last pole was ruined. I did not receive a reprimand but maybe there was a bit of a silent sigh. The women would need to go out again to find another tree of the same size, use an axe to strip off the branches and then try again to finish the whole sweat lodge before supper.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Photo by Torrii Cress)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20.8444px;">We quickly found more saplings of the desired height and diameter and sawed them down. The intersections were all tied and we could see the shape of the star formed by the arches coming together. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20.8444px;">The final step was to drape the dark brown canvas tarps over the frame. These would hold in the heat given off by red hot rocks, known as grandmothers.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20.8444px;">At the first sharing circle our good friend Judy da Silva stated the guidelines of child care for the weekend. "This is a safe place for our little ones. So we will only stop them if they are in danger of hurting themselves or others. Everyone watch out for them."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20.8444px;">It was thrilling to watch the children have control of the activities they wanted to do. The older ones had a turn at chopping wood and building fires. The little ones slept when they were tired and were laid down on a blanket within the circle, to wake up when they were ready. One little girl took the smudging medicines around and offered everyone another chance for cleansing. She imitated the drummers by taking the drum close to the fire to warm it. Her Kookum (grandmother) stood behind her and verbally helped her to be safe. "If you are feeling warm, so is the drum. It is time to move back a little so the drum does not get too hot." There was no yelling or spanking or harsh reprimands, just guidance. I</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20.8444px;">t seemed the rule was "gently, slowly, give the little ones time to grow , to change, to learn". </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20.8444px;">Before the delegation joined the gathering I had told them that the activities of the weekend were really a mystery to me. We talked about sitting and watching and listening and learning. If we had questions about what was appropriate for us we could talk to our partners who are very well acquainted with CPT delegates. We were given an equal place in the the sharing circle. Our turn to speak was listened to intently by all the women. We heard what all the women had to say: the very difficult in-depth stories of hardship and grief, and the joyful stories of gratefulness for healing</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20.8444px;">On the last day, at the last circle, our leader gave words of wisdom to many in the circle. As she looked at the four of us who had come via CPT she told of her gratitude for us. She also gave the reminder to us to speak up and to act when we observe oppression. "Take your learning home with you but also learn your own faith well". Over the three days we too were gently, slowly transformed. Gently, slowly, gradually curved, gradually changed.. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20.8444px;"><br /></span>KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-36800016257287771422015-10-22T09:17:00.001-07:002015-10-22T11:58:42.161-07:00Political leaders stepping down graciously (and not).On Monday my country, Canada, had an election. Most of the people I know, with some exceptions, welcomed this event. We were very tired of a leader who had created a Canada that we did not recognize anymore, one that removed protection from our rivers and lakes, who ignored the indigenous peoples, made the process of immigrating to this country more onerous and oppressive etc etc. We were hopeful that a new prime minister and cabinet would be better even if they were not perfect.<br />
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In Canada, a prime minister can run and be re-elected as many times as the people say yes. Steven Harper could have continued to be the leader until he died if the voters had chosen him to continue. However, the voters had had enough and turned out in numbers that had not been seen in 22 years. We heard of some polling stations that ran out of ballots because so many people came to express their dissatisfaction and desire for change.<br />
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Yesterday, two days after the election. I was reading articles coming from Iraqi Kurdistan where I spend the other half of my life working with Christian Peacemaker Teams. In this region Massoud Barzani is the president. Iraqi Kurdistan has the rule that a president can only stay in power for two terms or eight years. He was first elected as president in 2005. He was re-elected in 2009 with nearly 70% of the vote. Then in August 2013 the Kurdish parliament extended the term for another two years, bringing the end date to August 2015.<br />
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At this point the opposition spoke loudly and clearly. It was time for Barzani to be gone. It was time for change. The law also speaks to that in an succinct way. " The term of the president that expires on August 20, 2013 will be extended until August 19, 2015 and cannot be extended for a second time."<br />
However, the KDP, Barzani's party is using the war with ISIS and difficulties in holding an election as reasons for keeping him in the office. with the full powers of the presidency.<br />
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The people are speaking. They have taken to the streets across the region, protesting and saying that Barzani must go. They also are asking for salaries that have not been paid in over three months. However, the government has responded only with security forces and guns, killing 5 young men and injuring dozens of others. Then, on top of this they have beaten and restrained journalists, trying to keep the news from reaching outside of the region. And, they locked the opposition MPs out from entering parliament, not even allowing them to enter the capital city, Hawler/Erbil.<br />
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<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.4667px; text-align: left;">"Peaceful Demonstration is our Only Way to awake you. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.4667px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.4667px; text-align: left;">Do you hear or see?" (October 20, Sulaimani)</span></i></div>
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<i>The government workers (teachers, medical workers etc) have been</i></div>
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<i> 3 months. They have received their salaries very sporadically for two years.</i></div>
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As I grieve for the chaos that politicians have brought once again to the region and the Kurdish people that I love, I wonder what would have happened here if Harper had refused to step down. What would my country do? What plans are in place to send an old prime minister on their way if they are standing their ground? And I am again made aware of my privilege to live in Canada where Harper publicly said that it is time to leave and stepped down to allow the new prime minister to take the leadership.<br />
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Gilbert Agabo , a permanent resident of Canada, originally from Rwanda, reminded me and all readers of Metro Daily Newspaper of this yesterday in his opinion article. <a href="http://www.metronews.ca/views/opinion/2015/10/21/canadas-peaceful-election-something-to-be-proud-of.html"> Read the whole article here.</a><br />
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"...what I was longing for was to participate in a democratic process that is peaceful, in every sense of the word.<br />
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As I mingled in a crowd of Liberal ....supporters, my mind couldn't stop rambling about what elections mean in other parts of the world. Take Kenya, 2007. Following the highly contested residential elections, a dispute over the results erupted. People started attacking each other, and thousands lost their lives in the mayhem....<br />
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All along I was not expecting NDP Leader Thomas Mulcair to come out and start accusing incoming prime minister Justin Trudeau of stealing their votes. I knew Stephen Harper wasn't going to call in military forces in an attempt to cling to power.<br />
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But watching them deliver concession speeches, all smiles, almost brought me to tears..... It's still unreal for me to hear an incumbent leader admit that the people are never wrong, notwithstanding that they just turfed him out......<br />
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And I felt sad that, as permanent resident, I couldn't cast a ballot that was peaceful-- in every sense of the word."<br />
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Right now, in Iraqi Kurdistan, my team mates are watching what is happening. They are standing with the people on the streets and telling the social media world what is happening.<br />
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Please consider joining CPT Iraqi Kurdistan in our work. One way you can do this is to provide resources for us to continue our work.<a href="https://donatenow.networkforgood.org/CPT?code=IraqiKurdistan">Click here to donate to CPT on behalf of Iraqi Kurdistan team</a><br />
**[ Note for Canadians. Unfortunately, because CPT's work is too political for the Canadian government we are not able to provide a tax receipt. Maybe this will change with the new government. We can only pray and hope.]<br />
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My team created this video telling about the current situation in Iraqi Kurdistan.<br />
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<br />KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-64648744908636257472015-10-06T12:03:00.000-07:002015-10-06T14:02:20.299-07:00Glimpses of Iraqi Kurdistan in summer 2015<br />
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I have now been back in North America since 6 August. I have moved through the re-entry staying in my house time, and began to move out more. Part of the way that I work through the sadness and mourning the loss of being in Iraqi Kurdistan is to look at my photos. I can remember the people I have sat with and laughed with and spoken with for brief and longer times. This will be a selection of photos so you can meet some the people that I met and see some of things I saw on this stint- 19 May to 6 August, 2015. (Click on the first photo to see them in a larger format.)<br />
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The sun shone the whole time I was in Iraqi Kurdistan. Some people cover their vehicles to prevent sun damage and to try to keep them a little cooler. This cover reminded me of a 60's Volkswagen van. But when I got closer I saw....</div>
