Hiroshima Remembered

I wake up in my Vermont bed in a state of comfort and discomfort. I haven't written in my blog to you, my readers known and unknown, about my transition back to life at "home". I keep up with Micca's blog in Sulimania where she continues to have an amazing cultural experience. I was restless and stared my weaknesses in the face and did not stay the three months. I read about what is happening at the Rafah border where my friends continue the effort; the gate is open these few days and the organization and treatment of people is improved since the passage allowed at the end of June. The camp presence and witness can only be having a positive effect on the way the Egyptian "security" apparatus conducts itself with the Palestinians. Felton at Maryhouse reminded me that the corridor of Rafah is where the Holy Family fled previous oppression and danger. 

Now for a few days a week I am an occupational therapist roaming the halls of two nursing homes, helping the elderly to regain their strength and function in more circumscribed lives of agedness. I have managed to find gracious work within the "filthy rotten system" but I am still left with feelings of betrayal on some level. War taxes and a high per diem rate from Medicare dollars may be related to that feeling!

Our gardens grow in beauty and bounty despite the heavy rain and cool summer. We (Steven, Lauren, and I) are eating fresh pesto, ratatouille, sauteed green beans, and fresh milk from the neighbors. We swim in a spring fed, sun warmed pond next door, built by my brother's father-in-law 40 years ago. Ours is an idyllic summer life on the land here on this tiny Vermont farm. I thank my parents David and Tamar for finding it.

This morning I read from Granny's diaries about "materialistic Christians who deny God". I listened to Democracy Now yesterday where Jeremy Scahill talks about Eric Prince of Blackwater converting to Catholicism and going on Crusade in Iraq.  And today is the 64th anniversary of the atomic destruction of the civilian city of Hiroshima. We Christians crossed a line that continues to haunt the world today. In sackcloth and ashes is where we need to sit. A form of that is to pursue the corporal works of mercy; care for the poor. And to live on the fruits of empire (driving my Saab, overeating, and having a well built house) produces such incongruity in my heart. I have to remind myself that our hard work also provides for us as well. I am hoping to share our home with Catholic Workers who need respite from their relentless labor at the various Houses of Hospitality. 

July 29th, the Feast of St. Martha was also the anniversary of my baptism. I have a photo of that event, and the baptismal candles. I can't ignore the message in the fact that these artifacts are still with me. The crumbs from Granny's table lead me on in this precarious journey. I end with a quote I wrote down in a sketch pad in my twenties, I don't know the source. "Trust. That which is born in your dreams, grows in your desire, blossoms in your belief, and lives in your action inevitably, must come to pass."      

In The Arms of The Catholic Worker Again

I arrived at Heathrow in such fatigue and was promptly detained at passport control. The security woman who questioned me was not satisfied with my explanation that my purpose was to visit friends until the 23rd of July. Her line of questioning eventually led to me naively explaining that I would be helping out with the care of homeless women. After phone calls and accusations that we were dishonest people and her religion guided her better than us ours, my passport was returned to me and I happily met Maria at the arrival hall. My mother used to call these kind of people with a little power "two-bit Hitlers" but I understood it to be an exercise in humility and patience. A violent rage rose in my chest and I thought, so this is how Palestinians are made to feel, along with so many other groups of people over the course of our bloody history. 

But it is wonderful to be here and I have collapsed with flu-like symptoms in this safe haven. I can only image what being homeless or a refugee does to a person's physical and mental health.

I receive reports back from the border and the international group of activists have written eloquent testimonies as to what brought them to the Rafah gate on behalf of the Palestinian people. My favorite one comes from Ashraf who says this kind of pilgrimage is a holy duty that one must take on. He describes his awakening of two years ago when he learned more about the situation and was compelled to become involved. He, and the others in the group are all are people of amazing integrity, love, and commitment. They have heard the cry from their brothers and sisters, they understand the need for mutual aid, and they have a vision for a new state. We must support them with our prayers and even travel to the border ourselves to bear witness if we can. And there is always the call to do the works of mercy close to home as well. I am beginning to feel homesick after nearly two months of being away.      

Holed Up In Munich

I am quite lonely without my new Egyptian friends and Paki at the border. It was a hot, sticky night in Cairo and I am now tired. Last night's report from Paki was about a Palestinian family stuck at the border with a grandmother who is in kidney failure, traveling with her son, the potential donor for a transplant, and his son and wife. They were refused flight from Cairo to France where the needed surgery is available. While waiting in the heat and in an attempt to get water, the grandson was hit by a soldier, the father defended his son, and was then taken to a "back room". The horrors of human behaviors. When the soldiers were told that the woman could die with this medical condition and no help, their response was "let her die".

