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.

                                                    ********************************

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.

Still 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This is a sign in front of an elementary school here in Sulaimani.

Mud, wonderful mud?: Winter time in Arbat Camp.

(Photo by  UNICEF- Belgium)

A well known  musical movie, My Fair Lady, 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).

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.

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.

 (Photo by Sectorserbil.blogspot)
A photo taken by an Aid resource NGO of the clothes washing facilities in the camp

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.

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.

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?

This boy is pretty secure in the fact that he found his own boots.

The pile has depleted by a lot.

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 

he should give one of the spare pairs a try.

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. 

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.

Poem to Mud     

 (Zilpha Keatley Snyder)

Poem to mud-
Poem to ooze-
Patted in pies, or coating the shoes.
Poem to slooze-
Poem to crud-
Fed by a leak, or spread by a flood.
Wherever, whenever, whyever it goes,
Stirred by your finger or strained by your toes,
There's nothing sloppier, slipperier, floppier,
There's nothing slickier, stickier, thickier,
There's nothing quickier to make grown-ups sickier,
Trulier coolier,
Than wonderful mud.

My favourite photos of 2014

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.

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. 

[click on the first photo to see them in larger format)

On a wonderful spring day in Chamchamal with my friend Ann

 Gulan (many flowers) is a tiny ancient farming village in

 Iraqi Kurdistan where our friend Latif lives.

My colleague, Lukasz, speaks with Latif's mother while we all drink tea.

I met this man in the bazaar. When I asked for a photo he removed his hat

 from his head and put it on his knee.

The football field that is close to the CPT house.

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.

 A young man watches a dance in the pow wow in Winnipeg on Aboriginal Day 2014

 A family sits under a tree waiting for their turn to dance at the pow wow on Aboriginal Day.

 A CPT delegation in Grassy Narrows presented a 

musical evening for members of the community

 The delegates attended a pow wow at the  Grassy Narrows School 

and were invited to dance.

 A family meets their soldier son on the biggest holiday of the Kurdish year- Nawroz

A young couple celebrating Nawroz

 A shepherd leads his flock out to pasture past an historical wall

A scarf salesperson in the bazaar

Father Jens with some of the children who are living in the small monastery in Sulaimani

 Christmas Day mass

An grandmother living in Virgin Mary monastery

A Syrian mother and daughter from New Arbat camp

 A handwork exhibition in the New Arbat camp

My favorite photo of the year. 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!

Still a tiny bit of room at the inn/monastery in Sulaimani

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.

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.

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.

 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.

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.

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.

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. 

A few months ago my team interviewed Father Jens. The short video, Father Jens on Christianity,

Islam and ISIS violence in Iraqi Kurdistan, can be found here.

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