A life untethered

Ali is from Kobane, the mostly Kurdish city in northern Syria that was almost completely destroyed last year during intense fighting between Syrian Kurds and ISIS.  Soon after graduating from university with a degree in French he left Syria to look for work, arriving in Erbil in early 2014.  He found work as a street vendor, selling sunflower seeds and nuts by the main highway running through Ankawa, where we live.  His usual spot was right on our route to and from choir, so we passed him a couple of times a week.  Each night he smiled us, and his friendly greetings got more and more effusive until one evening, several months ago, he waved us over and started a conversation.  (I’m still working on the being friendly and outgoing thing.)   That’s when we learned his name, his background, his story about leaving Syria.  We didn’t really want any sunflower seeds, but got a little bag anyway, and, with characteristic hospitality, he refused to let us pay.   Every night for a while he would chat with us on our way home.   

His warm and aggressive friendliness had an air of desperation about it, like he needed to prove to himself that he was more than a street-seller.    When a man in a Mercedes-Benz drove up and bought some nuts he said something in French to the guy, who shrugged, not understanding.  Ali called out “BA in French!” after him as he drove away.  He still didn’t let us pay for the nuts.   

When I asked him about his living situation he smiled and said, “Life is hard.”  His sister was in Turkey, but he was trying to get her to Erbil.  Then, after several weeks, we didn’t see him anymore and haven’t seen him since.  Ali could still be around, with a better job somewhere.  Or he could have gone back to Kobane to rebuild, though I doubt it.  Or he could have tried his chances in Turkey, or continued on to Europe, with tens of thousands of others.  The life of a refugee defies easy description.  Unimaginable suffering.  Boundless resourcefulness.  Constant movement.  A different Syrian took his place at the sunflower stand.   

Wassiin and Kao

Wassiin and her son Kao are from Sinjar, a region in Iraq west of Mosul.  Sinjar has for hundreds of years been the home of many Yezidis, including Wassiin and her family.  But in August, 2014, as the Islamic State advanced with lightning speed into Yezidi villages--and as tales of massacres and kidnappings spread ahead of them—Wassiin and her family fled Sinjar.  First they stayed on Sinjar mountain for several weeks where they were trapped.  Eventually Wassiin and Kao made their way off the mountain and arrived at a camp in Kora, a small town north of Dohuk, a major city in the Kurdish region of Iraq.  Through REACH, a longtime MCC partner, Wassiin and Kao received MCC relief kits assembled in North America.  Winter was cold and muddy in the northern mountainous areas of Iraq, and summer is stifling and dusty.  Life in a tent camp is full of whole varieties of suffering that a relief kit cannot begin to redress.  But receiving supplies assembled by strangers halfway around the world can be a powerfully hopeful sign for many who feel that after the high-profile news coverage of last year, they have now been forgotten by the international community.   

I wish I knew more about Wassiin and her son.  I met her only once and didn't pick up any more details than this.  Yezidis--and in particular Yezidi women captured by ISIS--have been the face of minority suffering in Iraq perhaps more than any other group.  This inevitably constitutes as second victimization as their original wounds are compounded by the reduction of their identities, for the purposes of the world, to those wounds.  We--the media, NGOs, consumers of stories--are not interested in what it means to be a Yezidi, but what it means to be a Yezidi victim.  I don't know how to be set free from this.       

New shoots on the withered tree

Yesterday was the one year anniversary of the ISIS assault on Mt. Sinjar.  August 6 is the anniversary of the massive displacement from the Nineveh plains.  Iraq has about 3.1 million IDPs (nearly 10% of the country's population) from the conflict over the past year and a half.  Every once in a while, for the next while, I will post vignettes about people we have met who have been displaced. 

“It cuts one sadly to see the grief of old people; they've no way o' working it off; and the new spring brings no new shoots out on the withered tree.”

Adam Bede, GEORGE ELIOT

A few months ago, against all my typical habits of privacy, I invited a strange old man into our office for tea.  We had just sent some visitors off in a taxi from the curb in front of our house and were about to head back inside, but there he was, standing near our front door in dress pants and a faded suit jacket.  After exchanging pleasantries I discovered that he was waiting for the dentist next door to open, and after a few more pleasantries, I got the distinct impression that he wanted to sit down somewhere, so I invited him up for tea in our front office—the typical, appropriate thing to do.  

Khaled, we soon discovered, was from Baghdad, but had moved to Qaraqosh a few years ago during the worst of the violence in the capital.  His wife had died a while before, and now all his sons live in Germany, so he has no close family here.  Last August he had to flee Qaraqosh to Ankawa when the Islamic State advanced
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I can’t imagine what it would be like to be a young displaced person in Iraq today.  They are losing their education and with every passing month their future seems like it is going down the drain.  But in many ways, the plight of the elderly is worse.  They knew a different Iraq.  Prosperous, secular, stable.  Their country is gone, their children are gone.  Their jobs are gone.  And in a labor market flooded with young unemployed men, those jobs are never coming back.  They have nothing to do but remember what happened to them and wait around for the pensions to come--or not, depending on the financial situation in Baghdad that month.   

I could tell Khaled had been drinking, so I was worried that it would be hard to get him to leave, or that he would start asking for money or favors (in the moment, my discomfort is usually stronger than empathy) but he left after we had our tea together.  Walking down our front stairs, he lit a cigarette, then hung around the dentist’s gate, pacing, smoking, waiting for the new set of dentures.  The dentist was late, and after a few more minutes, he walked away.