الله أكبر لااله الا اللهالحمد لله سبحان الله

“Subhan'Allāh Alhambulillah La ilaha illa-llah Allāhu Akbar…”

“God is pure, Thanks be to God, God is one, God is great…"

In Arabic, we stumbled through this prayer over and over, the 99 beads in our hands keeping track of the praise due to God.

For the past few weeks, life here has been defined, altered, and centered around Ramadan. This Holy Month celebrates the beginning of the revelation of the Koran, and is a time for Muslims around the world to refocus, dedicating their lives to fasting, charity, prayer, and devotion to God.

Last night my friend Arazoo invited us to accompany her to the mosque to pray. We left our sandals and preconceptions at the door, and attempted to mimic everything she did.

“Subhan'Allāh Alhambulillah La ilaha illa-llah Allāhu Akbar…”

Joining hundreds of women repeatedly standing, bowing, kneeling, and prostrating before our God, I’ve never experienced such a connection between my body and my prayers. I know in my heart that’s as it always should be; my actions in tune with my prayers. But would repeating these prayers and set motions over and over, hundreds of thousands of times throughout life cause these motions to become just that… going through the motions?

After prayer, and bombardment with welcomes and kind smiles from many women, we strolled to a nearby ice cream shop, discussing devotion over soft serve.

“When you say prayers 100 times, God adds a tree to your garden in heaven,” Arazoo told us. “And when you say them during Ramadan, he builds villa for you.”

Alex asked, “What color villa do you want?”

Arazoo laughed and smiled, “I don’t care about villa. I just want to more love for God. Because he loves me.”

Even though our prayers look different and sound different, we have the most important words in common; “because he loves me.” We both have so much to learn from each other… of different words we can use to praise God, and of how big he is, and of how patient he is when we think we have him figured out.

It is far, far from my place to judge if communal, organized prayer is “going through the motions.” More importantly, in whatever place I’m in, I hope both my words and my actions express adoring devotion like Arazoo’s, so that my life repeats,

“God is pure, Thanks be to God, God is one, God is Great…”

Mountain sunsets, birthday milkshakes, and Elvis pigeons

Prayer: 3 New Flavors

Broadcast prayer

The frequent melodic reminders echoing from mosques declare that God’s praise and adoration always trump the schedule of daily life. Radio stations sing the recitation of scripture 24/7. Although I understand no Arabic, I’m told that virtually every other sentence contains words that reference God. Perhaps this daily weaving of prayer into the fabric of life could be critiqued as too habitual, or commonplace. But cynicism aside, could there be a better habit?

Iphone prayer  

On the off chance that you are in a soundproof basement wearing earplugs and can’t hear the call to prayer, fear not, technology saves the day! The background of my friend Arazoo’s phone faithfully recounts each day’s times of prayer, outlining sunrise to sunset. I look at my phone and am reminded of places to be or tasks to do. I think I would live my day very differently if every cursory glance instead reminded me that my time is not my own. Prayer: there’s an app for that.

Climate Control prayer

Last week during the Remedy Mission, the AC went out in the OR.  A rotation of water bottles attempted to keep children’s body temperature under control, and if there already wasn’t enough to worry about, the doctors painstakingly fought to keep sweat out of the surgical field. Back in the office, we received a text asking for prayer, and shot up some recommendations to God regarding the AC.

“Why pray for this?” the logical half of my brain wondered. “I believe God works, but probably through a repairman’s skills more than my 5 second request.”

In our Saturday morning prayer time, I’m struggling to learn that prayer is a conversation, and even more than that, a partnership.

So here’s my latest guess at why it may not be so far-fetched that our prayers matter (just far-fetched enough to require the frustratingly wonderful thing call faith); We KNOW what God is doing in this world, big picture. At the end (or beginning, you could say) He will put things right, returning the world to its operation as intended. But we don’t have to wait around and twiddle our thumbs until the Apocalypse for Him to do something. God’s remaking NOW, and although he could do it much more efficiently without us, he invites us to join in. We already know the big picture of his Kingdom….so why not pray and ask for it to happen HERE and NOW, in our circumstances…in a fixed AC, and a fixed heart?