But this morning my birthday present before leaving Cairo was a phone call from Paki reporting that there is hope for getting the family to France right away. Jean, one of our "saints at the gate" lives in France and has worked many years at the International Red Cross. She will be pulling strings to save another life at the Rafah border. We are not sure what happened to the man with diabetes and a recent leg amputation. These are crimes against humanity.

So I blog from my hotel room in Munich; I feel like a stranger in a strange land. There are sex shops down stairs, tall, young German men walking in tough groups, and Muslims walking with their family members. I feel tension here too. I picked up a piece of pizza for dinner from a Kurdish man working at the shop and was able to revisit Sorani, much to his delight. I stopped in at the Cathedral of St. Michael on Neuhauser Street to say a prayer of gratitude and the interior was stunning. We were soon shooed out of the church promptly at 7:00PM. I will catch my flight to London tomorrow and look forward to being part of a beloved community once again. 

Leaving The Rafah Border Sit In

The camp (named Camp Seabreeze by us who yearn for the beach( was quiet for a few days with just 4 of us holding the siege against the siege. I left today and our numbers were up to 14 with more expected. The Galloway convoy will be arriving in 2 to 3 days with 200 people we hear. We witnessed a convoy of 15 trucks loaded with food go through in about one hour the other day. It was sent by the Saudis. Minutes after it passed through the gates of Rafah a Palestinian family was denied entry, it was their 10th day of returning to the border in a futile attempt to pass. The soldier's faces change from being friendly to practicing cruel lies and it feels like a schizoid world which it is. The tension is quite high, they know Galloway is on his way and there is nothing that they have been able to do about our campout in their military zone. It is absolutely crucial to have an international presence, otherwise our brave Egyptian activists would be treated savagely. When many diverse groups of people work together, the power is multiplied greatly.
So I am back in Cairo with a bed and shower to celebrate. The bathroom facilities were locked against us at the camp in attempts to drive us out. We climbed the gate to use the toilets and running water. When buying calling cards they extort more money than is usually charged and they stopped letting us charge the mobile batteries. All of this is nothing compared to what the Palestinians suffer, and for so long. We met people who appeared dead in their eyes, the need to shut down rather than explode with fury was seen in so many faces.
I fly to Munich tomorrow, my birthday, then on to the London Catholic Worker house for 10 days. My heart remains in Rafah, where a few brave souls carry on against massively corrupt powers.

Back To The Border

We (Paki Weiland and I and Egyptian colleagues) have been in Cairo for three days and have failed 2 times to be allowed into the US Embassy to talk with someone about the closing of the Rafah border gate. We must have the correct names and paperwork in place despite the fact that the Egyptian government is unaccountable to anyone about accepting or rejecting paperwork of those who are trying to cross. It seems that arbitrary decisions and misinformation are the norm. We met one man from Houston, Texas who is American Palestinian and his wife and 3 kids were let through; he was not. They are now on the "other side" with no husband/father, money, or support. He was told to go back to Cairo (a day's trip away) to get another piece of paper and when he came back they still said no. 

We will try to follow up with the information given to us from our representatives about how to get into the Embassy, however it is the 4th of July holiday and no one was available on the 1st for this same reason. My contact from my representative's office said the Embassy does not know you are at the door or that you are US citizens. But we know that we have knocked on the door and have been heard. We also presented ourselves to the Foreign Ministry and they could not understand how we would even think that there would be help there. 

And so we will continue to play David and Goliath and hope that our GI tracts will keep supporting the effort. Paki is teaching me much with her amazing experience as an activist. This morning's daily reading in  John:2024-29  speaks about Thomas who had to put his hands into the wounds of Jesus to believe. I am putting myself into these wounds of the Holy Land and yes I believe we can keep up the struggle only with God's invisible hand providing comfort and protection. 

