Alesa's Blog

It’s a long, long flight…

I made it to my new duty station, and have almost gotten over jet lag.  It was one heck of a trip, being 30 hours from my sister’s house to my new workplace.  And that was with no delays, plus super-efficient baggage, immigration and customs in Singapore.

This place is totally amazing.  First, the school is terrific.  Everybody on my team is has lived in several countries, and is committed to multi-cultural education.  They’re bright and friendly, and very helpful.  For instance, one of the Indian program managers, from Malaysia, invited the rest of us to the American Chamber of Commerce meet-and-greet this evening.  I passed, because of wanting to go exploring instead.  But it was really nice to be asked.

Most of my time so far has been spent on just two things:  editing the student handbook, and looking for an apartment.  The first I volunteered for, and finished on Sunday afternoon.  Whew.  It was one of those jobs that I would have bid a lot for at Lightworks.  It involved combining three different drafts of a document, and trying to make something user friendly.

Finding housing

The second task has been a success.  There’s a rental agent assigned to us from the school (she gets a 50% commission of the first month’s rent) who has taken me and two other colleagues around frantically every day.  The students arrive here Sept 6, so all of us want to get settled before launching into the teaching schedule.  I decided to focus on government apartments, which is where 85% of the Singaporeans live.  Not only are these places (relatively) affordable, but they provide the most local color.  But they certainly aren’t luxurious.  About all you can hope for is cleanliness and decent, if shabby, furniture.

The first one I looked at was too depressing for words – run down, dirty and poorly maintained.  The second, though, was livable.  But by the time I decided to make an offer, somebody else did.  (These things get snapped up in a day or so.)  The first person to produce a check wins.  Then I looked at a 400 sq ft studio.  It was brand new, very expensive, had a pool and gym, but was about as big as Neil’s sailboat inside.  There wasn’t even room for a dining table or desk!  And it went for $1,850 US!

Last night I went to see a government flat that was a bit better than tolerable.  It has 2 bedrooms, a washer, fridge, two-burner gas plate, and is a short bus ride from work.  The furniture is much less shabby than the other places, and the rent was less (“only” $1,250 US a month).  Oh – it has no cabinets or counters in the kitchen, only an aging wooden desk to serve as a work space.  I’ll have to buy some sort of cupboard thing.  Two of my colleagues came along, and we all agreed that it was a deal.  So I made an offer and got it.  It looks like I’ll be able to move in Sept 4, which will barely give me enough time to find basics like a towel, frying pan and set of sheets.

Cooking implements aren’t really that important, though, because people don’t cook here.  They eat out at food courts or hawker centers.  Today, for instance, for dinner I had a wonderful ho fun noodle soup with shrimp, cuttlefish, spinach, onions and egg for less than $3 US.  It was more than one person could eat.  For lunch at the school cafeteria I had Indian fish, curried potatoes, rice, yogurt and lentils for $3.  It would be hard to cook all that for the same amount.

The government apartment complex dates from the early 1970s, and shows its age, especially outside.  But the grounds are surprisingly clean, without graffiti or trash, and safe.  They have supermarkets downstairs, and mine has a busy food court, where people sit outside even late at night.  I didn’t see any other expats.

A true garden city

The city itself is green and lush.  There are parks everywhere, so even though 4 million people live here in a very small space, it doesn’t feel oppressively urban.  The traffic whizzes, but it’s all orderly.  Huge trees line the streets.  I took a walk my first night on an elevated walkway that skirts the top of the jungle, and you’d think you were out in a forest somewhere.

It’s hot, but isn’t bothering me.  Everything is air conditioned, even the buses.  I’ve walked a mile and a half several mornings now, to go to the grocery, and returned drenched with sweat, even at 8 am.  But overall, I’m enjoying the temperature.  It’s fun to sit outside at night on the balcony of the school’s faculty hotel, or get up in the morning, and just feel it.

For me, it’s hard to distinguish what is culture shock, and what is just getting used to living in such a big city.  It’s a go-go-go pace, where stores stay open until at least 9 pm.  (One shopping center is open 24/7.)  People don’t look you in the eye on the streets.  But they’re helpful if I stop to ask for directions or advice on getting the right bus.  There are almost no other white people, but nobody stares.  So I don’t feel conspicuous.

However, it was exhausting to take on a writing project while still coping with jet lag, and wanting to find my own place.  Tomorrow’s Friday, and it will be nice to have some time on the weekend to see the city and get my bearings.  Our school is next to a big park, and I haven’t even been in it yet!

For the meantime, all of us faculty members are living at the “hotel” on campus.  Too bad we can’t stay here forever!  The hotel is on the upper floor of a former palace, a historic building.  It has graceful verandas, big wooden shutters, old colonial-style porticos and overlooks a beautiful garden.  Close by is the student cafeteria, which serves good Indian food.  I’ve put in a picture looking out from the balcony outside my room.  (As always, hover your mouse over a photo to see the caption.)

P.S.  I’m noticing that the photos I’ve taken here are kind of blurry around the edges.  Perhaps it’s because of taking the camera outside and it getting fogged up — that happens with my glasses every time I go out from an air conditioned place. 