The AC almost instantly came back on, but my point is not to tell a cute story, demonstrating how my new understanding of prayer makes it “work.” That wouldn't be a conversation at all! I cheat God out of his side of the conversation when I only listen for “Yes” and “No” answers. And I also squander the gift of partnership he extends when I forget that prayer has more power than to just calm my heart, or bless this food. God allows a surgeon’s skill to accomplish His plan in real ways, repairing hearts to beat as intended. Why wouldn’t he also let prayer have tangible impact in this world?

I could write about 100 more “flavors” of prayer I've witnessed here that would involve more question marks than periods. And if anything I just wrote makes it seem like I have a handle on any of this, I apologize for having deceived you! Fortunately, God holds up his side of the conversation and partnership with incredible patience and grace…and sometimes, even timely AC repairs.

How to Lose a Guy in 10 Minutes

Yesterday after work Alex and I met our friend Arazoo in a lovely park. By lovely, I mean it would be equally apt to be the set of a creepy horror film or a Pinterest-worthy, hipster photo shoot. Lots of chipped-paint amusement park rides, overgrown bushes, and ice cream stands in various states of disrepair.

On our way to one of these stands, Arazoo asked, “Acadia, my dear, may I ask a personality question of you?”

I’m pretty sure she meant personal, because when I assured her of course, that’s what friends do, she replied, “So you think you will marry Iraqi man?”

Cue frantic scramble to choose the words that could express the absolute impossibility of that situation without insulting her, Iraqi men, or her entire culture in general. “Uh….well I will be going home to America in three weeks, and I must finish university, and then medical school. So I won’t have time to be married for awhile, don’t you think?”

“But after, will you marry American man or Iraqi man? Because my friend, he ask if you marry him.”

*Brief explanation (as I attempt to understand) of the alternative to dating that occurs here:

1. Boy sees Girl in a public setting (in this case, the Life Center, where we help practice English). Boy likes Girl.

2. Boy talks to Girl’s friend (mandatory to go through at least one middleman, preferably more) to see if she’s interested in, you know, being married.

3. If Girl is convinced, her family and Boy’s family have a picnic, size up each other’s social standing, and tah dah, engaged! Then Boy and Girl can spend time together, in public.

That’s incredibly oversimplified, especially in this city, the most progressive in the country…but you get the picture, it’s a lot quicker of a process than in America. And I somehow found myself on step 2 of 3! I was suddenly in danger of violating on of our unbreakable female intern pacts we swore at the beginning of the summer: no engagements, and no leg-shaving. (Gotta defy the excessive gender roles we’re forced into in some stealthy way, you know).

 “Well Arazoo, before we get married in America, people usually know each other for a much longer time” (translation: AT ALL!).

I continued, “I will be going home soon, and though someday Insha’allah maybe I will return to Iraq, I won’t have enough time to get to know any men.  So you can tell your friend, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to get married.”

She shook her head a bit and handed me mostly melted ice cream as consolation for my loss. “Well, he will disappointed, my dear. I tell him.”

Disappointed??? I almost spit out my ice cream, trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. I suppose the loss of a potential visa is disappointing, but the alternative would be the most disappointing Iraqi housewife ever to cook rice. Little does Mystery Proposer know that rice is approximately the only Iraqi food I could make…

Arazoo didn’t seem too phased by her friend's rejection, and we enjoyed the rest of the night still happily single ladies. Crisis averted in the park. And just to clarify, by crisis I don’t mean a sudden engagement to an Iraqi man I don’t know. Muuuuch more of a crisis would be what my mother would do to me if she found out :)

4th of July, Iraq edition

Happy 4th of July! Freedom pizza :)

Lately I’ve been lax on processing my thoughts to post-on-the-internet levels of organization. I’ve been meaning to write about one particular conversation from a few weeks ago, and there is no more fitting (or ironic?) day than this July 4th: let’s chat about freedom.

