5 minutes of YOUR time

I'm not sure what this picture has to do with the post

For one reason, or another, I have been growing out my beard. I tend to go in cycles of facial hair. There usually isn't much of a pattern or reason behind the hair on my face. I just wear what feels good. Right now, I have a beard. It's not quite the length of George MacDonald, but definitely longer than the Russell Crowe Gladiator stubble.
Oddly enough, this beard makes me very out of place in northern Iraq. I have hardly seen anyone with a beard at all. Almost everyone is clean shaven with closely cropped hair, and this especially goes for the young men. So when I walk around the city, I tend to turn heads. Apparently I walk like an American, but have a beard reminiscent of a wahhabi.
I was hanging out with some friends the other day. We were at a "ranch" outside of the city sitting on the only patch of watered grass I have seen all summer. We had met a man earlier in the day that called me Mamareesha. They told me it meant Uncle Beard. Obviously I was as confused as you are now. Number one: I'm not their uncle. Number two: Do I even need a two?
Apparently, Mamareesha was a Kurdish resistance fighter from the late 1980s, who vowed not to cut his beard until Kurdistan was free from greater Iraq. That sounds pretty epic, right? I thought it sounded lagit, but soon I began to put it into the context of the very real conflict between Arabs and Kurds. This isn't a movie where the enemy is evil and killing is an automatic service to the good.
As an outsider, an American, only getting a brief look into the confusing muddle of the conflict between Iraqi Kurds and Arabs, I cannot begin to see a political solution or lend my voice to "this side" or "that side." In fact, as appealing as it is to target the evils of a single side, all have transgressed, and all need to be reconciled.
So here I am writing a blog post from the office of an organization that exists to pursue peace between communities at odds. The Preemptive Love Coalition unites Arabs and Kurds, they unite Sunni and Shia Muslims, they unite Kurds and Turks, they unite Muslims and Christians under the banner of saving the lives of children deemed unhelpable.
Right now PLC is nominated for an award by what is being called the "Grammys" of the nonprofit world. Winning this award would significantly raise awareness and provide opportunities on a level we have yet to see.
I say all this because you can help.
You can vote by clicking here. Click "the South" tab, then scroll to find Preemptive Love Coalition, click it, then find the submit button. The voting ends with the sunset in California on July 26, but the sooner the better, right?
They tell me that war is hard. So is restoration. Help PLC seek to bring peace and healing to the children of war.

walkin' pictures

An Empty Funeral Tent

Kurdish de-Construction Worker

The two happiest kids in Kurdistan

"When...?" Cont. Again, subtitled - "Yens and Paolo"

Jens walked back in the room apologizing for being so disorganized. The two old men explained themselves to be a part of an order of monks from Mar Mousa, Syria, which they specified as between Homs and Damascus.

Every monk I have read or heard about I have imagined with a brown habit, so imagine a monk and then replace the habit with dress slacks and a polo. They were big, boisterous and vibrant with life and generosity. Jens and Paolo, two 21^st century cloistered Europeans hovering over a computer in Kurdish-Iraq arguing in Arabic about a plane ticket. This wasn’t really a scenario I experience every day.

Eventually they booked the plane ticket and immediately they focused all their attention on accommodating us as guests. Yens brought tea and the remaining biscuits from outside, while Paola asked Hastiar and myself about our lives. Most of his questions were directed at me, his thick Italian accent added weight and intelligence to the sound of his deep voice. His questions varied from asking about my school and career to my religious affiliations and political stances. He wanted a quick rundown of me before I left the country. Paolo was much more subtle and slow with Hastiar, as if he was handling his conversation with care and tact.

We stayed with the monks for over an hour, and I don’t know if I can say that I came away with any new revelation. I can say that I have enjoyed the hospitality of monks from Syria, and though admittingly modest, to me their company rivaled that of kings.

When do days...? Continued

Hastiar and I boarded the bus, he in a black polo and matching black capris and (according to Matt Willingham) I looked like a regular Baylor frat guy. Apparently Baylor frat guys where cream-colored linen pants and blue polos from Target. We boarded the old city bus. Dust and dirt painted the plastic covered seats. The windows were open and letting the welcome hot breeze inside. We both sat on the crowded two-person seat with our bags in our laps and our knees to the back of the seat in front of us. I learned fairly quickly that Hastiar had never been to this church and that we were both in for a new experience.