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.......where the fabric came from. They must have bought the Ikea store out of the pattern!<br />
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Our team visited the lovely village of Gulan, These little people peered out at me from behind their house gate. It is a good way to keep them out the rocky trail that can have cows and geese and goats travelling them an various times during the day.<br />
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There are wonderful fruit trees in Gulan. Here we were picking a small sour fruit that was a cross between a plum and a cherry.<br />
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<b>People in the bazaar</b></div>
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Ice is very important to keep the drinking water cold, cold in the hot, hot summer heat. It is bought in huge chunks and then broken into smaller pieces that fit into old freezers or small containers that hold the 250 ml bottles of water.<br />
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There are a few small shops that sell rugs and carpets made in Iraqi Kurdistan. Many of them were created at least a decade before but they are still so beautiful and colourful.<br />
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Most people who shine shoes to make a living are men but this young girl had set up her stand on the side of a laneway. She granted me a photo. The rubber sandals are ready to cover the feet of someone who might give her their shoes to shine.<br />
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"Please take my photo", this young boy asked me. He sells larger plastic bags for 250 Iraqi dinars (20 cents) to try to make a living for him and his family.<br />
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The people who live in nearby villages bring seasonal produce, either picked in the wild or grown in their gardens, to the bazaar. They sit on the sidewalk with small scales and sell it to the city folk.<br />
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Around the main square are many booksellers. This man was utilizing some spare time<br />
to peruse his merchandise.<br />
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<b>Iftar (breaking the fast) on one evening during Ramadan</b></div>
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The men take off their shoes before entering the mosque.</div>
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I think they must be very secure in where they place their footwear, in order to<br />
quickly find them.<br />
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Vendors selling their food and tea on the street</div>
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Musicians gatherered around the instrument seller's blanket</div>
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This girl was selling candy floss for a sugar boost.</div>
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I marvel at the security of a cloth placed over merchandise and how things do not get stolen.<br />
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<b>Cooling down in 45-50 C summer weather</b><br />
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The team went for a wonderful picnic by this river. This Kurdish couple seemed to enjoy<br />
fishing together in the cool water.<br />
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Mohamed and Rezyar showed us how to wash the floors in the Kurdish way. First, you bring in the hose and flood the floor with water (or you could use a bucket of water).<br />
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Second, you use a large squeegee to push the water (and the dirt) out the door.<br />
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KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-25463906333718736922015-09-06T16:10:00.003-07:002015-09-06T16:17:48.773-07:00Quilt making in Iraqi KurdistanI began work with CPT in Iraqi Kurdistan in March 2011. Lukasz Firla came on team just a couple of weeks before me. We both entered Sulaimani in the midst of anti corruption demonstrations. As we could not leave the CPT house alone Lukasz and I bonded over nargila/hookah/waterpipe smoking and walking around the main square of Sulaimani speaking to the Kurds who came out in the thousands to demonstrate and to ask their government to change.<br />
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We spent many hours talking and getting to know each other. Thus we became close team mates and friends. When he and Carolina Rodriguez announced their engagement I knew I would need to create something to celebrate their marriage. I had plenty of opportunity to get finished.<br />
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First they were married in the civic office in Washington, DC (where Carolina had been attending university).<br />
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Then, in summer 2014, they had a wedding in Czech Republic where Lukasz's family lives and where he spent most of the years of his life before coming to Iraqi Kurdistan. Fourteen year old Jaco is also part of the new family.<br />
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Then in March 2015 during the Kurdish .New Year Festival, (Nawroz) they had a Kurdish celebration in the mountains of Iraqi Kurdistan. Latif who is a friend of the team and a lawyer presided .<br />
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Then finally,( I think), in the summer of 2015 they had a celebration in Colombia where Carolina's family lives and where she spent most of her life. Many of the team members of CPT Colombia were able to join the party.<br />
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I was not able to join any of the weddings, but this summer I was again on team with Lukasz (just before the Colombia celebration). I decided to buy a simple sewing machine and to work on a small quilt for them. But all the new fabric on sale in the bazaar is not suitable for making quilts. So I had to work hard on how to find the resources for it.<br />
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I had bought a duvet cover that seemed to be created with European quilting cotton. I thought that could be the base fabric for the quilt. But I needed other colours to co-ordinate with the pattern. So I spent one of my Friday days off to head to the second hand section of the bazaar. These stalls are full of textiles from Europe and I thought it was possible to find more cotton. I dug deep in the two piles outside of this stall. and I was amazed to find the fabric that would work.<br />
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I did not have all my fancy tools for creating a quilt, so I used the old technique of tearing!! Then I had a cardboard template to try to make all the strips the correct length. I decided to make it only two layers, without a batting in the middle. This would make it a cooler blanket that can be used in the spring and autumn.as well as the winter. Also, I imagined that the family will not be staying in Iraqi Kurdistan forever, so it would be lighter to carry in suitcase.<br />
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I gave the quilt to them at the team party just before Lukasz left for a few weeks in Europe. Even though he had seen the quilt in the spare bedroom, I don't think that he knew it was for them.<br />
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Recently a new member joined the family. Mexica was a teeny, tiny kitten, far too young to leave her mother. However, the mom was gone. So this tiny critter came to live with Lukasz, Carolina and Jaco. I took this photo because she was in the middle of capturing a cockroach. Fortunately she does not have any mice to catch , but she is an expert at catching and playing with the large bugs.</div>
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<br />KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-50673370898167481272015-09-01T12:26:00.001-07:002015-09-02T09:10:04.721-07:00Not ever since World War II; so many people looking for HOME.<div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">I sit in sunny Manitoba where the heat that people complain about is only 30 C. The trees and grass are green. Unlimited water pours from every tap in my house. When I sweat I can decrease the thermostat on the kitchen wall and the central air conditioner takes care of that problem.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"> I have been home three weeks and </span><span style="line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">am now able to re-enter Winnpeg society. I no longer have to cocoon in my house unable to face the huge grocery stores and my friends who ask me how I am. .Already I can go hours without even thinking of the people I sat with in Iraqi Kurdistan. I am forgetting the heat and the sweat and the burning hot wind. I am forgetting the tears and pain of mothers sitting on the sidewalk begging with their eyes, families in unfinished houses asking for a refrigerator so their water can be cool enough to drink and people living in flappy tents that can fall down in the blustery winds. I am forgetting the father looking at his 21 year old son who is thinking of paying the money to a smuggler to try to get to a life worth living. I am forgetting the words, "what else can he do?"</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">I am really trying to get be aware of the injustice that is all around me here in sunny Manitoba. I am trying to read the face book posts about mercury in water, oil pipelines being pushed through by politicians and a thousand and a half missing and murdered indigenous women . I am trying to see that there are so many people and so much work here in my own land. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">But there are still the hours when I remember. When I read news of 70 people dying in a smuggler's truck because no one would open the doors. When I hear from my colleagues working on the island of Lesvos of ordinary people risking life and the breath of their children to get onto inflated boats trying to find a society who will embrace them and say welcome. I remember young men with whom I have sat at a table with a beer and discussed life and the universe and sometimes just silliness. These ones who have set off on the journey to Germany for $10,000. </span><span style="line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">This was not a trip with a backpack poking around to discover the quaintness of Europe. It was one where passport and computers were left behind and that held the question of whether it was safe to let loved ones know by a text or a Facebook post that they had reached another safe place along the way.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">I cry, knowing that my offering to the people I sat with was so little. That many are living in tents with not enough water for basic needs , but that they know that soon the winter rains and the thick mud will come. They will still be in the tents because there is no place to go. Unless they say, "what else can we do?" and they will somehow raise the $10,000 per person for the good smuggler and they will try to cross the razor wire and the dogs and the men with guns and the broad sea water to get to somewhere else. Where maybe they will find a dwelling that is warm and dry in winter and cool in summer.. Maybe they will find a tiny piece of land to plant tomatoes and where the children can play. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">A friend of mine posted this poem today. I could not read it all at once because the tears began to flow. Not since World War II has there been so many people fleeing, trying desperately to find a good place to call home</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"><b>HOME</b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"> by Somali poet Warsan Shire:</span></div>