Occasionally we eat lunch with a local friend who works with PLC (and thanks to his well-known father’s name, allows us to have visas. I think that means that the government believes our last names are all Hassan). He was born here, but spent time in Europe, offering an interesting mix of East-West perspective.

“Freedom is a good thing, I think,” he told us, upon inquiry of his thoughts about America. “But also, freedom will destroy the world.”

I’m incredibly thankful for our country, but do not consider myself intensely patriotic. I’m not a fan of barbeque chicken, rodeos, or baseball. Nevertheless, I prickled a bit hearing his critical words.

“I will explain. Because of freedom, women in America are treated like a t-shirt…you change whenever you want. No respect.”

I would say that the most common stereotype of Muslim culture I’ve heard is that of abused, disrespected, imprisoned women. I am sure that that is a tragic reality for some women here and I don’t dismiss it, but I hadn’t ever placed it next to a critique of a closer-to-home alternative. Could he have something of a point?

“Just because you have the freedom to treat women with disrespect, it doesn’t mean you have to. Don’t you think the problem is the bad choice, and not the freedom itself?” I asked.

“No, the problem is the freedom.”

I wanted to argue, to defy the stereotype of American relationships, to remind him that people in this culture can also disregard commitment even if they’re not “free” by law or society. And what about the truth I’ve always been told, that love means so much more if you have the freedom to choose it?? It’s not my country that tells me that, but my faith!

I stewed in my begrudgingly respectful silence for a while, until I realized:

My local friend defines “freedom” very differently than I do.

According to my ridiculously oversimplified knowledge of Muslim theology, anything and everything that happens in the world does so only by God’s decree. His Law dictates how the world should work, and any ‘freedom’ outside of it opposes His will. By that definition, freedom is automatically synonymous with sin. In my American mind, freedom is synonymous with choice.

So although we disagree on some of our views about how the world works, and what words we use to describe it, I think our local friend and I agree on more than it seems. We both value commitment, we both know that sin (whether you call it a wrong choice or freedom) destroys the world, and we both desire to live as God intends. He is thankful to live in a country that encourages God’s Law, allowing religion and politics and career and life to overlap. I am thankful to live in a country (and with a Savior) in which I’m free to make choices that can glorify God.

There are pros and cons to both situations, but I cannot believe that only one is a pro and one a con. Sometimes all this mind-opening and perspective-broadening is exhausting! Who knows? Maybe next I’ll have to admit there are pros and cons to even baseball…

Waging Peace

What is the first thing you think of when you hear “Iraq?”

Judging from the frequency of cautions to “Be safe” I received when explaining my Middle Eastern summer plans, for many of us violence instantly comes to mind. To be fair, this association carries unfortunate truth: in May 2013, the UN estimates sectarian violence claimed the lives of 1,045 Iraqis.

In Northern Iraq, I remain safe, and feel as far removed from that overwhelming number as you do. In my comfortable bubble, I proudly call myself a pacifist, spontaneously cry when viewing even violent cartoons, and enjoy arguing (granted, not usually successfully) the absolute pointlessness of guns. All these nonviolent convictions amount to essentially nothing in my thus-far sheltered circumstances. But what about those who don’t have the luxury of only dealing with violence hypothetically? Does nonviolence really work for them as well?

New conviction, and one I’m prepared to argue: nonviolence works, if it doesn’t mean non-action.

Don’t worry, I’m not advocating a move to Baghdad, stopping guns and bullets in the air. I have zero idea how to stop terrorists from their already irrational, fear-inspiring actions, but I think it takes more than not shooting back.

In military terms, ‘preemptive’ refers to a strike, hitting the enemy hard before they can hit back. Preemptive love instead actively loves someone before they ask, or love back.

Preemptive Love Coalition daily “wages peace.” On the outside, heart surgeries may appear to merely put a band-aid on the effects of violence, instead of healing the source. But preemptive love is creative nonviolence in action. Through PLC’s work, people who view each other as enemies have worked together, entrusted their children into each others’ hands, and let go of hateful stereotypes for the sake of love. It’s not stopping a car bombing from happening today, but preemptive love addresses a much deeper root cause, so that someday maybe band-aids won’t even be needed. I have no idea what kind of band-aid could stop genocides or terrorism in the moment, and confess that obviously these thoughts are idealistic and uninformed. But I’ll take inspiring idealism over paralyzing cynicism any day. I hope to continue to learn from the lives of people like my friends at PLC, who have transformed idealism into action.