The press conference went well yesterday and we hope the wall of silence will be penetrated. Leaving Suli for this is mind blowing but every step of my way seems to be orchestrated for a good reason. The sit in is into the 22nd day, spread the word and send more people. Love and being willing to feel the pain of the other is the only solution.   

ongoing vigil at rafah border

I arrived on June 28th the 15th day of the International Movement to Open the Rafah Border vigil. The border was open June 27, 28,29. On those days over 5000 Palestinians were allowed into Gaza. It had been more than a month since the border was open to people without special medical needs. The scene at the border was horrific. People were made to stand for 5 to 10 hours in the sweltering heat and they were herded by the Egyptian police with no respect to their human dignity. There were severe limitations on sanitary facilities, and drinking water was sold at an exhorbitant price. This degradation of our Palestinian brothers and sisters is not being reported to the world and is being carried out with complicity between the US, Egyptian, and Israeli governments. A great sense of resignation, brutality, and dehuminization prevades the sight at the gates. Trash floats in the air and piles up near walls. The smell of feces and urine can be detected. The campers have been sleeping under a roof for shade, thank God, on the pavement. The flies swarm about throughout the day. My first night was very noisy with trucks roaring past a few feet from the tent, and men loosing their tempers and screaming. The next day we heard jets passing over and the thud of bombs were heard in the distance. I am terrified and very stressed but feeling good in the company of friends and activists.
I am pondering over what is the cause of this truely unnatural human disaster. What can we do other than be here as witnesses to this unspeakable and unneccesary suffering.

A Farewell To Suli

My bags are packed and I must go to the airport at midnight for a 5:30 AM flight to Munich. Not sure what will take so long but that is the way it is. 

Yesterday's day at the park was loud with the 100 plus kids screaming the entire time while competing in egg toss, eating and singing contests (the boys voices were exquisite as they sang traditional Kurdish songs), balloon blowing, and other games. I spent part of the time with Aro who is 6, on my lap. He is one of the students who constantly wanders out of his seat during class. Aro, my nemesis! Another boy gave me a lovely yellow canna lily and I was so embarrassed that I couldn't really recall him among so many kids in our classes. They were very sweet.

We had a picnic on the mountain above the city at sunset; my first time "out" of Sulimani. I see poverty for the first time as well. The van climbed up the mountain for a 20 minute ride and it was nice to be on the range that I have spent the last 5 weeks looking at from down below. Sirwan, Banaz, Michelle, AJ, Micca and I had our last evening together. The crescent moon turned orange as the sky darkened into twilight. We stopped by the side of the road and pulled out chairs and a table and ate fruit, olives, nuts, and salad, all very delicious. We were perched on a narrow ledge where the mountainside plunged straight down below us.  As stars came out the city lights brightened, stretching down the entire valley. It had been a hazy day and the top of the mountain range to the north (I forget the name) was obscured. It was soon dark and the warm (nearly hot) night wind blew across my face and I felt like a stranger in a strange land. I found myself wondering what it will be like, being under the stars in Rafah, with new company. It was a comforting thought as I sat, feeling outside the current conversation going on. It was so nice to be outdoors and out of the city. 

The heat continues to be intense, the nights loud with the build up of the elections. I last reported that there were two parties but it is three; the PUK with Talibani, the KRG with Barzani, and the Reform party with Mousavin. People have commented that the youth are out in full force during these street "demonstrations", maybe acting on concern over the issues and future, maybe looking for excitement. Al Jezeera reports an increase in violence across the country as the June 30th date approaches when the US military moves off the streets and into the bases. Who will take their place? The Nation reports on a group called Iraqi Special Operations Force, armed and trained by the Green Berets. Taken as boys a few years ago, they will be accountable to a small branch of the US military, the latest installment of death squads. Heaven help us, when will this ever end? 

Until my next destination, I will write again. I am trembling about the situations of the poor people of the world.     

A Change of Plans

Today was my last day with the students and it was sweet, sad, and infuriating. This sums up my emotional experience with the school. It seems that the woes of the world are predicated on misunderstandings due to intentions being lost in translation and people's ideas of how things should go. I think about a method of conflict resolution I heard about that states first you empathize, then be in the present moment, and lastly practice others way of thinking to attain a common goal. All of these ideas become irrelevant when one student stands in front of another to interrupt them while the first student is attempting to recite their lesson. When the class is having a rare moment applying themselves to the work, a staff member comes in to make some announcement and the focus is lost. The seeds of the problems of the world are within each of us. I struggle to control my impatience and disgust with the situation. Tomorrow I will accompany the classes to the amusement park. It should be great fun with no books to attend to. 

I will be traveling to Rafah after all for the Gaza sit in. After resigning myself to spending time in Suli until my July 12th flight to the Catholic Worker Farm outside of London, I received encouragement from my husband to try this trip into Egypt. I will blog from there, describing what is happening with the international efforts to break the blockade of food and medicine to a refugee camp under assault. One of my older students who speaks English fairly well asked why am I going to Egypt as it is an Arab country. I tried to explain that the world has Arabs, Kurds, Americans, Israelis, Palestinians, and we are all brothers and sisters. Even my boss here sees no reason to help the Palestinians. My heart aches over how people cannot see how the suffering of any member affects the health of us all. Al Jazeera is documenting how the Holy Land is being ethnically cleansed for the Jewish state. The people on the land who keep goats seem to be paying no attention to the "notices" being sent out saying where they live is Jewish land.