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no one leaves home unless<br />
home is the mouth of a shark<br />
you only run for the border<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><br />when you see the whole city running as well</span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
your neighbours running faster than you<br />
breath bloody in their throats<br />
the boy you went to school with<br />
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory<br />
is holding a gun bigger than his body<br />
you only leave home<br />
when home won't let you stay.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
no one leaves home unless home chases you<br />
fire under feet<br />
hot blood in your belly<br />
it's not something you ever thought of doing<br />
until the blade burnt threats into<br />
your neck<br />
and even then you carried the anthem under<br />
your breath<br />
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets<br />
sobbing as each mouthful of paper<br />
made it clear that you wouldn't be going back.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
you have to understand,<br />
that no one puts their children in a boat<br />
unless the water is safer than the land<br />
no one burns their palms<br />
under trains<br />
beneath carriages<br />
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck<br />
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled<br />
means something more than journey.<br />
no one crawls under fences<br />
no one wants to be beaten<br />
pitied</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
no one chooses refugee camps<br />
or strip searches where your<br />
body is left aching<br />
or prison,<br />
because prison is safer<br />
than a city of fire<br />
and one prison guard<br />
in the night<br />
is better than a truckload<br />
of men who look like your father<br />
no one could take it<br />
no one could stomach it<br />
no one skin would be tough enough</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
the<br />
go home blacks<br />
refugees<br />
dirty immigrants<br />
asylum seekers<br />
sucking our country dry<br />
niggers with their hands out<br />
they smell strange<br />
savage<br />
messed up their country and now they want<br />
to mess ours up<br />
how do the words<br />
the dirty looks<br />
roll off your backs<br />
maybe because the blow is softer<br />
than a limb torn off</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
or the words are more tender<br />
than fourteen men between<br />
your legs<br />
or the insults are easier<br />
to swallow<br />
than rubble<br />
than bone<br />
than your child body<br />
in pieces.<br />
i want to go home,<br />
but home is the mouth of a shark<br />
home is the barrel of the gun<br />
and no one would leave home<br />
unless home chased you to the shore<br />
unless home told you<br />
to quicken your legs<br />
leave your clothes behind<br />
crawl through the desert<br />
wade through the oceans<br />
drown<br />
save<br />
be hunger<br />
beg<br />
forget pride<br />
your survival is more important</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear<br />
saying-<br />
leave,<br />
run away from me now<br />
i dont know what i've become<br />
but i know that anywhere<br />
is safer than here.</div>
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KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-47467434578849418012015-08-21T07:28:00.001-07:002015-08-21T08:12:45.226-07:00What is our sin? What have we done?: the Yezidis remember.<h2 style="border: 0px; color: #003366; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 21.7621765136719px; margin: 0px; max-width: 600px; padding: 5px 0px 4px;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;">Nine years ago this week the Spirit moved in my soul and will and I </span><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">began the early steps of the journey toward working in Iraqi Kurdistan with Christian Peacemaker Teams. </span><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">That afternoon I sat on a hillside in England with 15,000 people at the Greenbelt Christian Arts festival. During the Sunday service we remembered many who have been placed into slavery to meet the evil desires of people who considered themselves superior. We sang a protest song from the days of Apartheid in South Africa. The words of " Senzeni na? are translated "</span><i style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">what have we done</i><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">?;</span><i style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">our sin is that we are black?; Our sin is the truth; They are killing us". </i><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">At that moment </span><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;"> I recognized my privilege in having a life where I was able to live in peace and security. In that moment my fear of the unknown was removed. I knew I needed to step out of my comfort and privilege to walk alongside to the best of my ability. .</span></h2>
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<span style="color: #003366; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: medium; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;"> Three weeks ago I heard those words again. They continue to ring in my head even now that I am back in my air conditioned home in quiet suburban Winnipeg. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #003366; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: medium; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">On August 3, my team mate and I attended the commemoration of one year since the Yezidi genocide in Iraq. Our friend Sheik Shamu, a leader of the Yezidi community that lives in Arbat internally displaced persons camp, invited us to join the gathering at 11 am on that day. We entered the camp, greeting the guards who allowed us to pass.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #003366; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: medium; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">We immediately saw the hand lettered signs attached to the tents in the area where the Yezidis live. Then we were met by three little girls, all wearing screen printed T-shirts. When Juliane asked if she could take a photo, one lifted a photograph up and held it sideways. The scene was one that little girls should know nothing about, but we knew that they had witnessed things that their little minds will never forget.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo: Juliane Assmann</span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;"> The event was held in the huge brick building that serves as a school during the year. Today it held all sorts of ages of the Yezidi community, as well as visitors from NGOs and politicians. Sheik Shamu noticed us very quickly and assured that we had seats alongside the mayor and other dignitaries. We received the bottles of water offered to everyone gratefully. There was no chance of a breeze entering the building and sweat was pouring in the 45 C heat.</span></h2>
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<span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;"> Sheik Shamu was one of the first speakers, presumably setting the stage for what was to follow. The Yezidis speak a different dialect of Kurdish than the one I was learning. I heard many recognizable words, but not enough to follow the speech.</span></h2>
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<span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">The program continued for over two hours. Young men and women came to the microphone to read poems and sing songs. The word, Shingal, came over and over again, and the tears flowed. It was not difficult to see that here was a people still in the centre of the trauma. They all seemed to be back in the middle of the days in Shingal when they were abandoned by the military who told them they had nothing to fear- just hours before ISIS/Da'ash entered the region and began the slaughter. They all seemed to be able to feel the burning sun and waterless days on Sinjar Mountain where they fled for their lives. And they all know someone, or many someones, who are still in slavery to the invading army. </span></h2>
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<span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">The most shattering point was when the invasion and genocide was </span><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">re-enacted in a drama. I could not see past the journalists and TV photographers who surged forward to document it. But I heard the men dressed in ragged wigs and fake beards yelling, "Allah Akbahr" and the screaming of the children and women. And I could see the man sitting next to me desperately trying to cover his eyes with his notebook while plugging both of his ears. I was so glad when it was quiet again. The man then silently slipped away.</span></h2>
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<span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">Just after noon Sheik Shamu's daughter went up to the microphone to read a poem. She was strong and eloquent as she told her story. Her voice broke as her composure was lost for a minute and the crowd gently clapped when she recovered and continued.</span></h2>
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<span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;"> After she was done she came to the side of the room where I was sitting. I watched her face as it crumpled and she began to sob, holding her scarf over her mouth. I ignored the activity on the stage as I wondered whether it was appropriate for me to go to stand beside her. Finally I decided that she needed someone so I got up, walked over and put my arm around her shoulders as she cried. I think that was OK as she later gave me a hug. </span></h2>
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<span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;"> Usually we try hard to avoid the meal times as we know that food is scarce and it is a sacrifice to feed us. However, w</span><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">hen the event was over we knew that we must accept the invitation to eat lunch with the family. We sat in the small room that houses Sheik Shamu, his wife and 5 children. The little ones warmed to our presence and began to have fun playing tickle games. </span></h2>