Violence is a reality of this world; you don’t have to be in a “dangerous” place to find it. You also don’t have to be in a dangerous place to actively fight it. Someday all violence, whether economic, physical, emotional, or spiritual will all be put right. To get in on God’s plan in all of this, maybe we just all need to be a little more active, and more creative. If heart surgeries can undo terrorism, how can you use your circumstances to wage peace?

 

Violence won't always have the last word... 

Why I may give history class another chance

In the summer of 2009, a young Minnesotan-born, California-educated hiker visited a scenic waterfall on the border of Iraq and Iran. He and his two traveling partners wandered off the beaten path and ventured a bit too close to said border. After a run-in with Iranian border patrol, they found themselves spending the next two years detained for charges of espionage in a prison in Tehran.

On the way to the waterfall. So many trees!

In the summer of 2013, another young Minnesotan-born, California-educated hiker visited that waterfall …but kept her adventurous inclinations under control, and traveled safely home at the end of the day. Under normal hiking circumstances I am all about exploration, especially when tall vantage points beckon and waterfalls are involved. But not today; history was not about to repeat itself.

On the way to our waterfall hike today, I experienced an even more significant desire for history to never be repeated. We visited a memorial dedicated to the 5000 civilians of Halabja that were brutally killed by chemical weapons on March 16, 1988, during the Iraq-Iran War.

Confession: It possibly has taken me until yesterday to admit that history may be useful. I don’t mean to offend those of you who enjoy history, but I often question how practical it is in my daily operations. Yes, I know we should learn from our fellow humans’ mistakes and successes to create a better future. But rarely do dates of wars or AP US History trivia come into consideration when I get up each morning and live out my day.

Between our waterfall hike and time at the memorial, I think I may finally understand why I should give history a chance. Not a chance at a double major, but at some over-due appreciation…

Inside the memorial

Sometimes the caution “history repeats itself” may actually matter like they say it does. Most history we study in school is far removed from my life, and unless I become someone much louder, important, or presidential, my decisions will never be in danger of causing those textbook-scale repetitions. But history on a personal level, as stories of positive or negative consequences of actions similar to my own, has infinite value. Some things, like accidental espionage into Iran, don’t fall into the “learn by trying and failing” category.

I don’t think many of us will ever be in the position to make a decision with potential to lead to a tragic event like the bombing of Halabja. But all of us humans battle against the same fallen-world motivations that led to this horrific event…greed, pride, power, retaliation, injustice. So history shouldn't lead to shallow hate-causing blame, or far-removed pity, or despair. It can instead remind us that although for a time we will all repeat these mistakes on many scales, there is another type of repetition in history: the infinite chances to listen, learn, and next time choose differently.

Not your typical 21st...

Yesterday I walked into the kitchen, said good morning to Emma and Micah (my early-rising, castle-building, ever-energetic 5 and 7 year old housemates), and was commanded, “Miss Acadia, don’t you even think about looking over here!” Micah rushed to the counter and indignantly spread his arms, in a quite valiant attempt to hide the large bowls of fruit in plain view.

Someone knows me well…Ridiculous quantities of my favorite fruits and surprise ‘A’ shaped pancakes began the most atypical, and wonderful, birthday ever.


Sometimes pancakes and bananas are better than birthday cake and ice cream (especially if you mercilessly stuff the bananas with chocolate and nutella and stick them in the oven til gooey delicious). Sometimes the best gifts aren’t in wrapping paper. Sometimes catchphrase is a better birthday party game than…uh, any number of more typical 21^st festivities.

