Apprehension re Ramadan was not needed

Today 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.)

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

Cleaning the river, one thing I can do

“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

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

POST SCRIPT:
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.

Anticipating things unknown about Ramadan

The photos in this post are taken earlier in my time in Iraqi Kurdistan. They are not the children whose story I tell. 

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.

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.

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.

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..

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.

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?

How can I get to Europe, how can I get to Canada?

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."

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.

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.

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.

Unended Refuge 2015-

 Jude Smit- a poet with a global conscience

Leave them to drown, they’re not one of us

Too much to do, so what’s all the fuss?

Replacement values, replacement TV

How should we know, why should we see?

Push of a button, the screen will go blank

They’re not one of us, who cares if it sank?

No need to shout, no need to cry

Why do we care when we see them die?

Bodies are floating, so few have survived

Came in their hundreds, how many arrived?

Those who are left haven’t a clue

Their hope of a future will never come true.

At the mercy of others, their fate in our hands

But who cares if they drown, they’re not of these lands.

Switch off the news, switch off the phone,

Block it all out, look after our own.

The question rings still in my mind-"Tell me how can I get to Europe? How can I leave this awful place?

Music as a global initiative against insanity: Karim Wasfi and Vedran Smailovic

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, conductor of the Iraqi National Symphony Orchestra, took his cello to the spot and began to play. Soldiers and other Baghdadians  joined him to listen, to cry and clap at "the act of civility".  Video clips of his music, quickly went viral.

Karim Wasfi

. In an interview with Al-Jazeera he said, 

"It 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.". 

When he was asked whether he sees the violence as insanity, he replied, "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."

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, "You ask me am I crazy for playing a cello, why do you not ask if they are crazy for shelling Sarajevo?".

Today I led the worship/gathering time for my CPT team in Iraqi Kurdistan. I brought these two men to our attention and then played a  song that has been written about Vedran
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. 

"The Streets of Sarajevo" -- John McCutcheon

Poem: The Goats and the Big Bad Wolf (not a fairytale)

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.

(Screen shot taken from video by UNHCR)

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.

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.

The  Goats and the Big Bad Wolf (not a fairytale)

The father of this family built a new house

Not of straw

Not of sticks

Definitely not of bricks.

The new house is built of white plastic sheeting

And bits of wood found lying about the village.

The cost was all they had left

 60,000 Iraqi dinars –about $50

A necessary renovation as their canvas tent leaked from the winter water pouring from the skies.

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The family does not fear the wolf- it has already been and gone.

Wolf-like men: huffing and puffing and screaming defiance

“Be gone or be done”.

Now, a family of seven in a plastic house-huddled together exchanging body heat.

Craving donations of blankets and kerosene to survive winter’s chill.

They had heard….

“Family, family let us come in….”

 They replied--“Not by the hair of our chiny, chin chin”.

“Then we will huff and puff and blow your house in.

It was done.. and they ran- fleeing, running, scampering

Leaving everything behind----to live in a house of white plastic.

 Video: Iraq: Preparing for Winter in Dohuk

Dilemmas of Aid Distribution

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.

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.

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.

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.

 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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.