On Friday, Nihat took Thaura, Aisha and me to Rusteh, the village where his family and Aisha’s originally come from.  It’s way up high in the mountains, next to the Iranian boarder.  This was definitely my best day during the whole time in Kurdistan, because of getting a chance to see rural life.  Nihat’s parents have a summer place, which consists of a two-room mud hut built into an extremely steep hillside.  I took good notes, and will write up the whole story really soon.  But I wanted to get the photos up here right away.

(Right-click your mouse on photos to view captions.)

Dear Faithful Readers,

I stopped posting to this blog when I finished my teaching contract and left Kurdistan, which was June 25th.  After that, I stopped off in Turkey and Greece on the way home, for a three-week vacation with my boyfriend, Rich Vicenti.  Those of you who have known me a really, really long time will remember him as a friend from college.  We had a totally fantastic time.

On August 21st, I will go to Singapore to be an associate professor of communications at the SP Jain Center of Management.  It’s primarily a graduate business school, but they are launching an undergraduate program in business.  I will be teaching writing, speech and general communication topics.  It’s a fantastic opportunity for me; their educational philosophy is just like mine, involving a lot of collaboration between instructors and learners, and allowing for great creativity.  It’s a permanent job, so I will be there until further notice.

I am really sad to leave Kurdistan.  A big part of my heart is still there, with both the land and its people.  The members of my village family and I cried a lot.  If a university position had opened up at the right time, I would definitely have stayed.

With so much cultural change the past months, I’m having a hard time “wrapping my head” around moving to  a huge city in Asia.  Also, it has been a major culture shock returning to the US, even after just seven months abroad.  It feels like I’ve been gone at least a decade.  Part of me wants to take six months off and write a book about the whole experience.  After reading the Lonely Planet guidebook on Singapore, though, and getting to know my new boss there, I’m becoming really excited.   It’s yet another opportunity of a lifetime.  Even better, they are hiring Rich as an adjunct professor, and will be flying him there periodically to teach courses in the MBA program.  What a deal!

For the next few weeks, I am on Whidbey Island, enjoying my bicycle and being near friends and family. My sons Marc and Joey, plus Marc’s lovely wife Rachel, and I went camping for a week near Victoria, BC on Vancouver Island.  Here’s a photo from my birthday party around the picnic table.  (Thanks, Rachel, for the photo!)  Neil, unfortunately, was called by the Coast Guard to spend a month at the oil slick in Louisiana.  We missed him horribly.

My book club met today, and they were interested in a blog from Singapore.  I don’t know yet how feasible this will be; there will  undoubtedly be a lot of planning and preparation as we get the program off the ground.  But, just in case, would anybody be interested in a continuation of this blog from Singapore?  Please let me know.  I have no idea how many people read this thing, and whether or not readers are interested only in the Middle East.  It is very time consuming to do the blog, but I enjoy it.  If other people like it, I will certainly do my best to continue.  (Something tells me that there will be more going on in life in Singapore than in the relative isolation of Kurdistan.)  Another factor is that my teaching contract in Kurdistan forbade me from saying anything at all about the school or its students.  The new contract does not have such a clause, and I don’t get the impression that the Singapore folks are sensitive in the same way.

So, please let me hear from you.  It has been a real joy to do this blog, and your comments have kept me going throughout sometimes difficult and lonely times.

Your devoted correspondent,

Alesa Lightbourne (Lesa)

The Internet has been down a lot lately, making it impossible to do Skype phone calls.  But it is possible (though very expensive) to phone the US with my Iraqi cell phone.  So the best idea is to call someone at home, and then have them return the call using Skype or another similar service.  That way I don’t get charged, and the caller only pays a small amount, compared with long-distance.

The only problem is that we don’t get cell reception in our apartments.  So to make a call, you hold your cell phone, and go up the hill behind the school until you get enough reception bars to send or receive.  Unless conditions are exceptionally good, this entails walking all the way to the basketball court, next to a guard tower where the guys with machine guns watch over us.

I’d been doing quite a few calls at odd hours, and got to know the guard on late night /early morning duty.  He’d frequently bring me a metal chair to sit on during lengthy calls, which I thought was awfully considerate.  Last week, he came by when I was sitting on the ground, and got all upset.  He brought out his chair, and then returned in a minute with a big old scorpion skewered on his bayonet.  He’d killed it just before I got there.  No more sitting without chairs!  Here’s a photo.

The scorpion skewered by the guard next to my chair.

The next night, I was out there again, and this time the guard brought me a glass of tea.  Placed around the saucer were four little sugar cubes, for sipping the tea through, Persian style.  He offered to bring me regular sugar if I preferred.  What a gentleman!

The guard wanted a photo of himself and me together on his cell phone.   (In Kurdistan, strangers frequently stop you on the street to ask if they can take a photo with you.  You start feeling like a movie star or something.)  A Bangladeshi guy who was hanging around the tower took a photo of the two of us for the phone, and then another one of the guard and me in the chair.  I printed copies later in the week, and the guard was ecstatic to receive them.  He wanted to know where I’d gotten them developed.

Kurdish phone booth. Note the high-fashion Kurdish rhinestone flip flops.

Unfortunately, our conversations are quite limited, as he speaks only Kurdish and Farsi.  We get by with the few pleasantries I know in Kurdish, and lots of hand signals. His mother is Persian, and his father is from the most important family in the country.  He’s very proud of this, and has told me about his family at least half a dozen times.