Banana smores, Kurdistan edition

That ‘sometime’ was yesterday. My wonderful friends here didn’t ascribe to the traditional birthday customs. They made the effort to incorporate my unique quirks and wishes I didn’t even express. They prepared a surprise fruit breakfast even though a cake mix and candles would’ve been much more simple. They could’ve wrapped up some nice sparkly jewelry for a gift, but instead took the time to (sneakily!) set up a fundraiser for a child’s surgery on the upcoming Remedy Mission.

These dear friends know me well, and showed me that we weren’t celebrating my birthday, but celebrating me.

Spiritual application time: Last night at home group we compared different ways of knowing Jesus. On one hand, memorizing stories, hearing other people speak, and knowing facts (like the date of a birthday) all provide important insights to who a person is. This “head knowledge” requires minimal commitment.  But you can get to know endearing quirks and wishes, and true birthday cake preferences, and favorite activities, and it's a whole different story. This heart knowledge requires daily life together.

I want to know Jesus well enough to truly celebrate him. The Creator God knows each of us that well, and thanks to His Son, it is a two-way road.

That road can be quite beautiful, sometimes a terrifying adventure, and often difficult. Yesterday, I was blessed to take a step down the road by witnessing in my friends the generous spirit of a God who celebrates us. I must thank Him, and them, because it’s the best birthday gift I could ask for. (Banana smores and lifesaving heart surgeries close after…)

Flowers and Mirrors

Once upon a time there was a tragically poetic flower. This pink flower grew among twenty gun-laden combat vehicles in various states of dusty disrepair. These vehicles rested between bullet-ridden buildings and barbed wire frosted walls: the Amna Suraka, Saddam’s past intelligence center and prison for Kurdish rebels (and civilians). The Amna Suraka shared its city block with many homes and workplaces, smack dab in the middle of a bustling city currently growing out and up. Across the street lay Parke Azadi. Occupying the green square of “Freedom Park” were running paths, ice cream stands to motivate said running, pomegranate shaped benches, the most unstable roller coaster I’ve ever been tempted to ride, and…a mass graveyard.

Each of these layers of our tour of the Amna Suraka alone tells a completely different story. The compound now stands as a museum of Kurdish culture and the crimes committed before the prison was liberated by guerilla fighters in 1991. It was a powerful and challenging afternoon, and I wish I could accurately tell you its story, or at least one insightful take-away.

But I hesitate; I’m too afraid.

I’m afraid that my words and limited interpretation of my time here can only communicate one side of the story. The city blocks that house the Amna Suraka and Parque Azadi tell not one story, but many. Last week we discussed a Ted talk (http://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story.html) about the danger of believing a ‘single story.’ In my short description above, I’m sure I’ve perpetuated stereotypes, oversimplified, and focused on what I want to see. A single story tricks us into putting an idea into a predictable box. A single story allows me to assume that I know more than I do about pink flowers and history and people I meet and God.

So I must remind myself as a writer, and you as a reader (to whom I’m so grateful for caring about my jumbled thoughts and experiences!) that no matter how many layers of description I can fit in a blog post, it is still only one interpretation of the story. Maybe setting foot in Iraq entitles me to have an opinion of the sounds I hear, the sights I see, and the feelings I personally experience. But in no way am I qualified to tell an accurate story of Iraq or its people or history.

Inside the Amna Suraka, 180,000 mirrors remember the Kurdish victims of genocide-like violence of the 80s. Each light on the ceiling represents a village destroyed. Each mirror belongs to a unique face, story, life. That’s easy to forget, as I saw hundreds of my own reflection staring back, my one interpretation of this story. But these mirrors show a different image to each passerby, reminding me that there are countless stories involved. Oversimplification leads to pity instead of progress and assumption instead of understanding. That makes it quite difficult to write a blog, or share my experiences, or find motivation to begin the daunting task of meaningful understanding. But hearing more than a single story can only happen one step, or one day, or one pink flower, at a time.

Worth 8000 Words

 

 

 



Photo collage inspiration thanks to Alex! Check out her blog at www.somewherenearbabylon.blogspot.com. Sorry about the watermark I can't get rid of; my limited technology skills barely made it this far. :) 

Bucket Showers

You know those situations or ideas (or people, every once in awhile) that manage to be perfectly rational and utterly illogical, at the same exact time?