The neighborhood we were headed toward was called Saboon Karan. Soap Makers. Later I was told that it was once the Jewish/Christian quarter. I had been down this road to the bazaar many times during the past month and a half, but never beyond the bazaar. I would totally be in the hands of this humble teenager, younger than my little brother, who just graduated from high school. We walked through the bustling street that runs through the middle of the bazaar. Malawi street. It is the most crowded, but fluid sidewalk and street I think I have ever seen. At the end of Malawi street the crowds began to thin and the shops began to change from a hodgepodge of fruit and western clothing stores into more shops of traditionally Kurdish character.

Hastiar asked a shop owner about the old church in Saboon Karan and he directed us down what looked more like an alleyway than a road. The roads became very narrow and the stone covered walls, with smaller metal gates, were higher than in other parts of the city. I felt like I was wandering down the side streets deep in the Arab quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem, only the cobblestones polished by centuries of shoes were missing.

When do days turn out like you expect?

Today I decided to borrow Kendelyn the Photographer’s camera. Since I cannot visit the historic Christian community in Mosul, I decided to find one here in Sulaimaniyah. I had heard that there was an Arabic speaking Chaldean Church across the big street that runs through my neighborhood. So, I grabbed the camera, a journal and Hemingway and set out at 10 this morning hoping to find the church or to get lost. Either scenario would make for a good day. You can’t say you have known a city until you can say you have gotten lost in it.

Grabbing the camera, I wrapped the black strap around my wrist because I am petrified that I will drop it and walked east. Clouds of dust covered the city blocking the direct light from the sun, while managing to hold in the heat creating a sauna-like effect. I wandered around the neighborhood, walking slowly and trying to get a feel for the camera. The stone houses and walls (fences) that seem to be everywhere in the Middle East gave a sense of adventure to the morning stroll through the neighborhood. Receding further into the neighborhood, I began to hear a call to prayer. This would be altogether normal except there was no nearby mosque. I began to follow the sound and came upon a long rectangular tent with men inside. They were standing, sitting and drinking tea. I sat on a curb across the street to listen to the voice singing in Arabic. A few minutes of stares from the old men under the tent convinced me to continue my search for the Chaldean church.

Routine Tuesday Nights

Every Tuesday night the interns eat dinner at The Willingham's home. Cayla gives us a break from cooking duties and allows us to eat her consistently wonderful food. Today we planned on heading straight to their house after work, but they did not have water or electricity, which is sadly not at all abnormal. We waited half an hour at the office for their electricity to turn on, and around five thirty, I took my formerly black dress shoes out of the cabinet by the front door of the office and slipped them on my feet. We left the second-story office, walking down the "hallway" through the open air office building, and turned right to walk down the stairs. The first floor "hallway" passes right by a Turkish dessert shop that has an endless supply of baklava. We exit the back of the office building into a confused mixture of a parking lot, construction scene, and trash pit, and depending on the day the space looks more or less like any one of these. 

The seven minute escapade through backstreets and neighborhoods to the Willingham home always changes because I can never remember the exact route to their house. It makes life an adventure. Their house is the second floor of a two story building with uncovered stairs running up the outside of the building leading to their "front porch" or housha. That's where we ate dinner tonight. We had two blankets covering the concrete front porch with cushions lain on top making the floor as comfortable as a couch…with out the living room. It was awesome. There is no better way to wind down an in-office workday with an full evening picnic on a balcony….except to finish it with a cup of traditionally kurdish tea and some of the best dang oatmeal-raison cookies this side of the Euphrates!

Raison d'être

Today was like most every Thursday since I have been here. I woke up close to twenty minutes before the time work started, threw on a pair of pants and my last almost clean button-down shirt without a tie since it was Thursday, and started the walk to work. 

The work day progressed like most work days. The morning swiftly turned into lunch at Sara's, a local Kurdish restaurant. Many people think it is one of the best in the city, but I've heard that about so many restaurants that I am starting to think that the word "best" might not mean what I think it means.