The streets have been noisy for the last three nights with honking horns, screaming men, and sirens; this is the beginning of the campaign season prior to the July 23rd election. The two rival parties drive around in BMWS, Cadillacs, and SUVs sporting posters and flags. I have very little information about what the issues are. Everyone is hoping things don't turn out the way it has gone in Iran next door. 

I am nervous about my next 2 weeks and recite the Hail Queen of Heaven, the Ocean Star prayer, petitioning for protection for the wanderer below, little me thrown on life's surge.       

Up On The Roof

The sun is setting and the heat of the day radiates up from the cement of the rooftop. There are two levels and from the upper level I can see a woman pacing to and fro without stopping. Above the wall of men there are guards standing about in small groups, some with arms folded, others pacing as well. I see the neighbor boys directly below; they spot me immediately and wave with a smile after I smile at them. A parked truck is loaded with carpets, blankets and other house wares; the peddler is doing his evening rounds. Red, yellow, and blue dresses hang from the back of his truck, a shop on wheels. A boy pedals hard up the hill on a red bike, it looks brand new, and then he tears back down the hill, hands in the air, looking quite triumphant. A very small girl with red trousers and yellow top watches him, standing in the middle of the street. A car comes by, maintaining its speed and steering around her. 

Our two remaining teachers spend time grading papers and then come out on the roof to have a cigarette. I am teaching class to the end of this week and then will work for the school in other ways until July 12th. I have developed a teaching technique that somewhat controls the kids and helps us manage to get through some of the book. Loud voice, asking direct questions of individuals, and giving lots of writing tasks. It works well for the early classes, the later ones are less responsive. I finish the five and a half hours with a sore throat and sweaty body. The kids who are the most disruptive give me the best hugs as they go out the door. I feel completely conflicted over what I am doing.

It is 7:20 and the call to pray goes out. AJ throws darts and Micca talks about how she misses her dog. We are together in this house, doing time, working hard, hoping for better times. I would like to go to the Rafah border Gaza sit in where some friends from the DC fast to shut down Guantanamo are now. But I have run out of steam and organizational skills to change flights. The Suli kids, and the Gaza kids. Last night I had a dream about some kids jumping from a bridge into a river; they had given up. Laughter floats up from the street as the nearby children play.   

Men On The Wall

The house that I am living in is a block from the main street called Soloman. Suleimaniya is named after Solomon. There is a high retaining wall just across the street, facing south, and it is covered in large painted murals. President Talibani who is from here, occupies the center of the wall. There is wonderful "tromp L'oiel" (sp) painting that shows a walled in garden with urns full of flowers below his portrait. The depth makes one feel like you could walk right into it. Talibani is flanked by other men, and I have yet to learn who they are. Craig from CPT House said he was walking with a friend who asked a woman who lives here. The answer was "old Kurdish men". 

I asked Sirwan who runs the school and who has lived here his whole life. He said something vague about leaders of the Kurdish resistance and that he didn't pay too much attention and couldn't remember who is on the wall. I am learning slowly what people mean by what they say or don't say. 

From the wall can be seen several high rise buildings, most still under construction. A very large completed one has some interesting architectural detail, blue tinted plate glass and steel. There is no sign indicating who occupies the building or what its function is. There seems to be plenty of commercial space for small shops in the other malls. Any manner of clothes, women's accessories, and other goods are available at the shops. The bazaar is full of foods and goods as well; it is a great bustle of noise, color, and smells. There are piles of cheap plastic goods, many items which break with their first usage. What kind of economy relies on the manufacture of items that are so disposable yet stick around forever, and an economy that is dependent on buying such junk from so far away? Our stupidity is laughable even as it is a real crime against each other and our environment.  

I spent the other night at the hospital with one of our housemates and teacher who is seriously ill with a bowel obstruction. She will have to return home very soon. I saw many more military uniforms than medical staff in white. Shorsh Hospital is about five years old and on the outskirts of the city. The halls have lovely white and green marble tile and the staff of doctors were very kind and helpful. One is searched before entering through the armed gate. Banaz, Sirwan's wife described it as a "political" hospital. I think that means that the political leaders and their families receive care here. We are quite fortunate as American's to be given care here and I can't help but think about Baghdad, 4 hours south of here, a war zone, with such medical inadequacy. The suffering that goes and could be avoided. There is no discussion here about what is going on in the south. Banaz did make a comment about the oil economy; if 17% of the revenues were used for social programs, Kurdistan would be transformed. 