Bucket showers: utterly illogical. Imagine a large and flimsy bucket of water, a very stationary and grounded sort of vessel, too small to be a bath and too large to be effectively poured. Although the water in that bucket does (supposedly) possess hygienic qualities, it in no way acts or rinses or falls like any sort of shower I know.

Bucket showers: perfectly rational. Perfectly, that is, when 12 people in one household must conserve enough water for showers, dishes, cooking, clothes, toothbrushing, and most importantly, squatty potty flushing. Thus the toasty mornings in which I don’t resort to dry shampoo begin with this awkwardly executed but necessary ritual.

Pedestrians have no right away: utterly illogical. There is NEVER a time when it is your designated turn to walk across the street. What bustling urban traffic system operates like that??

Pedestrians have no right away: perfectly rational. Only a few life-threatening walks to work until I realized that actually, it is always your turn to cross the street. No waiting for signals or green lights. Just walk out into the 6 lane busy road and stare down a hopefully attentive driver. He’s 99.9% likely to choose slamming on the breaks over a hit-and-run charge.

And because I’m overseas and feel like finding meaning in every little experience is the thing to do, it makes me think…

There are a lot of ‘bucket showers’ here, situations in which I first label the completely illogical, but know that deep down it must make sense to someone. On the flip side, I’m sure there are countless things I do or say every day that seem rational to me, but appear ridiculous to everyone else. Some mornings Alex and I wake up early and run in the park (despite the heat, wearing the same amount of clothes I would for a run in late November in MN), and every man we pass gives us quite the confused look. To them, two women running early in the morning are not one but three baffling bucket-shower-sort-of-situations. What is a perfectly normal activity for Alex and me raises eyebrows of people for whom it is completely out of place.

I suppose the insightful takeaway is… people aren’t stupid. None of us act or think in ways that don’t make sense to ourselves. I suppose that’s one thing we all have in common, even if that doesn’t guarantee we share the same definition of commonsense.

Cross-cultural living and decoding each situation to find the hidden logical explanation sometimes feel like an exciting game. (Tiebreaker round if you’re up to a challenge: how to possibly think that eating goat tongue soup is a quality culinary idea. Still has me stumped). But attempting to see the logic underneath what I label as ridiculous is not a merely a game; it’s a very important habit called empathy. Whether walking in another’s shoes to understand their water conservation tricks, or pedestrian manners, or beliefs, or values, empathy is the only hope we have to really understand each other, and why we all do what we do. Still won’t motivate me to ever eat another bite of goat tongue soup; no force is that strong…

Tiny Hearts and Language Barriers

Departing from the office work I have been doing since arriving here, this week I shadowed a pediatric cardiologist from the states, in Iraq on a medical mission. Receiving a crash course in medical scribing, I took patient histories, recorded all of Dr. Kirk’s notes, and observed countless ECHOs and heart exams. Despite being emotionally exhausting, the week proved incredible, giving faces and meaning to the statistics I’ve been typing up in the office, teaching me to hear different heart murmurs, and inspiring in me a new calling. Mom, Dad, I want to be a translator.

Don’t get me wrong, my limited Kurdish still consists of awkward introductory remarks and ordering one type of food. My brain truly is not wired for foreign language acquisition, but I witnessed two types of translation this week, and the latter requires no language skills. Let me explain. ..

I can’t think of anything that appears more terrifying than parenthood. This week I was scared to even consider putting myself in the shoes of the mothers and fathers of children with broken hearts. How can you love someone so very much, wanting to give everything you can to your child, and be so utterly helpless to translate that love into tangible change? The pain I saw overwhelmed me. I don’t doubt the incredible strength of a parent’s love, but it can’t physically close a hole in your daughter’s right ventricle, or correct your son’s transposed arteries.

Fortunately, a surgeon’s hands can.  A heart surgeon’s knowledge and passion and skill can translate parents’ loving desire for their child to have a long, healthy life into the reality of a strongly pumping heart. What if we all viewed our careers and friendships and families and lives as similar services for “translation”? 