So — if I’ve phoned you on the cell, now you know what the whole routine looks like.

http://savepageaspdf.pdfonline.com/pdfonline/pdfonline.asp?cURL=<?php the_permalink();?>

[This story was made possible by generous donations from Gyla Smith, Rosemary Smith, Jim Braden, Rich Vicenti, Assil Sarrouh, Mary Beth White, Stacey Wright, Pam Zucker, Marge Erikson, Gabrielle Airey, Dan Gilfillen and Elizabeth Schilling. THANK YOU!!!]

“Where are you, Leeza?”

It was barely 8:30 in the morning, and we’d agreed that I’d be at Aisha’s house at 9.  Thaura was on the phone, dying with excitement.  This was the Big Day, anticipated for weeks, when we’d pick out her wedding gift appliance.

Thaura texted me again at 8:55, when I was still riding my bike down to the village.  Talk about eager!

As soon as I arrived at their house, drenched in sweat even this early in the morning, the three of us got draped in our black regalia.  Aisha looked totally disreputable; her abaya (head-to-toe black cape) had mysterious pink stains all over the back, was torn in several places, and her head scarf was frayed in front.  I decided to get her a new one in town.  Then we piled into the back of a shared taxi (no a/c) for the half-hour ride to downtown Hawler.  The driver let us off in the appliance street.

“Special” Foreigner’s Price

In the first shop, to my surprise, Thaura went straight to the stoves.  I thought her greatest need was for a fridge and/or washing machine.  As it turned out, she’d assumed that a stove was too much to ask for.  And at that place, it was.  The salesman was asking $1,500 (that’s US dollars) for a basic five-burner range and oven.  That was about four times the real price, due to my presence.

The next two shops had similarly outrageous prices, so we kept walking, quite discouraged.  Finally, we found a place with much more reasonable fixed prices written on the units – no hassling.  With a bit of bargaining, we managed to get both the stove Thaura wanted and a very nice mid-sized fridge for the total sum I had – all of your donations, plus as much as I could chip in myself.  Thaura insisted that the receipt be written in my name, for posterity.

Thaura was beaming, and Aisha kept bursting into tears, as we traipsed into the main part of the Citadel bazaar in a holiday mood.  First, we took photos amongst all the men by the fountains to commemorate the day. By now the heat was oppressive, even for locals.  Just having that water splashing nearby lowered the temperature by 20 degrees or so, very welcome.

Acquiring a New Abaya

The next stop was an ice cream parlor that Thaura likes to frequent, as it has a secluded area in the back where women can sit.  (Almost all of the establishments downtown are for men only.)  I got a banana and melon smoothie ($.85) and Thaura and Aisha got little cups of soft ice cream.  Fortified and cooled off, we proceeded into the main part of the bazaar to get an abaya.

For months, I’ve wanted to get Aisha a pretty new abaya, with black beading or trim on it, made out of a lighter and therefore cooler fabric.  But she wasn’t having any of it.  The only ones she’d even look at were the heavy Saudi style, totally opaque and really, really hot.  At long last, she consented to try on a heavy polyester model with a bit of black lace around the face.  She also let me buy her a new scarf with simple black beading on it.  She cried and cried at the extravagance.  I felt a lot better as we left the bazaar, because now she didn’t look like a beggarwoman.

Awaiting the Pick Up

It was so hot now that we needed to get back home.  Thaura considered the store’s delivery fee to be too high, and instead phoned a friend in the village with a pick up.  We went to the village’s taxi stand and waited for the pick up under a scraggly little eucalyptus tree.  We sat on scraps of cardboard in the stifling heat, about 115 degrees in the meager shade, and watched the industrial activities around us, including a lot of deliveries made by human-powered carts.  (I’ll post the photos another time.)   It was nearly an hour later when the pick up arrived, and we were getting dehydrated.  It’s hard to drink enough in heat like that.  To borrow my friend Polly’s simile, it’s like standing in a hairdryer.

The neighbors came out to watch when we unloaded the stove and fridge at Aisha’s house.  This was a huge event.  The appliances are now proudly displayed on the porch, waiting for the day when Nihad’s family secures a house for the new couple.

We had a simple lunch of freshly stewed tomatoes with pieces of leftover chicken warmed up in them, homemade flatbread, cucumbers dipped in salt, water, and later tea.  Then we all took a nap on the floor.  By 3:00, I was anxious to get home, and stupidly rode to school uphill in the heat.  I’d underestimated how hard this would be, and was feeling dizzy, sickish and shaky by the time I reached the school.  So I took off my shoes and drenched myself in the soccer field sprinklers, in order to make it up another hill to the faculty apartments.  Then I stood under a cold shower for about 10 minutes, trying to feel normal again.

Lasting Impact

This trip to get the appliances was the realization of a dream for me, made possible by your generosity.  Alone, I could only have gotten something much smaller, like perhaps a low-end washing machine.  Now, however, Thaura has the most important items she needs to become a wife.  The stove is large enough for feeding a sizable family, and has a good-sized oven as well.  It will last her for decades, as will the freezer/fridge combination.

[My only regret now is not being able to afford an air cooler.  They don't have air conditioning in the village, but rely on this contraption with a bale of straw in the middle.  You pour water from the garden hose into it, and it blows cool air into one room, where everyone congregates.  I can't imagine how anybody could survive here without one.  Although temperatures are rising to 120, it's not even summer yet.  But then, there's always something else you want to get, right?]