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<span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">The adults spoke again about the situation for their people. They told of one family in the camp that has lost 36 members. They despaired for their daughter who needs to leave the country for treatment of a complex arm injury, but who can not find any place that will agree to give a medical visa.</span></h2>
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<span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;"> Sheik Shamu described one early morning when he followed their 2 1/2 year old's leading out into the camp. She insistently told him to come to see where Da'ash had killed her friend. He was mystified until she took him to the wall of the International Red Cross Building that had been painted red.</span></h2>
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<span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;"> And they spoke of the next oldest who loves to draw, but who continually pencils monster looking drawings that she identifies as Da'ash. </span></h2>
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<span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;"> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">They told of their longing for a peaceful place to live, to be able to go back to life as it was just over a year ago in Shingal. But they know that this is an almost impossible dream, just as is the one to leave this country for Europe or Canada. </span></h2>
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<span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.7621765136719px;">It was then that I heard the question again, "what is our sin? What have we done? I could not speak out anything, although I knew what my answer would be. No, there is no sin. But I too question God as to why. </span></h2>
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KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-34974759108017190592015-07-18T02:43:00.000-07:002015-07-18T02:43:32.208-07:00Apprehension re Ramadan was not neededToday is the second day of Eid- the the days of celebration and feasting after the month of fasting. A month ago I posted that I was slightly apprehensive about how Ramadan would affect me ( really , not at all) and the little vendors who sell food and drink on the street (they were still out there, I am not sure whether they sold very much.)<br />
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I did make trips to the bazaar- often I did walk the 30 minutes even though the heat was extreme. I learned how to find the fast food places and tea shops that were open. It was easy- I just had to look for the white curtains blowing in the breeze. I just had to duck under the cloth and pay the 250 ID for a bottle of nice cold water. It was so hot that the 500 mls went down very quickly and I was hydrated enough to keep on walking. (with my nice geeky hat and lots of sunscreen for my Irish-heritage skin).<br />
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Every day after the call to prayer at around 7:15 pm the families would have iftar- the time for breaking of the fast and eating together. I noticed that shops that were open to provide the necessary materials to create a meal, closed so that the family could be all together.<br />
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The first moment of the end of the fast for the day held a drink of very sweet juice and a few dates. This gives a boost of sugar before the more substantial evening meal. Many of the shops sold multi-coloured juices in bags, that were easy to take home.<br />
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My first invitation to iftar was with my friends in Ranya. I have visited this family- where Gul is the matriarch- many times in the last five years. This visit many of them came together to see me, to introduce the new baby to me and to let me see how the other little ones have grown. We met in my friend Nishtiman's apartment and there was just enough room for everyone on the floor of the eating room. The sensory stimulation was incredible- the baby crying, the two older ones running around and having fun, the loud chatter in Kurdish, the TV at full volume, the smells of the rice and chicken and the quiet praying as several of the family took turns in the corner of the room for the evening prayer.<br />
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My second invitation was to eat the evening meal with my little friend, Sima's family. They live a five minute walk from the CPT house, and I brought a very fun English book with lift-the-flaps for her. Some of my Kurdish lessons had included a translation into Kurdish and then memorizing the book so that she could understand the simple story. She loved the book and read it and read it many times throughout the evening. But so did her 10 year old brother, and 12 and 15 year old sisters.<br />
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This family does not invite me anymore, there is just the assumption that I will stay if I am there anywhere near the meal time. Sima will whisper the question, "will you eat supper?" and before I know it, I am gathered with the family around the tablecloth. This time, after the juice and dates, the mother, Nazaneen, brought out the pot of soup and rice. She put something onto my plate that looked very strange and the son showed me how to pull the thread to open up the bundle. It was a piece of the stomach of the sheep, sewn around seasoned rice. But then, when the father, Mohamed, sat down they plopped a bony sheep skull onto his plate. He and two of the children began to pick at the bits of meat. Soon the middle daughter went to the next room for a hammer. With a crash the skull broke in two and the inner "stuff" fell onto the plate. That was obviously the crowning glory. I declined the brains and eyeballs. But they certainly did not go to waste!<br />
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The third iftar I did not eat. On the second to last day of Ramadan I went with my friend, Ann to Mosgowti Gawre (the big mosque) in the center of the city. This mosque was feeding hundreds of people every evening of the month. There were many of the poorest of the poor in Sulaimani, some of them were not Muslim, but Yezidi and Christian.They lined up to receive rice, bean soup and a piece of chicken. Then after the prayers were finished, the ones who had entered the mosque were welcome to sit and eat as well.<br />
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Ann knows quite a bit of Arabic so she had many conversations with people around the courtyard. They were young boys and men from Syria and down south. They have fled the violence with their families or at least the parts of their families who still live. Ann translated some of the sad stories for me. We felt quite helpless as the best we could do was to stop and listen. But it seemed that for the ones telling about the home they had left that having someone willing to listen was a good thing.<br />
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I had been apprehensive about Ramadan. But although sometimes I was very much out of my comfort zone, I saw a time of deep religious significance. I saw people fasting from food and drink in the hottest days of summer- and they survived. I saw people who had made the choice not to fast. I saw people who made the best of the time- and brought out their wares just before the time of iftar. This is a rhythm of life that goes on every year and I am grateful that I have had the opportunity to be a part of it.<br />
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<br />KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-61988167136684103452015-07-13T09:01:00.000-07:002015-07-13T09:01:35.521-07:00Cleaning the river, one thing I can do<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“There are so many crises in this region [ISIS causing
thousands of IDPs and refugees, our young men fighting Da’ash and many dying,
huge line-ups for petrol, government salaries not being paid, electricity
cut-offs, corruption in the government]. For most of these we can’t do
anything. All we can do is pray. But this is one thing where we can do
something. It can be a symbol of what can be done when a group of people gather
and act”….. Mohamed Salah Mahdi</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Our team had been visiting our friends in the gorgeous
Shawre Valley. Kak Latif is a member of a group that is resisting oil exploration in the valley.
They are very aware of how oil drilling will negatively affect the lands that
their families have farmed for generations. On the way home the team stopped by
Dukan River, a popular picnic spot for hundreds of families on Fridays (outside
of the fasting month, Ramadan). Our goal was to paddle in the water on the hot
+40 C afternoon. But we changed our minds when we saw the condition of the
river. Trash from past picnics floated 2 meters wide along the shore. Small
water bottles, plastic tablecloths wrapped around food leftovers, diapers and
glass alcohol bottles lined the edge of the river.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Teammate Mohamed went home to think and quickly posted a
picture of the mess on a local TV station’s website. His comments included a
call people to come to the river on the next Saturday to do something- to take
the trash and to put it into large bags and to clean the river.<o:p></o:p><br />
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On Saturday 4 July six of us gathered at Dukan River. The
cultural mix was amazing for such a small group: 3 Kurds, 1 Arab, 1 Canadian
and 1 USian. We came together to work
hard for two hours using badminton rackets taped to broom handles to lift the
trash onto the shore. Then we filled over 50 bags from a relatively small
portion of the shore.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Some people came down to see what we were doing. They thanked us and even left some food for
when we were finished. However, only one small Kurdish girl moved from watching
to helping. <o:p></o:p><br />
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This was such an unusual endeavour that as we were taking our group photo a neighboring man
came to speak to us in a very agitated manner. He was very concerned that we
were inspectors and that we would blame the neighboring houses for the mess. We
assured him that we were ordinary people who cared for the river and that we
did not blame him. We just wanted to ask people to take their trash home after
their relaxing picnics with their families. Plastic does not disappear in in
the hot sun and the river does not eat up the leftovers. The man finally calmed down and offered to
watch the pile of bags until the municipality would come to collect them.<o:p></o:p><br />
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That evening, Mohammed again posted photos on KNNC’s
website. He watched as the “likes” began to click up. Within a day over 7,000
had registered their thanks and interest to join the campaign. Many asked that
he wait until after Ramadan when they would have more physical energy for the
work. However Mohamed and his friends decided to keep the momentum rolling.