God works in often frustratingly mysterious ways, but there’s quite a bit of evidence that his fatherly loving desire for his broken-hearted children includes the world being daily made right. Sometimes that means physical healing of a small heart, sometimes it means peace in a violent place, sometimes it means His children coming to know Him. And instead of accomplishing those desires on his own (which he could do much more cleanly and in a trillionth of a second, no sweat), he lets us in as partners on his work of daily Redeeming. As agents of His love communicated to this world, aren’t well all in essence  just translators of his plan?

I don’t yet have the skills to translate God’s love into a physically healed heart.  But no matter the career or stage of life any of us are in, we can daily translate his love into tangible actions that make the world a bit more right. Jesus interpreted Love into our language, so we can follow his example to not just translate that Love into words, but into action. “We know what real love is because Jesus gave up his life for us. So we also ought to give up our lives for our brothers and sisters.”  Later on in 1 John, we are reminded that “Such love has no fear.” If we can learn to trust each other and God to translate perfect love into the promised rightness of the world, maybe the helplessness I saw in so many parents’ eyes will be less of a reality.

Next week I’ll be back in the office, crunching numbers and writing drafts of reports. But viewing it as God’s work spoken in the language of a business, necessary for the service and love PLC provides, it is not mundane, and just as incredible a job to be able to perform as a heart surgery.

Interior Decorating

 

I do not expect to return home in two months with a tattoo in Kurdish, although the script is the most beautiful writing I’ve ever seen. I do not expect to return home with a deep passionate love for lemons or onions, although people have a habit of eating them straight before every meal. I definitely do not expect to return home with a complete, infallible understanding of life in the Middle East, or even my own personal life. (Let me know where to find that, if you’ve heard.)

But I can tell you one certain life-altering change Kurdistan will impress on me.

My future dining room will lack a table. It is not atypical here to eat dinner on cushions on the floor, surrounding a plastic “lazy tablecloth” and delicious spread of food. (The tablecloth gets its name from the end-of-dinner simplicity of throwing all trash and scraps in the center, rolling it up, and tossing it away. Brilliant.) We eat, talk, drink tea, and recline in the dimming light for hours. No stiff dining room chairs or manners mandating upright posture impede conversation, comfort, and company. So often in the habitual rush of life, the purpose of meals becomes only caloric nutrition. Fitting with the leisurely pace of life here, meals with guests provide much more important sustenance: rest and the time to allow company to turn into friendship.

In Kurdish culture, when you serve a guest tea, a saucer always accompanies the cup. Not for the sake of appearance, but because true hospitality means serving the tea overflowing. The nights here, sans internet, and within the walls of home after sunset likewise overflow with good conversation and friendship. In Kurdish culture, you are welcome to stay in someone’s company until the fruit is brought out. I look forward to the next few months until the ‘fruit’ will be brought and my time here will end. I am sure by then I will be overflowing with many carpet-level conversations, cups of tea, and interior decorating plans.

 

 

This picture is of typical Kurdish food, although at a table-d restaurant.

Everyday delights of life in Kurdistan

·         Multi-colored baby chicks in the bazaar. Genetic engineering?

·         The freedom to eat apricots with any course of a meal

·         Simple joy of the water arrival! Announced by a man in the back of a pick up, yelling through a bullhorn. Excitement over assurance of something as taken for granted as showers and dish washing

·         Attending a Kurdish university graduation while wearing Jili Kurdi, the bright red and gold traditional Kurdish formal garb. And the more impressive feat, managing to not trip for the entire afternoon.

·         Internet-free evenings to sit around the living room in good company for hours on end

·         Worshipping Jesus with His followers far across the world…although a bit closer to where He actually walked

·         Loquats fresh off the tree

·         New friends/role models/superheroes

·         Currency that gives the false impression you have thousands in your pocket

·         The concoction of smells in the bazaar. It can’t be described entirely accurately as a delight…

·         Feeling adult enough to work in a real grown-up, 9:00-5:00 office

·         Mandated bare feet in said office

·         Park benches shaped like half eaten fruit, complete with bite marks

·         Even the frustrations of adapting to existence in a completely foreign context; they are welcome and delightful in their strange own way

Back to kindergarten?

