As I sit on this crowded bus, packed with office workers in suits and university students eager to get home in the traffic rush hour, my mind ponders as I look out the window. Fogged up from the over-crowding, lack of ventilation and the cold rain blasting against it, I look through the glass beyond all of that into the thousands of cars battling it out on the roads in peak hour traffic. Squirming their way in and out of lanes to catch that 5 minutes to be home a little earlier. Maybe they have a wife/husband and family waiting for them when they get home. Maybe a pet that needs feeding, or a favorite TV show they need to catch. The flashing of lights, honking of horns, road rage and complete havoc of that sight out the bus window on a rainy day took me back to Kurdistan.
I found myself in my uncle’s farm in a small village by the name of Nawara, 30 minute drive outside of Sine, East Kurdistan. The peace and tranquility in the mountains of Kurdistan are indescribable in the English vocabulary. The pure and honesty of the lands on the famous mountains of Kurdistan are beyond imaginable. The endless green scenery, the wild animals, the fruit trees and best of all the natural waterfalls. It is truly what dreams are made of. I can’t even begin to explain the feeling of warmth when the entire family gathers in these farms on Friday evenings for a feast. The feeling of home embedded in the soil. The history etched in the air. The pain and grief behind all the smiles. Each leaf will tell you a story of death.
As my mind wanders, my heart aches. How did the people of this land end up invisible? How did this land get torn apart and destroyed by war? then forgotten by the world. How does the blood splattered on this beauty stay hidden from the eyes of human activists? I can’t help but wander what it would be like if all those thousands of years ago during the time of empires if no such thing as borders had been introduced by the west whether the beauty of Kurdistan would be so painful. Whether I would be sitting here in an over-crowded bus in Australia wandering if my family is safe, if my people will be bombed, terrorized or murdered in their sleep tonight. Whether I will wake to another day of more bloodshed.
I look out the window one more time. I see a young boy waiting to cross the road. It is hailing with rain now and the sky has completely darkened. The cars are still honking in traffic stuck bumper to bumper in the pouring rain. The boy carrying an over-weight bag too big for his size waits hesitantly for a gap to cross the road. Shivering and drenched from the wet weather he bolts across the road as cars, buses and bikes stop or swerve to miss him. My heart starts to race as my eyes follow the boy across the road. As he runs across and into the front yard of a garden I see a women waiting for him at the door. She embraces the boy in a long warming hug before taking him inside to dry off and get warm. As they disappear into the house my mind quickly jets back to Kurdistan and I wander who will embrace the homeless orphans sleeping in the cold? Who will help warm up the families living in tents in earthquake wrecked and government deprived Wan, North Kurdistan? Who will shelter West Kurdistan’s children from the raging war? or the mother’s who are crying for their son’s and daughter’s being murdered in East Kurdistan? Who will care for those who do not have the world’s warm embrace?…Who will care for Kurdistan?