This Friday the plan is to head to the picnic mountain.<o:p></o:p><br />
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POST SCRIPT:<br />
On Friday 10 July we drove to nearby Goizha Mountain to clean yet another picnic spot. This time we had 15 people: 7 Kurds, 1 Canadian, 1 Arab, 4 Christians from Qaraqhosh and Baghdad, 1 German, and 1 USian. After we were finished filling 30 bags under the hot, windy sunny sky we all came to the CPT house for coffee, tea, fruit and popcorn. We shared stories and made connections. All because we went to pick up garbage.<br />
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KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-5754527618264129632015-06-16T12:32:00.000-07:002015-06-16T12:56:27.149-07:00Anticipating things unknown about Ramadan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>The photos in this post are taken earlier in my time in Iraqi Kurdistan. They are not the children whose story I tell. </i></div>
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This stint on team in Iraqi Kurdistan is my first summer and the first time I will experience Ramadan. My body is coping quite well with the nice, dry heat- so far up to 42 C. But I am feeling a little apprehensive about the unknowns of a month of practices that are integral to a faith that is not my own.<br />
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My team mates have given hints that our lives must change even though we are not fasting. Taking a swig from a water bottle in public is considered rude and disrespectful. Many of our favourite restaurants are either closed during the fasting hours or have a white curtain that one must hide behind. The small alcohol shops are closed for the month. There will be many more occasions when I may have to wear a scarf. And life is overall pretty quiet, with employees leaving work an hour or so earlier than usual. Then at sundown, which is around 7 pm here, activity in the streets will pick up and people will break their fast.<br />
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But I also wonder how Ramadan will affect the refugees and IDPs who rely on the small bits of money they can collect from those who are thirsty and hungry.<br />
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Around the corner from the CPT house sits an 8 year old boy - all day, everyday. His seat is the curb and in front of him are ten bags of homemade popcorn. He waits for sympathetic or hungry passersby to hand him a bit of paper money. He sits from morning to evening until the bags are gone, or it is dark enough to take his earnings home to his mother and siblings. His small amount of money helps to feed the family who are IDPs from the south..<br />
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Another small boy caught my attention in the bazaar. Apparently begging is illegal here so most of the many, many working children have something to give you for a donation. This 5-6 year old had a small styrofoam box with a bit of ice and 10 bottles of water. He stood holding a bottle as an example of his wares, for the masses of people passing by. I stopped. I had already bought one 500 ml bottle but had almost sucked it dry. I handed him a small paper bill and bent to grab the top bottle. With a serious face he gently pushed my hand away and reached down to the bottom to give me the coldest bottle possible. I took it from him, put it on my hot face and said, "zor sarde/very cold". He finally smiled.<br />
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My discomfort with the unknown is not something that will harm me. I may be reprimanded for a faux pas. I may experience thirst in the hot sun that I am not used to. But I wonder about these little ones and the families that they support. How will Ramadan affect them?<br />
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<br />KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-86169142190661693942015-06-08T09:16:00.000-07:002015-06-08T09:17:31.751-07:00How can I get to Europe, how can I get to Canada?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I receive many questions from the people I meet here in Iraqi Kurdistan. In earlier years the questioners were mainly Kurds. Now they come from many more diverse people: Syrians, Arabs, Yezidids, and Syrian Kurds. They want to know where I come from and why I am here. But many are like the Syrian man with the tea cart at the entrance to Baxi Gishti/Main Park near the bazaar in Sulaimani.. "Can you tell me how I can get to Canada? Life is so bad here. Europe would be good too. Please tell me."<br />
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I wonder how many of them would have the resources to take the desperate step of finding a people smuggler- a man who would extract large sums of money to stuff the people into a truck to go overland to Turkey and then onto an overloaded boat to try for the coast of Greece. Most refugees who attempt this last ditch effort for a better life do not succeed and many do not survive.. Last year the EU discontinued Mare Nostrum, the search and rescue operation. that provided rescue boats that plucked victims from the waters of the Mediterranean. Since January 2015, 1,800 desperate people have died- drowning in their attempt for a new life-one that has jobs and enough food and freedom from the threat of guns and bombs.<br />
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On Friday May 1 I watched several of my friends "drown". The members of the CPT Europe Convergence joined with international visitors of Catholic Worker in front UK's Home Office to dramatically bring attention to this situation. The tableau held a boat with some rescued victims wrapped in heat retaining silver blankets. Others, at a signal, poured water over themselves, making both their bodies and the pavement wet. Several struggled as if to fight the enveloping water and then lay still. In this way they identified with the thousands who have been pulled lifeless from the sea.<br />
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The next day we heard a local poet read her work. She had heard the news reports of the 1,800 dead migrants and refugees and wrote this emotional indictment.<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Unended Refuge 2015-</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i> Jude Smit- a poet with a global conscience</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Leave them to drown, they’re not one of us</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Too much to do, so what’s all the fuss?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Replacement values, replacement TV</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">How should we know, why should we see?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Push of a button, the screen will go blank</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">They’re not one of us, who cares if it sank?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">No need to shout, no need to cry</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Why do we care when we see them die?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Bodies are floating, so few have survived</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Came in their hundreds, how many arrived?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Those who are left haven’t a clue</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Their hope of a future will never come true.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">At the mercy of others, their fate in our hands</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">But who cares if they drown, they’re not of these lands.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Switch off the news, switch off the phone,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Block it all out, look after our own.</span></div>
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The question rings still in my mind-"Tell me how can I get to Europe? How can I leave this awful place?</div>
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<br />KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-23406628804998362802015-05-21T11:03:00.000-07:002015-05-21T23:11:42.662-07:00Music as a global initiative against insanity: Karim Wasfi and Vedran Smailovic<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday a friend on Facebook brought my attention to a cellist in Baghdad. On April 28, 2015, an hour after a car bomb killed 10 people and injured 27 others, Karim Wasfi,</span> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 25.6000003814697px;">conductor of the Iraqi National Symphony Orchestra,</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 25.6000003814697px;"> took his cello to the spot and began to play. Soldiers and other Baghdadians </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 25.6000003814697px;"> joined him to listen, to cry and clap at "the act of civility". </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 25.6000003814697px;"> Video clips of his music, quickly went viral.</span></blockquote>
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Karim Wasfi</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 25.6000003814697px;">. <span style="font-size: large;">In an interview with Al-Jazeera he said</span>,</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 25.6000003814697px;">"I</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 25.6000003814697px;"><i>t was an action to try to equalise things, to reach the equilibrium between ugliness, insanity and grotesque, indecent acts of terror - to equalise it, or to overcome it, by acts of beauty, creativity and refinement.".</i></span> </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 25.6000003814697px;">When he was asked whether he sees the violence as insanity, he replied,<i> "</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 25.6000003814697px;">At the moment, yes. Because, especially in this part of the world, people have the resources, the manpower, the assets, the time, the geography, the atmosphere, the weather, the sun, vitamin D, you name it. They have every reason to live in peace."</span></span></blockquote>
<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 25.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 25.6000003814697px;">This cellist brought me to remember another one who played in the rubble in Sarajevo, Bosnia. I met his then-wife in March 1994 when I traveled to Split, Croatia with German Mennonite Peace Comittee (DMFK). Our group was mandated to live for 3 weeks near a small displaced persons camp to play with the children. When we visited Ines and her two small children there was a huge poster hanging on the wall of Vedran Smailovic playing his cello. His venue was the spot where a bread line had been targeted and 22 people killed. He continued the music for 22 days and then many days afterward in other areas of the city. It is reported that he was told that he was crazy to sit in view of snipers just to play music. His life was in danger. Vedran replied, <i>"You ask me am I crazy for playing a cello, why do you not ask if they are crazy for shelling Sarajevo?".</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Today I led the worship/gathering time for my CPT team in Iraqi Kurdistan. I brought these </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">two men to our attention and then played a song that has been written about Vedran</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Smailovic by folk singer John McCutcheon called "The Streets of Sarajevo". We remembered that time of war but were also aware that the conflict now has an end date attached to it. We pray that someday soon the vicious conflict here in this region will have an end date too. </span></span><br />
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"The Streets of Sarajevo" -- John McCutcheon</div>
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KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-12969875827093834672015-03-28T15:38:00.000-07:002015-03-28T15:38:28.923-07:00Poem: The Goats and the Big Bad Wolf (not a fairytale)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This poem is a little late. Winter is over in Iraqi Kurdistan and spring is showing its glorious green splendor. It was a very harsh winter for the people living in tents. It will be a harsh, hot summer for the people living in tents. So, here is my thinking in poetry.</div>
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(Screen shot taken from video by UNHCR)</div>
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<i>In North America many
children hear the story of the Three Little Pigs. The animals are trying to
avoid a wolf who would like to end their lives. They build several shelters
made of straw, sticks and finally bricks. The last house offers the protection
they need and they are victorious over the dangerous creature.</i></div>
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<i>In December 2014 I saw a video (see below) made by the United Nations High Commission for Refugees about a Syrian family and their attempt to find shelter after fleeing from the militant group known as ISIS or Da’ash. The commentator did not state whether their faith background was Muslim, Christian or other. So, out of respect I changed the story to be that of 3 little goats- or in this case a family of 7 goats.</i></div>
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<u>The Goats and the Big Bad Wolf (not a fairytale)</u></div>
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The father of this family built a new house<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not of straw<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not of sticks<o:p></o:p></div>
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Definitely not of bricks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The new house is built of white plastic sheeting<o:p></o:p></div>
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And bits of wood found lying about the village.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The cost was all they had left<o:p></o:p></div>
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60,000 Iraqi dinars
–about $50<o:p></o:p></div>
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A necessary renovation as their canvas tent leaked from the
winter water pouring from the skies.<o:p></o:p></div>
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********************************<o:p></o:p></div>
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The family does not fear the wolf- it has already been and
gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wolf-like men: huffing and puffing and screaming defiance<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Be gone or be done”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, a family of seven in a plastic house-huddled together
exchanging body heat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Craving donations of blankets and kerosene to survive
winter’s chill.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They had heard….<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Family, family let us come in….”<o:p></o:p></div>
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They replied--“Not by
the hair of our chiny, chin chin”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Then we will huff and puff and blow your house in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was done.. and they ran- fleeing, running, scampering<o:p></o:p></div>
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Leaving everything behind----to live in a house of white
plastic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> Video: Iraq: Preparing for Winter in Dohuk</o:p></div>
KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-59745982186943832252015-03-14T12:40:00.000-07:002015-03-14T12:40:00.213-07:00Dilemmas of Aid Distribution<div class="MsoNormal">
When I entered Iraqi Kurdistan in December I had some extra
cash with me. Several Canadians who had seen presentations by CPTers about the
dire situation of refugees and displaced persons (IDP) in IK had asked how they
could send money to help. I offered to carry the dollars to Sulaimani to give
directly to a small NGO who would know best how to use it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, when I got to Sulaimani, I called our friend Parween. She gratefully received the money and invited me to go to the bazaar with her. She knew exactly what she wanted to buy and where to go. I was so impressed with her bargaining skills
as she bought 250 warm sweaters, socks and gloves for preschool children in Arbat Camp.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The vendor was very sympathetic and gave her the best price
possible. He also paid the carrying charge for the man who put the huge bundle of sweaters onto his back to carry down 3 stories to the taxi. Lastly he covered the cost
of a warm fleecy suit of clothing for a little girl who wandered into the shop
begging for money and showing the holes in her trousers.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU4TSSN4loWfdWCjOBWVT_qMpEuxntuihUa8RXYYNvaqLFdei6ERnO4uPCaf6ZiHGte3LQ7KhbtiQoJ2xtoZgRtjoUbImUgF5cNTWx10thGQMYPT-ZK9wDEztEbO_pD8IopXbhwFVhqLgv/s1600/DSCN7606.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU4TSSN4loWfdWCjOBWVT_qMpEuxntuihUa8RXYYNvaqLFdei6ERnO4uPCaf6ZiHGte3LQ7KhbtiQoJ2xtoZgRtjoUbImUgF5cNTWx10thGQMYPT-ZK9wDEztEbO_pD8IopXbhwFVhqLgv/s1600/DSCN7606.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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A few days later Parween arranged for her son to drive us to
Arbat Camp. She spoke to the camp manager to discern the best method of distribution.