Today I must make a confession that I will not be staying the full three months. I am undergoing an internal battle about whether I have the strength and will to stick it out, suffer, and just do the work. The kids in class are very out of control and that makes it impossible to teach. It is my failure of course and I will work on it in the next weeks ahead. Teachers and nurses are to be elevated as noble and amazing after my experience here.

I end today's blog with a quote I found in a copy of Granny's New Testament. "I shall raise a great edifice on mere nothingness; that is to say, on your humility, surrender, and love." Words that were sent to Sister Josefa. The card feels like a precious relic in my hands, and I feel both encouragement and inadequacy as I contemplate it.        

Of Classes and Culture

We are into our second week of teaching and the classes are somewhat defined in terms of who is at what level. It is rather informal when discerning the children's language skills; "hello, how are you, I am fine, what is your name, what color is this, say your abcs and count to 20".  We started to use the required books but all are not yet available. Flexibility, self reliance, and creativity are crucial skills to have as teachers. Interruptions, mild catastrophes, and events that are impossible to understand occur on a regular basis. But none of this is important, what matters is that we have fun and just do what we can. One never knows what seeds are being sown with every small effort. 

I continue to feel like I am riding a roller coaster in terms of whether I can do this for three months. The heat, chaos, and cultural subtleties can be overwhelming at times. Other times i feel grateful for being here, experiencing such a different world. I have grown close to the young women who work at the day care downstairs from our bedrooms. We share lunch with them, practice Kurdish, joke around, and sympathize with each other when someone is sick. Stomach ailments appear to be all too common. I have been quite fortunate.

My latest reading is with CS Lewis and "Reflections On The Psalms", the chapter called "Nature". "All creatures, like us, wait upon God at feeding time".  And so we put our well being into hands that are quite capable, and praise is given.  

105 degrees more or less

Yes it is hot and I wonder how I will survive. Me feet are painfully cracked from the dryness. I spend most of the day in the a/c bed room. Last night the wind picked up, blowing across the city, in from the desert. The power went out for a good part of the night and I felt stifled in my foam mattress bed. Very different than my Vermont life. There is a little shop down the street where they hand make cotton stuffed mattresses and pillows; I am very tempted to ditch the poly bedding. I hear that the multi-generational tailors in Iraq are being put out of business by cheap Chinese clothes produced here. Same for the gorgeous traditional rugs; the high quality Iranian- made carpets are less and less affordable to the average person and Chinese-made synthetics are moving in on the local markets.  Our neighbors often hang out the carpets over the walls that surround each house in order to air them out. They catch my eye every time. 

The house water supply comes from the city at unpredictable times of the day and night. The hose is held in a tank on the patio and when it is full a pump fills the tank on the roof, providing gravity feed when the power goes out. There is an elaborate system of staying aware of the sound of water coming in, and switching the pump on and off at the right times. Many times the water just runs into the yard which is good for the mulberry, grape, pomegranate, and fig. 

The elections in Iran are big news however we are limited in talking with locals and hearing opinions and impressions. I haven't yet read an English paper from Sulimani. 

I am working hard to get along with my fellow American room mates, perhaps my greatest challenge here besides the heat! 

Sarchow!

Friday, Haine, Jumma a day of rest June 12th

Today we don't work and it is wonderful to catch up on laundry, email, reading, and house work. It is important to maintain one's "self-care", the activities of daily living in occupational therapy lingo. 

It is afternoon and the sun is slanting in the west, losing it's intensity. Three of us teachers visited Michelle Obed and other CPT members at their house within walking distance of our home in the upstairs of a day care center. Michelle and Chichun will be spending 2 weeks at the Zharawa  internally displaced persons camp where 600 people displaced from 11 villages are staying with 45 available tents with no shade nor toilets. Their displacement is a result of Turkish and Iranian bombing of the villages. The CPT team will attempt to get some media coverage of the plight of these people. How to get the international community to show compassion and respond with a helping hand? It feels as though we continue to harden our hearts towards each other and the least among us. I am reminded of a reading of Granny's dated February 1940,  from "Selected Writings" which I start my mornings with. "The End of the Line" describes how she sees a man who has lost everything sitting on the subway train and her heart FEELS his pain and despair. Other people react with ridicule. I pray that we soon will have a world in which most people can respond to those in need with love and mercy. Is that so hard to imagine? 