Over and over, Thaura kept asking why my friends and family would go out of their way to help her.  She found it impossible to fathom that anyone could spare the money to help fund something big like a stove.  When she learned that some of the donors were older people, she wanted to make sure that they had enough to live on themselves.  She was especially moved that older women without husbands had donated.

Ser Tsaw — “My Eye”

The people in this village will never view the outside world the same, thanks to you.  You have given something important to strangers, and made their lives much easier.  Throughout the village, these appliances are already known as the ones that came from the foreigners.  Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, and from Thaura and Aisha, who say “my eye” — the Kurdish form of appreciation.

Last night, I had yet another peak experience, culturally speaking.  I got to go to a Chaldean wedding.

The Chaldeans were originally Babylonians, who ruled these parts around 600 BC.  They were among the first converts to Christianity, and have maintained both their religion and culture for millennia.  There’s a Chaldean community here in Ankawa, and Louai our music teacher belongs to it.

Louai is in his late 40s, and has only been on the faculty for a few months.  He spent the last two decades in Australia, and is an odd amalgam of Aussie and Iraqi.  He grew up in Basra, but has an Australian passport and accent.  I see him often in the pool after school; we’re the only two serious lap swimmers.  Yesterday, we were both bemoaning the fact that they’d drained the pool again.  So he came to my place after school, along with a bunch of other expat teachers, for an impromptu TGIT (Thursday being our Friday) party.  And he issued an open invitation for anybody to join him at a wedding that evening.

Gaudy to the Max

I was the only taker; unfortunately, I couldn’t reach Becky and Elizabeth to see if they could come. This was like a miracle; I had asked the Universe to give me at least one more wedding before leaving here.  So I dressed up in my new blue rhinestone Kurdish outfit, plus about a gazillion dollars worth of fake gold.

Louai made the mistake of saying that he’d always wanted to go to a wedding in a Kurdish outfit, which, being Christian, he doesn’t own and has never worn.  Ta da!  I just happened to have one in my closet, the one the tailor made a couple of weeks ago.  It fit him just fine.  I passed along the tailor’s instructions for how to tie up the pants, do the turban thing, and turn around and around to wrap the sash.  (Barzani or Sorani style?  Louai didn’t know the difference…)

In an effort to not appear utterly ridiculous (if possible), I covered from head to toe in my black abaya and fancy scarf, and off we went, down to the highway, to catch a taxi.  Louai was toting an enormous keyboard under one arm, to practice for next week’s talent show.  We passed the director on the way, out for her evening stroll.  “Ah, local garb?” she said rather wryly.   I wonder what she thought; two of her oldest teachers, unmarried, parading off into the night dressed like Kurds.  It must have looked rather odd.

[Aside:  One of the greatest things about being an expat teacher is that you end up doing things with people you’d never otherwise get to know.  You’re all thrown together, with very few choices, and find yourself going places with people of very diverse ages, cultures, religions, etc.]

Getting There

It took forever to find a taxi, as dark had completely descended, and cars on the highway were whizzing by fast.  They probably couldn’t see us.  Usually, it only takes a minute or two to get a taxi.  Or maybe it was our clothing that made the difference.

The taxi who finally stopped already had two passengers, but he could fit us as well, plus the keyboard in the trunk.  So we made it to the wedding while the big drums were still beating outside the hall, building excitement for the grand entry of bride and groom.  We took our place at a table belonging to Louai’s church “brotherhood,” a group of men and women who meet each Wednesday.

For a moment I forgot where we were, with young women traipsing around in spaghetti straps, short skirts and high heels.  Some wore tight blue jeans, and many exposed (probably temporary) tattoos on bare shoulders.  None of the younger men were in peshmerga suits, and only a handful of women wore traditional Kurdish party clothes.

These Are Not Moslems

As it turned out, this was the same hall I’d been to for the teacher’s wedding back in February.  But what a difference!  This time there was beer for sale.  Small flasks of whiskey sat here and there in the open.  Men could line up for a plastic plate of  standard wedding fare:  deli salad samplings of hummus, potato/carrot salad, pickled beets and cabbage, marinated broad beans, and cole slaw, with bags of ketchup-flavored potato chips; then later, samoon pocket rolls filled with shredded chicken.  Or you could have a picnic; many groups had brought their own stashes of food.  They hauled out plastic shopping bags filled with tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, nuts, fresh mint leaves, oranges, tangerines, kiwi fruit, apples and more.  Boy, do these people like their fruits and vegetables!

With great fanfare and lots of high-pitched trilling, the happy couple entered.  A young man danced around them with a huge sword (it looked fake).  They took their place on the raised dais.  They cut the cake (once again, guests didn’t eat cake), fed it to each other, and drank champagne. (Champagne?  Here?)  The groom was dapper in a dark suit, the bride trim, with flawless creamy skin and a strapless white gown.  (Have I mentioned the importance of fair skin?  You see whitening creams for sale everywhere, but never tanning supplies.)  They did not smile, but then neither did they look quite as dour as the Moslem couples.

Shall We Dance?