They decided that the clothes would go inside the compound around the
kindergarten tent. The families would be outside the fence. I did not realise
how important this would be.<br />
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As several of us
bagged the clothing to make it easier to hand over, somehow the word went out
to the camp that a distribution was about to take place. Parween had lists of
families with the target age of children and she hoped that she had enough for
every child. At first the families came
in a trickle. They came clutching ID cards specifying their IDP status and the
age of their children. Some brought their little ones to prove their need. Then
the trickle sped up and soon two sides of the compound fence was covered with people several families deep.<o:p></o:p><br />
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The calls and pleading grew loud - hands reaching in and
bodies pressing against the fence. People began to call to me,
“Mamosta/teacher, please, please” and they showed me their child. . They did not know that I had no say who could receive the warm clothing. I had
just brought the money and helped to buy. Now I was standing and watching in
the privileged area- where the ones with the power to give or not give stood.</div>
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I felt myself begin to shut down. A numbness began at the top of my head and proceeded down my body The noise receded into the background as I retreated inside
myself. I was jolted out for a moment as the crowd realised they could open the
gate and head directly for the table. Panicked, the distributors pushed them
back , locking them out again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I continued to watch I realised that I was starting to resent the
people, the noise, the chaos, the claims of discrimination. I questioned how one group could be so loud and seemingly agressive while another cultural group stood quietly waiting. But all of a sudden something made
me stop. I questioned myself. What was this numbness all about? Why was I allowing myself to hide? What was
my head afraid of?<br />
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I pulled my psyche out of the crack it had crawled into and
began to look at individuals- at one mother holding out the ID card; at one
father with his little one in his arms. I tried to imagine their stories. I
tried to put myself into their position. I was startled at the assurance that I would probably fight
like a tiger to receive what was available to meet my family’s needs.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghVD3PXif6KlTNnnsb5uwMXP1g8vIBLZuxgu8uqa0TJVb1dgkSDSieq9hhN8taUwySTD82ic8wCCUNqfKJfeN0NnL-Fz2EOZ8uhijdywCGW76ZIWvRH8q5QTwgWbDLwAV40NkcmoDuB_0/s1600/DSCN7634.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghVD3PXif6KlTNnnsb5uwMXP1g8vIBLZuxgu8uqa0TJVb1dgkSDSieq9hhN8taUwySTD82ic8wCCUNqfKJfeN0NnL-Fz2EOZ8uhijdywCGW76ZIWvRH8q5QTwgWbDLwAV40NkcmoDuB_0/s1600/DSCN7634.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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There were still people waiting behind the fence when the
bags of clothes ran out. I was not the one who had to tell the last families to go back to
their tents without the items for the children. I asked Parween how she felt
about the day. She said that she was very happy. Two hundred and fifty children
had warm clothing to face the winter chill. But she also was sad because she
had tried her best to have enough for all the little ones and had failed. From
what I hear, this is the feeling of many people who are trying their best to
provide for the ones in such dire need.<o:p></o:p></div>
KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-41850071412559841852015-02-13T06:47:00.000-08:002015-02-13T06:49:44.419-08:00Still trying to figure things out: thinking of Peshmerga-" those who face death".Today is Friday. It usually is our day off as everyone in the region has it as their weekend. Our team house is very close to Mozgowti Ibrahim (Ibrahim Mosque) so we can hear the whole Friday prayer' message. It is a pity our Kurdish is not good enough to understand what he is saying.<br />
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Today I decided to go across the busy highway to see if I could find some countryside. The CPT house is quite close to the edge of the city, so I was hopeful. But, as I walked (trying to ignore the stares of the people in cars passing me), I found the compound where the men who run the garbage trucks stay. I could tell that they lived there by the washing that was drying on the fence. The clothes included the red and yellow vests and the orange suits that they wear when they pick up our rubbish on six days every week.<br />
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I did not succeed in finding farms. The garbage truck compound extended to a cement factory and other industrial sites. There was the occasional cow munching grass on the side of the road and a few feral dogs sleeping in the warm sun, however, I could not find the respite from city life I was searching for. <br />
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On my way home I walked near to our local cemetery high up overlooking the city. Friday is also the day to visit the graves of loved ones. I took my scarf from my neck and placed it over my head. Some of my Kurdish friends do not do this anymore, but as I am a foreigner, I feel that it is important to make this gesture of respect. I walked silently up the hill, passing graves with concrete enclosures that seem to resemble Kurdish cradles, ones with simple rocks stuck into the dirt at the head and foot, and brand new ones covered with plastic to protect the exposed dirt from the elements.<br />
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I came upon a man sitting at a new grave with three young sons and a potted plant. I wondered who their loved one had been. I knew that it was very possible that it had been a peshmerga fighter. We are seeing so many funerals here in the city of men who have been "facing death" in the fight against the militant fighters known here as Da'ash. I wanted to stop and ask them about the one they were mourning. I wondered what showed more respect- to nod my head and put my hand over my heart when they acknowledged me as I walked past or to stop to ask them. I decided that I would let them be alone in their grief.<br />
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This is a sign in front of an elementary school here in Sulaimani. </div>
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<br />KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-27990166888054277262015-01-04T07:34:00.000-08:002015-01-04T07:34:05.371-08:00Mud, wonderful mud?: Winter time in Arbat Camp.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Photo by UNICEF- Belgium)</i></span></div>
A well known musical movie, <i><u>My Fair Lady</u></i>, has a famous
line-"The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain". However, in the
winter in Iraqi Kurdistan, the rain falls on the mountains (in the form
of snow) and on the fields (where it waters the winter wheat that grows and
turns bright green), in the cities (running off the concrete
houses and yards and down the streets) and in the IDP/ refugee camps (where
the trucks, cars and hundreds of people turn the dirt into muck).<br />
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As one drives into Arbat Camp the ruts on the road are
full of water and the mounds of dirt are wet and mushy. The adults walk
from tent home to small shop to Aid distribution through the mud. The
children run from tent to small toilet buildings to school through the
mud. Some of the children have nice rubber boots, others have winter
boots made for snowy conditions and others have bare feet inside summer
plastic sandals.<br />
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The white UNHCR tents are supposed to keep the rain off the occupants,
although this is not necessarily always accurate. But the women work very
diligently to keep the muck out of the sitting, resting, eating,
sleeping area. I saw one woman was scrubbing the rubber mat at the tent
flap entrance trying to keep a mud-free square meter of space. Another
was washing the family's clothing in a small plastic basin and then
hanging them outside with the hope that they would dry before the next
rainy day. <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> (Photo by Sectorserbil.blogspot)</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>A photo taken by an Aid resource NGO of the clothes washing facilities in the camp</i></span><br />
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They all have fled from their brick, stable, waterproof houses to live in the
enormous tent village. They now need to fight the dirt and muck with
very limited resources.</div>
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One way to keep the mud out is
to compel everyone to take off their footwear at the door. This is a
usual cultural practice anyway, but in Arbat it is a necessary fact of
life. A week ago I visited the long rounded tent that serves as the
kindergarten. When we arrived 20 small ones aged 3-6 were inside singing