I always order the "sada" at Sara, which is a bowl of rice and about four bowls of beans or soup that get poured over the rice. They tell me its very traditionally Kurdish. I consider it a great appetizer to the post-dinner tea.

The after-lunch work hours went as quickly as the morning, with lunch turning into 5 o'clock before I knew it. 

After work every Thursday we go to a English learning center and practice conversation with locals wanting to learn English. Its an easy way to meet very interesting people and a consistent place to see them weekly. 

This week John (fellow intern hailing from San Diego) and I showed up late. We walked in at the same time and kinda hung near the same people most of the night. There was one kurdish man whose name started with an "s" that I never actually caught who kept approaching us trying to monopolize our attention. He was not rude about it, he just made it evident that he was interested in speaking to us. Eventually, John sat down with him and I sat at a nearby table and started playing cards with a high schooler from new jersey and an 12 or 13 year old arab boy. I think they called the game Russian Poker. 

The night went on and I talked with other people, but eventually I found myself back at the table with John and "S-kurd." 

The man was talking about his passion for learning the english language. He had only started speaking a few months ago and was already very understandable. He said this was because he had a background in reading and writing English. In the midst of this mundane workday and very simple surface level conversations, this Kurd said something that floored me. I don't even know if he realized it. He was talking and I was listening, which means I was really half listening while enjoying a wonderful lemon cake between sips of an Americano. In broken English he said something like this:

"if you don't have any thing to hope for, it is better to be dead."

He went on to talk about how he was telling this to his wife. Learning english was his purpose for life that kept death from being a better option. This man who has grown up in an extremely religious culture, honestly, full of virtue, honor, and seemingly life-valuing morals, with a wife and presumably kids, with a job, with time on the weekends to go to a coffeeshop, claimed that only learning another man's language kept death's appeal at bay. A mildly stimulating distraction served as this man's reason for existence.

Have we no greater purpose than to find a way to distract ourselves from real, boring life?

With the pace this man is on he will soon learn english and then quickly find that he has discovered the same bland, tasteless life in english. What hope comes from that?

True hope and purpose must transcend the decay of this moth-ridden world. May we all know it

foolish and out of focus

Today I was a poser. I felt it from the borrowed nikon strapped across the front of my grey v-neck to my brown, traveling loafers and stained brown corduroys to the filthy once white, now asphalt-grey baseball cap over my hair. Every kurd walking the streets of the Sulaimaniyah bazaar must have thought the bearded young foreigner looked like a seasoned photojournalist patient to capture the life of one moment and show it to the world. Fil Haqeeqa, a rookie picture-taker walked lost around a mass of whirling urban activity hoping that one image in a days worth of attempts would yield at least a single image that reflected the image captured by his eye. 

Foolishly I labor briefly and sporadically in the world of art and I hope, or even expect, to breath an icon into existence; something that tangibly brings life to the soul of the one who “reads the image” I have created. I fail constantly.

Hotel Alborz

I'm reclining in a wicker chair on a cushion embed with the dust of many storms as a dark complected man with a tray of cha weaves through the tables of the street side cafe toward me. He is bringing me a glass cup that will burn the tips my fingers before I even finish writing. All the street side cafes seem to be located under hotels. This is the Alborz Hotel. I'm becoming pretty fond of it. Its almost a retreat from work. Or a retreat to peaceful noise. The resistance of a strong wind and the 

I'm told the waiters and staff are mostly from Mosul. 

Mosul.

Every word evokes a mental image as its spoken. City names especially take on a character or personality.

The Euphrates divides Mosul. Its western bank is its hub, but the city has grown so that it now extends onto eastern bank. It has grown to surround remnants of the once famous Ninevah. 

More than water divides this city. For centuries Mosul has been a home and refuge for Christians. There seems to be some deep seeded connection to the land visited by the prophet Jonah. For centuries this place has been under muslim rule. They, too, honor the prophet they call Yunis, and there exists a nearly tangible link with this people and the city.

In the last decade many Christians living in Baghdad and other cities in the south fled their homes as they faced threats on their lives. They fled north to Mosul, the historic city with a constant population of christians. 