Then the dancing started, first to a drum and bagpipe combo that boomed around the dance floor, and then to a live band on a stage.  The dance line snaked around the entire hall, a glittering array of swaying color.  First came the slow, simple six-beat dance, a rather dignified number that seems to be like a default step.  You see it everywhere.  Then came what I think is called the shakeen, the more complicated 12-step dance that I learned at the village wedding.  This was just the beginning, though.  From there, they added another six or seven dances I’d never seen before – interesting because of the variety, and the fact that everybody knew them right off the bat.

The guys in the Chaldean brotherhood were more interested in beer than dancing, so I fell in the line behind a roly-poly woman in village dress.  Probably in her sixties, she had hennaed hair braided into finger-sized plaits, a gypsy-type headscarf, and delicate old-fashioned gold filigree draped nearly to her waist.  I’d been watching her, intrigued by the spring in her step, the youthful shimmy in her shoulders, and her beaming smile.  She squeezed my hand in welcome, and gave me an approving wink when I could match her steps.  Barbar and I became buddies.

Each number was really, really long, at least fifteen or twenty minutes, so you got totally lost in the whine and complicated beat, mesmerized by the group energy.  It was even better being beside Barbar, because it felt like a hundred years or more had disappeared, and we were up in some remote mountain village, repeating steps done forever.

During a break, I joined Barbar’s family, and learned (a shock!) that she had never married or had children.  She lives in Ankawa near St. Joseph’s church, and is always smiling and laughing because she loves God; that’s what her family shouted over the music (she nodded).  She hugged me over and over, and insisted that everyone take photos of us, sitting with legs and cheeks smashed together.  Her family gave me their email and phone number, and invited me to come to a wedding of their own this coming Monday night.  Awesome!

Boogie on Down

The next hour or so featured an odd blend of Western and Kurdish music, where people danced like in a night club.  Well, sort of.  They didn’t take partners, but they didn’t move like Westerners either.  They stepped as if they were still in a long line, but their arms, legs and heads did belly-dance-like movements.  Younger men leaned back on their knees onto the floor.  It was getting pretty crazy, considering where we were.

And then the music morphed into a song that everyone knew, and they just went nuts, singing.  People of all ages jumped up and down in wild abandon; they formed little circles and took turns showing off in the middle.  It was total joy.

Being the only blonde or foreigner, taller than most of the women, and kind of conspicuous in all of my rhinestone glory, I attracted more than my share of attention on the dance floor.  Some of the older men in turbans did surprisingly suggestive moves in front of me, while their wives and daughters clapped and laughed hysterically, urging me to join in, refusing to honor my shyness.  Okay.  Sweat-drenched make-up ran into my eyes and stung; all of our clothes were dripping wet.  I can’t remember ever having this much fun.  (Okay, maybe once, at a waltz in college.)

Then we moved on to more line dances, one of which, unlike all the others, moved clockwise.  Now we were down to the hard-core dancers.  After a minute or two, I could pick up the steps and arm movements.  I was radiant; everyone who met my eye beamed back.  “They said they loved seeing you enjoy yourself like that,” Louai told me later.  “They were happy that you wore their clothes, and learned their dances.”  Whew.  I’d been a bit worried about my presence wrecking things for them, or polluting the event, as the Saudis would probably have thought.

During all those nights of folk dancing at the Sunset Center in high school, I never dreamed I’d have a chance to do the real thing, amongst a community of people who cherished their dances like this.  Who were totally accepting, and actually happy to have a foreigner there.  Or, to put it better, the Chaldeans were so open-hearted that they made you forget you were a foreigner.  They made you feel like one of them, an incredible honor.

Getting Back Home

Recently, the songs from a lot of musicals have been popping up for me.  The whole way home, my mind raced to My Fair Lady, “I could have danced all night.”  That’s because that’s almost what we did.  The band stopped after 1:30 in the morning, but it was hard to leave, because people kept gathering around us, wanting photos taken with me, or offering their contact information.  Louai handled it.  I got back into my abaya and tried to speed up the farewell process, a bit worried about the drive home.

The wedding hall was way out in the middle of nowhere, but a few taxis waited outside under a fullish moon.  The Chaldean brotherhood was going back to Ankawa, but first they needed to get me squared away.  They bargained with a driver, who wanted 15,000 dinars (the normal fare is no more than 10).  They haggled, but he wouldn’t budge.  And in a show of solidarity, none of other drivers would talk with us.  So we stood out by the side of the lonely road, trying to figure out what to do.  Nobody had a car.  No other taxis were driving by.  Clearly, we were stuck.

Finally, I agreed to the fare, and the “brothers” checked out the driver to see if he could be trusted with taking me alone.  I kept my mouth shut, hoping the driver would take me for a respectable Moslem woman.  Hah!  No sooner had we pulled out than he wanted to know if I spoke Arabic, and what I was doing in his country.  It was a very long half-hour drive back to the school.

Louai phoned me about 20 minutes into the ride, to see how it was going.  That made me feel kind of secure.  And Rich back in California was waiting for my Skype call, to report home safely.  That made me feel better too.

Marc, the Voice of Reason

But Marc let me have it on the phone the next morning.  “Mom!  You promised us you wouldn’t do any of your normal stupid [expletive deleted] when you got over there!”

Was this stupid?  It hadn’t felt like it.  In fact, I was soaring the entire next day, wondering at how God continued to bless me with serendipities like dancing at a Chaldean wedding.  I explained about my mobile-phone protectors.  “So, what could either of those guys have done if you hadn’t showed up at the school?” Marc shouted.  “You’re out in [another expletive] Iraq, alone at 2 in the morning, for Christ’s sake.  Who cares if somebody has your cell phone number?  How would anyone find you if you disappeared?”