an Arabic song at the top of their voices. Just outside the tent door
was a large pile of boots and shoes- everyone of them covered with
brown mud.</div>
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When the last drum beat had sounded the children rushed to the door to head back to their family's tents. But there was one last last hurdle to overcome- how to match the right footwear to the correct feet?</div>
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<i>This boy is pretty secure in the fact that he found his own boots.</i></div>
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<i>The pile has depleted by a lot.</i></div>
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<i>However, at the end there were two children left and three sets of boots- all of them did not belong to the other. The teacher here is trying to convince this little guy that </i></div>
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<i>he should give one of the spare pairs a try.</i></div>
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The saga of the confusion of the boots ended well. He was convinced to try one of the pair of yellow boots on (you can see them in the first photo of the pile of boots). They fit very well and off he went. The last child got a "new" set of purple boots and she headed back to her tent. </div>
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The volunteer teachers and I had a long laugh at the craziness of it all. And the lone unwanted pair of yellow boots stood by the door- awaiting their next chance to find a set of feet that wanted them.</div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Poem to Mud </h3>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> (Zilpha Keatley Snyder)
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Poem to mud-<br />
Poem to ooze-<br />
Patted in pies, or coating the shoes.<br />
Poem to slooze-<br />
Poem to crud-<br />
Fed by a leak, or spread by a flood.<br />
Wherever, whenever, whyever it goes,<br />
Stirred by your finger or strained by your toes,<br />
There's nothing sloppier, slipperier, floppier,<br />
There's nothing slickier, stickier, thickier,<br />
There's nothing quickier to make grown-ups sickier,<br />
Trulier coolier,<br />
Than wonderful mud.</div>
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<br />KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-30260242567300989582015-01-02T02:50:00.000-08:002015-09-11T14:30:07.143-07:00My favourite photos of 2014<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Taking photos is an important task when working with Christian Peacemaker Teams. Often we need to get the "big picture" to show exactly what is happening in a demonstration or blockade. However, I also like to get closer, to focus in to show the individual, with just enough surrounding information to tell a story. Other times I want to just show you the person- probably someone you will never be introduced to, but that you can meet through one glimpse in my photo.</div>
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These photos are some of my favourites that I have taken in 2014. A lot has happened in Iraqi Kurdistan and in the rest of the world since January. I have had the privilege of being a part of exciting events, and meeting fabulous human beings. </div>
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<b>[click on the first photo to see them in larger format) </b></div>
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<i>On a wonderful spring day in Chamchamal with my friend Ann</i></div>
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<i>Gulan (many flowers) is a tiny ancient farming village in</i></div>
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<i> Iraqi Kurdistan where our friend Latif lives. </i></div>
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<i>My colleague, Lukasz, speaks with Latif's mother while we all drink tea.</i></div>
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<i>I met this man in the bazaar. When I asked for a photo he removed his hat</i></div>
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<i> from his head and put it on his knee.</i></div>
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<i>The football field that is close to the CPT house.</i></div>
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<i>This was a demonstration where people marched down the main street in Sulaimani to protest a barrier ditch being built by Iraqi Kurdistan authorities in between IK and Syria.</i></div>
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<i> A young man watches a dance in the pow wow in Winnipeg on Aboriginal Day 2014</i></div>
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<i> A family sits under a tree waiting for their turn to dance at the pow wow on Aboriginal Day.</i></div>
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<i>A CPT delegation in Grassy Narrows presented a </i></div>
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<i>musical evening for members of the community</i></div>
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<i> The delegates attended a pow wow at the Grassy Narrows School </i></div>
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<i>and were invited to dance.</i></div>
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<i>A family meets their soldier son on the biggest holiday of the Kurdish year- Nawroz</i></div>
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<i>A young couple celebrating Nawroz</i></div>
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<i> A shepherd leads his flock out to pasture past an historical wall</i></div>
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<i>A scarf salesperson in the bazaar</i></div>
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<i>Father Jens with some of the children who are living in the small monastery in Sulaimani</i></div>
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<i>Christmas Day mass</i></div>
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<i>An grandmother living in Virgin Mary monastery</i></div>
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<i>A Syrian mother and daughter from New Arbat camp</i></div>
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<i> A handwork exhibition in the New Arbat camp</i></div>
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<i>My favorite photo of the year.</i> <i>It was an accident as the woman turned her head just as I clicked. I thought the photo was ruined, but when I put it onto the computer I loved it- the white background brings out the colours and I really like that none of them are looking at me. This is difficult to accomplish!</i></div>
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KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-39102526453332229082014-12-27T03:03:00.000-08:002014-12-28T21:24:24.046-08:00Still a tiny bit of room at the inn/monastery in Sulaimani<br />
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One would think that there was not even a tiny bit of floor space to
spare. In August over 200 persons found refuge in the Virgin Mary
Monastery in Sulaimani, Iraqi Kurdistan. Many of the families had fled
by foot from the Christian city of Qaraquosh when militant forces
invaded the area. Father Jens says that when the monks and sisters heard the news that
morning they knew that preparations had to begin very quickly. Sure
enough, within hours 600 people had come into Sulaimani desperately
looking for a place to lay their heads and for something to fill their
bellies.<br />
<br />
On December 25 the environment in the little
monastery has settled down. Each family has a tiny cubicle separated by
blue and green striped canvas. Father Jens says that he has enough funding right
now to feed everyone for four months. Long plastic sheeting creates a
windbreak and a place for the older children to have school on days when
it is not Christmas. This may be the situation for a long time. The
Christians are not going back to Qaraquosh anytime soon, if ever.<br />
<br />
On
Christmas Day the monastery offered an English mass. People from many
different countries came to sit on the straight benches in the portion
of the sanctuary that is still held to be the worship space, a place for
the sacred that is different yet similar to the holy space that gives
rest to the wandering ones.<br />
<br />
Throughout the service women
slipped silently in and out of the little living spaces: gathering food for
their family or removing dirty dishes. The room was suprisingly quiet
considering how many were housed there, broken only by the occasional
small person's voice. And we sat listening to the ancient
stories of the prophets predicting that someday nations would not learn
war anymore. <br />
<br />
It brought to my mind the story of the
full inn or house in Bethlehem. People, people everywhere, trying to get
along, trying to survive conditions that are so less than ideal. But as
Father Jens pointed out, this is not an unusual situation in Iraqi
Kurdistan, in the Middle East, or in the whole wide world.<br />
<br />
When
the mass was over we were all invited to join the families for a
cup of tea. I had made two large German stollen as a gift for Jens so
they were cut into little pieces and served to everyone who wanted one.