I will go bowling tonight with new friends. The Bowling Center is three stories high; the lanes are on the first floor, restaurant on the second, and war games, pool, and air hockey on the third floor. This is a new added attraction to the city and people flock to it. There are no obvious cinemas showing Hollywood movies but the TV has plenty of typical American fare with Kurdish subtitles. 

We now have a kiddie pool on the roof and it comes in very handy on the hot afternoons when we return from school sweaty and tired.

Until my next blog, sarchow or xuah afiz, see you later. I miss my family and neighbors!

June 10th Another Hot Day in Suli

Classes are going well with the exception of the 5 year olds at 1:00 in the afternoon. They arrive earlier, at 10:00 in the morning and by the last session they (we) have had it. So today we sang a song about riding our new bike and I handed out markers for them to draw pictures of animals. We named a few animals just to make sure we were on the right track. The results were mixed yet entertaining. The school has plenty of chips and candy to sell to the kids during break time and that really helps with the activity levels. 

I am writing this at 8:30 PM and the call to prayer has just started. Praises to God rise up in the night sky. One mosque follows another with varying male voices reciting verse. The traffic on Salman Street, a main road a block away, continues to swish past. The sounds of the city are comforting. 

About shoes: I have three pair for distinct functions, much more complex than Hawaiian culture. A pair for the streets, a pair for the house, and a pair for the toilet which is a very good idea. This task was beyond me the first week here but I am now consistently managing to kick off/slip on the right shoes at the proper locations. All in a day's life here in Kurdistan.

I have adopted a parrot and finch from the school where they were not adequately cared for; both their mates died from lack of water and/or exposure to ant poison. My morning routine is now balanced with chores; taking care of the birds.

I have also attended the local Chaldean Catholic Church for the past two Sundays. The first Mass ended with the priest inviting the congregation to speak and an argument (or discussion) ensued and people walked out, the priest disappeared in a hurry, and that was that. I thought I heard the word Quran several times, sure wish I could understand Arabic and Sorani. Many of the people come from Baghdad to flee the chaos and danger of a war zone. The liturgy is in Assyrian, the homily in Sorani. The church was built by Talibani, the current president of Iraq; he is a Christian from here. I have yet to begin to comprehend the layers of history here and the different peoples involved. Tribal, religious, and political affiliation dictates much.

I am quite tired and so must sign off for now. Tragic news from home about our pullets not surviving, poor Steven dealing with so much alone.

Tuesday, June 9th, Classes are in Session

Today was overcast and cool, great for a change. We are teaching kids in the morning at the Shadiady Park. It was built in 1999 on the military site where the Iraqi regime imprisoned and disappeared Kurdish residents of Sulimani. The people of the city have reclaimed it for themselves. There are rides, concession stands, fountains, trees, and pavilions. As we drive in for the first morning of class one of the teachers makes a comment wondering about haunted spirits being here; this is where people have died.

The kids are delightful, beautiful faces, names that are lovely and when I attempt to pronounce them they break into laughter. Savya, Sharo, Hersh, Ashe, Aram, Roza, Kreshma, these are the easy ones to pronounce. I have no formal teacher training, I just share with them, we talk about colors, shapes, naming objects, practice greetings, and do simple math. 

In the evening we sit of the upstairs roof enjoying the sunset and cool breeze. The mountains that surround the city are hazy today, barely visible. Night hawks fly past, sending out their characteristic calls. I am reminded of being in Claremont, New Hampshire, on a hot summer night, coming out of the movie theatre, hearing the night hawks. It is a small world. I am so far from home and yet at home. People have the same natures and needs. Hearing discussions and disagreements in Sorani during the day, this isn't so different than other places where I have been.

Sirwan, our boss and the founder of the school, along with his wife, was born and raised here. One night he asked me how I was and I said I was a bit homesick. He asked me wearily "Martha, why you come to Sulimani?" My only reply could be that I am asking myself the same question.   

June 4th, Thursday

It is Thursday and the temperature is pushing 100 degrees F. We haven't started our classes yet and I have been here for two weeks. I am getting accustomed to the art form of using the turkish toilet. Every move is choreographed and planning ahead is essential. As an occupational therapist I'm all about positioning and sequencing. My hips and knees are doing OK and I remind myself that THIS IS GOOD FOR ME. 

I have to sign off for now but more later.

I miss you Steven!