He’s probably right.  He remembers how it was in Saudi Arabia.  And a couple of female teachers have had problems here.  But how does one balance being careful with seizing the moment — when incredible opportunities like these arise?  What woman in her right mind would miss the world’s greatest night of folk dancing for want of a ride home?

For these past many months, you’ve been following the ongoing saga / love story of Thaura (my village sister) and her fiance, Nihad, through the various difficulties they’ve had getting engaged.

Well, their wedding will be in August, and unfortunately I’ll miss it.  But I’ve wanted to give them a really nice  present to start their new life together.  I asked what they needed most, and the two biggest items were a refrigerator and a washing machine.  Nihad’s family is expected to provide them with a house, but it won’t come with these items, nor with a stove, kitchen counters, kitchen cupboards or wardrobe.  So their life is going to be very Spartan at first.

I did some research, and learned that a small fridge and washer each cost about $300 US.  The fridge is smaller than what we would expect in a little studio apartment; still, this is considered quite deluxe.  The washers here are barely automatic; you put water in the top with a hose. (I couldn’t find a photo of one on the net.)  But they’re a lot better than washing everything by hand.  Aisha has never had a washing machine.

My teacher’s salary isn’t exactly lavish.  Would you be willing to contribute something to the wedding gift?  I would write down everyone’s name and make a special card (with your photo too, if you email one to me).  If we collect enough for the fridge, great.  If there’s anything left over, we can get the washer too.  I’ll make up the difference.

Quite a few people read this blog, and if each person chipped in anything at all, we could make a huge difference in these villagers’ lives.  Just post a comment here or send me an email.  I’ll send you a PayPal request by email, which will allow you to donate online, either via your bank or credit card.  I’ll convert the money to dinars, make the purchase, arrange delivery (I can’t even imagine how this might take place), take photos of them receiving delivery, and post the pictures on the blog, so you can see how it turned out.

You have all been such an important part of my adventure here, with your supporting comments.  So I feel kind of shy to even ask — but thought it was worth a try.  Thanks in advance for anything you can do to help!

Today I went on my bicycle to buy food in the village and ran into Zuli (Aisha’s best friend) in the street.  This was an odd part of the village for her to be in.  She said that Aisha was up the road, and I couldn’t understand the rest.  She insisted that I follow her a few houses up the hill, and pass through an opening in the cement walls.  A path opened onto a little pocket back yard; turning the corner, I was astonished to find 50 women all scrunched together on mats on the grass.  It was another funeral.

The young man who died was Aisha’s brother’s son, and Thaura’s cousin.  He was 28, had leukemia, and had been in and out of the hospital for two years.  His widow looked to be about 24, and was childless.  I was embarrassed to be there in my bicycle clothes and green checkered scarf, rather than in black like everyone else.  But the women all welcomed me, and scooted closer together to make room for me.

Impromptu Songs of Grief

The widow was singing.  No, she was sobbing, saying things to a tune, a wailing one.  “Oh Faqir, why did you leave me?  What am I going to do now?  You were a good man, but now I’m all alone.”  Every so often, she leaned back in exhaustion into Thaura’s lap.  Thaura whooshed the flies out of her face, handed her tissues, wiped her forehead with her scarf.  The death was unexpected, and had happened this same day, so the widow was still in a green housedress and purple scarf.  She hadn’t even had time to cover in black.

Meanwhile, the young man’s mother did something similar over in another corner of the little yard.  She waved a white cloth back and forth in her hand, like a flag almost, as if surrendering to her sorrow.  She rocked as she chanted, looking far into the distance, focusing on nothing.

The Simple Comfort of Being Together

The village women gave the gift of their presence.  They didn’t say anything, or try to comfort the two grieving women.  Many of them cried silently.  They greeted one another in low voices.  A few held small children, who were also amazingly silent.  They simply listened.  Sometimes one or two would arrive, or leave, and everyone would adjust their place on the mats a bit.

Also, nobody prayed.  Clearly, this wasn’t the time for saying anything.  What could you say?  Rather, it was a community coming together in a moment of mind-numbing loss.

In the background, little songbirds sang from nearby trees.  How out of place they sounded.   Chickens cackled — the ordinariness of a village afternoon.  Yet here on the mats, time had stopped.  We had entered one of those eternal moments of togetherness, of love.

Yes, that’s what stunned me about the event.  In the midst of horrible sorrow, I sensed tremendous love.  These women had something that we don’t in the West – a tradition that proscribes how to wail their hearts out in the midst of a supportive group.  There was no self-consciousness, or uncertainty.  The mourners knew exactly what to do, as did all of their friends and family.  And that was to simply BE, together.

My friend Marian once told her then-husband to go visit a dying colleague in the hospital.  He protested, complaining that he didn’t know what to do.  “Just go sit and breathe beside him!” she said.

That’s what these women were doing.  Just breathing together.  And that, in itself, was what the mother and widow needed the most.

About half of the women turned to say “ser tsow” as I left, meaning “my eye.”  Nobody had asked why I was there.  They just acted like I belonged there too.