It felt a little like the loaves and fishes only there were not even
crumbs left at the end.<br />
<br />
Before I left the courtyard with
my friend Ann, Father Jens asked how it was for me to be alone at
Christmas. "You know, if you need company or a community we do have a
guest room open. You could come to stay here with us all." I thanked him
gratefully. <br />
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A few months ago my team interviewed Father Jens. The short video, <i>Father Jens on Christianity,</i></div>
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<i>Islam and ISIS violence in Iraqi Kurdistan,</i> can be found here.</div>
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KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-48934585998980917122014-11-14T09:10:00.000-08:002014-11-14T10:15:29.383-08:00Wow, the money flowed!! Thank you Winnipeg.<div style="text-align: center;">
[Click on the first photo to see them all in larger format]<br />
Photos taken by Brandi Friesen Thorpe and Kathy Moorhead Thiessen</div>
<br />
After I had months of planning, fretting, stressing and some moments of enjoying the process, the evening of 9 November finally arrived. Ted and Company, a comedy theatre group, arrived at the venue. The chili was ready to feed hungry volunteers. My CPT colleague, Chuck Wright, laid out CPT information on a red table cloth. The pies started to gather on the pie tables. The people began to stream in and man, they did come. By the time the play began we had close to 200 people, including 60 youth Everyone was ready to laugh and presumably to buy pies at crazy prices.<br />
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The price for pies went as high as $380</div>
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The event was a fundraiser for Christian Peacemaker Teams- <i>Peace, Pies and Prophets</i>. Over the last 3 years Ted and Company has provided the entertainment for gatherings where people can laugh, think and dig deep into their pockets in support of CPT. Sunday night was the time for Winnipeg. As the doors closed and everyone was seated we had 55 pies-including many styles and shapes and flavours, although apple was very predominant. Many of the pies had a short story attached to the pie; some factual and some fiction. People did spend some time at the tables looking at the choices and planning how they were going to bid when the pie auction began.<br />
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It seems that I am directing here and my volunteers are</div>
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preparing the pies as they come in the door</div>
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A CPT logo pie</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1eqfB7qgXSQoE2V80tffR410GJC__x2JR5ADCFB7Aasutu_YUxXrJ40G0ZO5kmfba93-OG94zmDV39rFz4kMMH2xLlV_msPgUbHjRa-Y001DXliKeSbRy71N0kuGbN5bj_7X64NdMKR2F/s1600/DSC_2507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1eqfB7qgXSQoE2V80tffR410GJC__x2JR5ADCFB7Aasutu_YUxXrJ40G0ZO5kmfba93-OG94zmDV39rFz4kMMH2xLlV_msPgUbHjRa-Y001DXliKeSbRy71N0kuGbN5bj_7X64NdMKR2F/s1600/DSC_2507.JPG" height="211" width="320" /></a></div>
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A Batman blueberry pie</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNjgoD2K0EC2eYtt7APOwEs4qCFo27ghS8eY7VJdJ6meIBaSAJSkcyT1poitmuSx89sxy7wZCvqDlkcqADe5M9z4u8VTZX2BZjG1YzSQbXeasXGQtFtbzykHlNgiBjoVzPd8lPSTDju2g/s1600/DSCN7301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNjgoD2K0EC2eYtt7APOwEs4qCFo27ghS8eY7VJdJ6meIBaSAJSkcyT1poitmuSx89sxy7wZCvqDlkcqADe5M9z4u8VTZX2BZjG1YzSQbXeasXGQtFtbzykHlNgiBjoVzPd8lPSTDju2g/s1600/DSCN7301.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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An apple/blueberry Turtle Island pie</div>
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(reminding us that the land we are on is the territory</div>
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of the Anishnabe First Nations.)</div>
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A beautifully decorated pie box containing an equally beautiful pie.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguGThLBgx2tPbz04_Q64Eq_CFgmCi0dzPAqchvSAkd1JcdAz_waI-bISU8DotPSnRp87egQxiYPm7VHSoF8C1ilb6vqViP61qWdSs3xv41NEw8hyl3g8-Kr5aAoHF4lA7bI39Q-XGNOGUv/s1600/DSCN7313.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguGThLBgx2tPbz04_Q64Eq_CFgmCi0dzPAqchvSAkd1JcdAz_waI-bISU8DotPSnRp87egQxiYPm7VHSoF8C1ilb6vqViP61qWdSs3xv41NEw8hyl3g8-Kr5aAoHF4lA7bI39Q-XGNOGUv/s1600/DSCN7313.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Taking a look at the pies to see what they would like to bid on</div>
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After Janelle Thiessen van Esch capably introduced the evening, Ted and Tim began the play-<i> I'd Like</i> <i> to Buy an Enemy. </i>In between the loud laughter, we also were led to think. Has our culture programmed us to believe that people who are "the other", ones who we don't know, are our enemy?<br />
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The time for the first segment of auction came quickly. A horn blew, Ted and Tim took off their costumes and became THE AUCTIONEERS! Pie runners grabbed a pie, ran up to the front of the church and the auction began. When the pie had a story attached, the men read the story and this created even more excitement about the pie.<br />
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Ted gets really excited about an especially high bid</div>
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It seemed to be obvious that some of the attendees would not have much money to donate, especially the young people and students. So I suggested to Ted that they have an "under 18 years" auction, to keep the price lower. But, who would have known, even that pie went for $110! The young ones pooled their money and a large group of them were able to buy the only cheesecake for over $350. I imagine that made it taste even better when they all joined together to eat it after the event.</div>
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The evening just kept having surprise after surprise.The audience was energised and enthralled. The money just kept on flowing even when the event went over the time allotted. The people kept buying pies for huge prices. And they continued to give when the CPT hats were passed around for a free-will offering. By the end of the evening, my trusty money-handling volunteers told me we had made over $11,500. Wow!!</div>
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PS. As a way of creating beauty out of something that can be used for violence, Brandi Friesen Thorpe created these earrings out of beads and used bullets. She brought them to the event and donated the proceeds to CPT. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ThorpianPhilosophy">Thorpian Philosphy</a> is the name of her small company. (I think that if you have Facebook you can see that link, I am not sure what happens if you don't). The funds from any that she sells in November will still go to CPT). </div>
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<br />KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-464957793421158261.post-33257938749286980562014-09-24T09:24:00.000-07:002014-09-24T09:26:33.316-07:00The Yazidi Community in Winnipeg, Manitoba, CanadaOn Monday I finally had a chance to visit a family who lives in the same city that I do. I had met Koulan four years ago, in January 2011, when I made an attempt to find someone to help me learn Kurdish before I went to Iraqi Kurdistan for the first time. I met a group of 7 women, all with different ways of speaking the language. That day I discovered that for such a small region, there were many dialects!<br />
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A few months later as I planned a Kurdish supper fundraiser, I remembered that K. had told me she made Kurdish bread in her Canadian oven. So she taught me and we spent an day making 40 large rounds of bread that added a lot to my meal.<br />
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Now this summer the news began to come from Iraq of the people being displaced by the violent, militant forces.When I heard, via Facebook, of the Yazidi people fleeing Shingal and being trapped on the mountain I looked into the international section of our Winnipeg Free Press paper and saw nothing about it. So I sent in a news tip email and within two hours had a reply. I told the journalist that I knew of a community here in Winnipeg, So she contacted my acquaintances and the next day there was an article. <a href="http://www.winnipegfreepress.com/local/trapped-yazidis-face-death-270439791.html">This was published in early August in the Winnipeg paper.</a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQouv_cwbNuVh1eGW0DdK_R0XZ9zHCKhub9ckGrWTOr8yo8GXnwdW7DGvmU2kaa3VHcWvFWDT5tGEcWmvqipyOWwxhT3czjbf7yIdZqBp2bUaoseSq6x64JojkCnMuuZB5ODWMuC-Pv4Ib/s1600/Nafiya.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQouv_cwbNuVh1eGW0DdK_R0XZ9zHCKhub9ckGrWTOr8yo8GXnwdW7DGvmU2kaa3VHcWvFWDT5tGEcWmvqipyOWwxhT3czjbf7yIdZqBp2bUaoseSq6x64JojkCnMuuZB5ODWMuC-Pv4Ib/s1600/Nafiya.jpg" height="197" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>(Sarah Taylor/ Winnipeg Free Press)</i></div>
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<i>Nafiya Naso (middle) with her son Lavan, mother Koulan Fandi (right), father, Ahaz Jallo</i></div>
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<i> and her older son Maher</i></div>
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Now, at the end of September, my activities finally slowed down enough for me to meet with the family again. Nafiya and her family were at her parent's house so I was able to see Koulan, as well as Nafiya's young boys. The TV was on a satellite Kurdish station telling of the attempts to push back the militant IS forces. They translated some of the top headlines for me while shaking their heads at the horror of the situation.</div>
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Nafiya told me that their families are scattered and some have lost their lives. She is helping to lead the community here in Winnipeg (40-50 families) to plan a memorial service for the many people of their faith who have died in the last two months. She would like to raise funds at that event to aid the displaced people in Iraq. </div>
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The family expressed gratitude that they were able to come to Canada about a decade ago, but also helplessness at only being able to watch what is happening in Iraqi Kurdistan. Nafiya said, "It is not only our people. There are people suffering from all different faiths. We can't just think about the Yazidi people. It is not a religious issue. It is a human rights issue."</div>
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KT60http://www.blogger.com/profile/02220295426821310303noreply@blogger.com2