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.