On the ride back home, a funny thought struck me.  The village women were all in black, of course, because they had put on their scarves and veils to leave their homes.  In other words, they didn’t have to do anything special to be in mourning.  Their ordinary outfits were already black!  Does this say something about what it means to be a woman in this culture?

I wish I could have taken a photo of the gathering, all the black women huddled together.  Impossible, of course.  Still, it will be hard to forget it.

Today was one of those days when you experience moment after moment of sublime gratitude, for things being “just so” in such a fascinating way, and for touching your heart so deeply.  And yet, the events themselves were not at all spectacular.  Perhaps it’s just that, with less than six weeks remaining in Kurdistan, I am cherishing the extraordinary in the ordinary…

After a trip to the bazaar to get cloth, bread, fruit, vegetables and a few gifts to bring home, I rested a bit, and then rode my bicycle into the village.  It’s gotten hot now, although not the blast-furnace variety of Saudi, but still heavy, particularly when the air is thick with dust like today.  Thankfully, it’s mostly downhill to the village; the breeze felt good while coasting.  I bought a few items in the grocery there, and got charged double for a tub of yogurt.  (Note to self:  never go back to that particular grocer, the scumbag.)  The village was empty, sleepy in the afternoon heat.  Nihad’s truck was in the yard at Aisha’s, and everyone was lying down, relaxing in the more formal of the two rooms.  A portable straw-cooled air conditioner type of thing blew cool air into the room.

Passing Math — One Way or Another

First off, Thaura pleaded with me to have a word on her behalf with the regional director of her college (also of my school here), who lives upstairs from me.  She wasn’t exactly clear on why this was so important; she wouldn’t admit to being on academic probation.  However, her grades are quite low, below 60%, so she wanted me to tell him what a great girl she is.  I explained that in the SABIS system, numbers are everything.  You’re either passing or you’re not.  It turns out that there’s a big math test in two days, which she is unprepared for.  Her answer was not to study (although I insisted on this later), but to schmooze the director.  I’ll talk with him tomorrow and try to find out what’s going on.

After much harassment, Thaura agreed to pull out her math book.  It was basic 9th grade algebra, and she hadn’t done a single one of the exercises.  So we started at the beginning, spending about maybe an hour and a half learning the associative and distributive properties, absolute values, and how to work sums with positive and negative numbers.  This is a university level course, supposedly, so I was pretty surprised that she had grasped so few of the concepts.  Nevertheless, she tried hard — as long as nobody new arrived to visit, or needed tea.

Spilling the Beans

While putting on the Kurdish dress I keep at the house, I told Thaura about my new job.  I have accepted a position as associate professor at a business school in Singapore for the fall.  I had been afraid to tell Thaura and Aisha; Aisha is already so distressed about Thaura getting married and “leaving” her (to move a few blocks away in the village) that my going would be an enormous blow.  Despite my urgings to the contrary, Thaura told Aisha right away, and we had to deal with lots of crying.  No, that’s the wrong way to put it.  We all sobbed together.  I held Aisha in my arms, rocked her, and caressed her hair.  I explained why the job was an important and wise one.  But she was heartbroken.  She tried hard to be brave.  But she will be really alone.  And we have become incredibly close.

Then, like many weeks in the past, she asked me to rub the knot in her shoulder.  Then her entire back.  Then she turned over, and showed me where the painful lump is in her groin.  I massaged, and tried to feel with my fingers what might be wrong (to no avail).  Like always, she moaned in enjoyment.  Nobody touches her.  Probably nobody has since her husband took the second wife, about 18 years ago.  She is so lonely.  She is so unloved.  When I finished, like always she kissed my hands, over and over, and then raised her hands in the air to thank God.  The pains were gone, she claimed.  Each week it’s the same.  Something as simple as a caring touch can cure.

Relaxing with the Guys

We also had to deal with Nihad, his uncle, cousin, and other assorted visitors.  This time, the men totally accepted me in their midst.  They smiled indulgently as Thaura and I worked on math in the opposite corner; they picked at little squares of the “strange” Lindt chocolate bar I’d brought from the import store, and commented on my hair.  Why doesn’t she have a husband?  Why is she away from her children?  The normal remarks…

When the other men left, another of Nihad’s cousins arrived with his three-year-old son Ibrahim in tow.  The boy had been walking at just six months.  Then he got a terrible fever, and was never quite right afterwards.  One eye wanders.  One arm is weak and a little withered.  Just looking at him, you can see that he is somehow retarded.

Being a Westerner, I know practically everything in the world.  (This is only a slight exaggeration of what they seem to believe.)  So my job was to diagnose the problem and make a pronouncement on the child’s future.  I tried not to panic at the responsibility.  Instead, I carefully examined the little boy’s hand and arm, chatted with the father, and admired the child’s sweet beauty.  I expressed amazement that he didn’t need diapers, and that he could obey simple commands.  Then I asked inwardly for guidance, and went out on a limb.  I assured the distraught yet hopeful father that doctors are often able to cure wandering eyes.  And that the boy might be a little slow at learning, but clearly he was not crazy (the worry so huge that the father was unable to even say the word; Thaura had to fill me in).  And that everything is in God’s hands, as we all know, and that surely God has a special plan written for this lovely boy in his Book of Books.