Yesterday my 5 year old friend Micah (secret aliases: Buzz Lightyear, imaginary jungle explorer, and Acadia’s personal Kurdish tutor) laughed at me as I painfully attempted to learn to count to ten, informing me that Kurdish kindergarteners are smarter than me!  I eventually succeeded, but today was again humbled by the realization of another kindergarten lesson I may need to relearn, this one a bit more significant.

Respect. It’s sung about, plastered on every corny middle school instructive poster, and trumpeted as our most basic right. I arrived in Iraq gung-ho on respecting and appreciating new culture. I’m a responsible traveler and world citizen, right?!  But guess what, counting to ten (or a million) in Kurdish may be the easier task.

Operating under a different system of “rules” concerning everything from when it’s permissible to drink water or put on chapstick, to how to hand money to a shopkeeper, to what to wear is exhausting! Only a short time into my stay here, and I had decided halfway through our bazaar adventure today that I’d rather to believe that other kindergarten lesson, “it doesn’t matter what other people think.”

In this case, it does matter. It matters because the compassionate and right thing to do considers how my actions affect those around me, even via what they think. Our conduct matters to the future of PLC, affecting their ability to continue to operate here. It matters because it has the power to either reinforce or redefine stereotypes of Americans, and the resultant equivalent, all Christians. It matters because if I don’t make an active effort to understand a people I know nothing about, I will never understand.

So instead of frustration at double standards I see, or uncomfortable situations in which I want to revert to familiar, easy American manners, I am working on being thankful for this reminder to not live by my own “rules.” If only I consciously considered how my actions affect those around me EVERY DAY of my life; under that definition, respect means much more than not stealing your neighbor’s crayons and Goldfish crackers.

6185 miles later

6185 miles: 3 hours of driving, 15 of flying, and 13 in layovers, (including many samples of Turkish Delight in the Istanbul airport) later, my summer in Iraq begins! Correction: it is not “my” summer, but I would love to share with all of you the predicaments and praises, surprises and struggles that I may encounter. More importantly, the story of the organization I am interning with, Preemptive Love Coalition, deserves to be heard; here are some other websites that will have information about this summer. More on that to come.

 http://preemptivelove.org/misc/blog/

https://www.facebook.com/preemptivelove

I’d rather not write too many jet-lagged first impressions, as I’m sure they will become more representative when they’re no longer firsts. Stay tuned for maybe the 4^th round. One important first though, Kurdish words! I can now successfully say “bash” (good) and “spas” (thank you). Sticking with the one syllables for now, and good polite words at that. I realized quickly today how much I relied on the ‘universal language of smiles’ to avoid offense or uncomfortable interactions in Argentina, despite the fact that I could at least attempt communication in Spanish. That doesn’t apply so much here, as cross-gender smiling is not an accepted sort of behavior. Walking through the streets, you see many women holding hands with other women, and men with men, and the atmosphere isn’t at all cold or unfriendly. Suppose that means that most days I should learn more than two words!

One more thought before I attempt to sleep off the jet lag. Last Sunday in church we discussed the merits of “blooming where you’re planted.”  After 31 hours in transit, I have to say I fully recognize that few places on the planet situate themselves further from my familiar garden than Iraq. Although this summer appears in opposition to that worthwhile advice, in some ways it still applies. I remain speechlessly thankful that I remain “rooted and established in love,” planted in a faithful God and many kinds of family that don’t depend on continent.  I see this love in the lack of fear in my incredibly supportive family, in the interest and prayers from all of you, and in a God who is big enough to garden in Minnesota and Iraq. And I look forward to ”blooming” here,  by learning and experiencing and hopefully acting out His Preemptive Love, growing into a better understanding and expression of how “wide, how long, how high, and how deep” it is. More than 6185 miles in all directions, I can tell you that much so far…