Again this decade, as the Iraq War began pushing insurgents and Saddam affiliates out of Baghdad and her surrounding cities, these refugees fled north, to the city of many of their families. To Mosul.

The city teems with juxtaposed faiths and ethnicities fighting to be heard and seen. And not only in metaphor; this is probably the most dangerous city in Iraq.  

It is a city burning with passion and vibrant with fear. A city so volatile its refugees flee here, to "Kurdistan." A city burdened with this kind of pressure releases stories like an exhale of oxygen. They are everywhere. To be written. To be changed. To be given hope.  

Mosul.

The Front Door

His name wasn't Scott

I met a man yesterday. "Scott." Its the english name he goes by. Scott is running. 

"As-Salaamu Aleikum, Ya Sheik"

The dust I just wiped off of my black shoes was quickly replaced as I stepped out of the office building onto the dirt-covered sidewalk. I was following the two other guy interns and the male PLC staff as we headed to meet a local sheikh, a close friend and growing partner of Jeremy Courtney. Rumor and near legend surrounded the man now known as "The Sheikh." He founded and directs a growing local charity that cares for Iraqi orphans. His family name illicits respect because of the great work of his father and grandfather. If nothing else all the PLC staff has a great amount of respect for this man of faith, and in turn so will I.

...and fruitstands

            The street that passes under the peeling white, wrought-iron gate that poses as the entrance to the bazaar of Sulaimaniyah comes to a point together with an once-seeming parallel street forming the letter Y. On what must be called a median, just before the actual intersection, sits a bright orange, three-sided fruit juice stand. The bright orange of the booth stands out against the constant barrage of the earth-toned color scheme that dominates the Kurdish-Iraqi urban landscape. 

Juice swirls around the plastic containers that look like cousins of the lemonade dispensers inside chik-fil-a. Blenders speckled with remnants of fresh kiwi, carrot, and oranges share the remaining counter space with stacked melons, whole carrots, and unpeeled oranges. Bazaar-goers come to these stands as an alternative to the universally loved cha (tea). This specific stand has a total of three staff members that never share a shift. The young, sort of shy Hama, who is working on a full fledged goat-tee that will fill if given just a bit more time. He may or may not have an older brother who helps run the stand. Masjdi knows just enough english to interpret hand signals asking for good food. He knows of a shady restaurant in a hidden nook within the Bazaar full of running cockroaches and the best rice, bean, soup, lamb combination discovered so far inside all of Iraq. 

          The last staff member of the soon to be famous Great Bazaar Fruitstand is only known in Kurdish as Mr. Mustache. The legend of the mustache alone secured my loyalty to this fruit stand, but it helps that these guys are the most friendly faces I have met in the tangled labyrinth, locally referred to as "the Bazaar." 

Buildings and Fruitstands...without the fruit stands

From the roof of our office building

So, the main reason it has been a couple of days since I've written anything is I don't know what to put down. I think there is so much I'm taking in that I don't really know how to process it all, and it seems that throwing it on paper will look about like a Jackson Pollack painting…without the international acclaim. So, I'm going to start simple. I will walk you to work.

Its Sunday, because we start our work week on Sunday (I wore a tie, so I felt cool). With the strap of my stolen travel bag across my chest creasing the front of my white shirt, I walk sock-shod toward the rack of dirt covered shoes in the walk way leading to the door at the front of the house. This particular Sunday, my blue slacks are still clean so I grab
the caramel brown leather loafers that were too small for

Update #1

This is the start of workday number four here in the semi-autonomous Kurdish region of Iraq and and I'm sitting in an office staring at my reflection in my own desk! (Technically there are three other chairs at "my own desk," which usually makes it a table but we're gonna keep that on the down low...)
In four days I have already experienced just about the extent of all Iraqi weather.

Turkiye!

So, I went to Turkey. Also, contrary to the photo below I was in absolute awe of the Hagia Sophia and completely blown away by the depth and ecclesial significance of the place, even though I was straight running through snapping pics with my phone.

في الموت هو الحياة

Iraqiya

This is a large exerpt from a letter I wrote in December explaining what I plan on doing this summer. It will have a pronounced impact on the material of this blog, so I figured I'd share.