Whew!  It was what the father wanted.  He thanked me over and over.  What a wise person this foreigner was.  How fortunate he was to now know that his son would be okay.  He gathered up the boy in his arms and went home, beaming.

The boy will probably never see a doctor.  Who knows if he will even be sent to school.  (Special ed doesn’t exist here, that I know of.)  He’s such an enormous embarrassment and shame to his family. It’s really sad.

Tying Scarves and Turbans

When the bulk of the guets were gone, Nihad indulged me — he taught me how to tie a man’s sash.  Putting a man’s belt on a woman, even for a demo?  Outrageous.  Everyone was cracking up.  I asked why some of the men in the village wore a more complicated knotting system, while Nihad just wrapped his scarf simply around his waist.  It turns out that the wrapping pattern is determined by where you come from; Soranis like Nihad just go round and round, while Barzanis do a series of twists in front.

Then he demonstrated how to tie the checkered scarf that goes on top of the little crocheted hat.  There’s quite an art to it.  I then showed them how the Saudis fold and tuck the same garment for a totally different look, but it didn’t work quite right without the black iqala to hold the thing down.

Other highlights of the afternoon:  Safir, Thaura’s brother, came to borrow my bike, and rode his son Aland around the neighborhood, seriously damaging my basket.  Aisha served kangareh (or a word that sounded something like that), a vegetable that they dig up wild in the fields, boil and them deep fry.  They are delicious, something like fried artichoke hearts, and you eat them rolled up in flat bread.  Nihad’s mother had collected them, and sent them as a gift.  Delicious.  We walked to the seamstress, to give out cloth to make gold vests for Thaura, Becky and me, and everyone on the street greeted me like an old friend.  Nihad, Thaura and I sat out on the little lawn in plastic chairs (out of Aisha’s hearing) and had a rudimentary sex education class.  (More on this topic offline…).  And Safir and Kurdistan had a big argument that caused everyone else to get mad too, and take sides (his, of course, since she’s the outsider), and talk fast and furiously about how wrong Kurdi is to show so much attention to her newborn baby daughter rather than two-year-old Aland.  (Huh?  What’s wrong with spending time with a newborn?  Could it by any chance have to do with the fact that the baby is female?)

You Can’t Out-give a Kurd

When dark fell, for the first time ever, Aisha came to my house.  Nihad lifted my bicycle into the back of his pick-up, and Aisha and I sat together in the back seat while Thaura rode with Nihad in front.  Aisha oohed and ahed over my apartment and all the things in it.  While she and I talked in the living room, Thaura and Nihad were unusually quiet in my bedroom (we pretended not to notice), after which they examined the inside of my closet and all the drawers, then every cupboard in the kitchen, asking about every little thing.  I ended up giving Thaura my hard-shell suitcase (from the Goodwill in Oak Harbor — it was received like a priceless present, and Thaura told me later that she considered it her wedding gift), a little cloth bag, a blouse, some prayer beads that Nihad admired, and I can’t even remember what else.  Anything they exclaimed over and I didn’t need, I gave to them.

But consider what Aisha had sent home with me.  She packed an entire meal for me (see photo), including a candy/cake thing for dessert.  She filled my bag with wrapped candies.  She rubbed my clothes with rose oil, and then gave me the entire bottle of perfume.  She and Thaura gave me a silver ring; Thaura had bought it in the bazaar for me.  Because it was way too big, I wear it around my neck on a gold chain.  My students saw it the next day and told me that it’s a Lord of the Rings ring, and said it would make me invisible.  (We tried and it didn’t work.)  It was an amazingly thoughtful thing for Thaura to do, especially since she hadn’t known yet that I’d be leaving for good.

A Day of Days

After the Kurdish entourage left my house, I sat and just shook my head.  How blessed I am, to be accepted and loved by these people.  I spent most of the day and evening with them, and we had an ordinary Friday (their family/holy day) together.  They let me be part of their squabbles, their gossip with their neighbors, the intricate ins and outs of their village lives.  They taught me how to trim the wild vegetables, cook them, and then together we ate their simple evening meal, sharing food  between our bowls.  They showered me with gifts, and sobbed when they learned I was leaving.  They humbly let me tutor them in math, asked me to pronounce their retarded son well, and kissed my hands when I massaged their sore shoulders and bellies.

This is what I came here hoping to experience.  Today was as good as it gets.  This is what I wanted so badly when studying anthropology in college — to go beyond gathering data and being a guest.  Today, I felt like an ordinary person in a village family, being part of an ordinary day.  I sat alone in my little apartment when they had gone, and took a photo so I’d remember the spread of food wrapped up by Aisha’s hands — all choked up with gratitude.

Last weekend, the bus to the bazaar left me in a different spot than usual.  In an attempt to find a short cut to catch the bus coming home, I wandered off the beaten path, into a maze of old houses.  I was the only Westerner and got stares, but not unfriendly ones.  The call to prayer was going out and everyone was hurrying home.  I took a bunch of photos to try to capture the timeless feeling — the way that the old coexists just a few blocks from bustling four-lane roads.

The picture of the roses was taken in the central square, where there’s a nice set of fountains.  They are WAY into roses here, and plant them practically everywhere.  I wondered at first how such a water-loving flower like the rose could exist here.  It’s thanks to lots of TLC.

Anyway, here are the photos.  Hover your mouse over them for captions. (I can’t figure out how to control what order the photos show up in…)