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| When the rain fell on the morning walk... |
Dad… remember all the times you would ask if we would agree to go on a family trip for the weekend, we'd be excited until the second we decide discussing options. You would list every single village name you knew, and with a little of back-and-forth friendly debate I used to say: "Eh wAllah I have a lot to do this weekend," then walk up to my room. That would be the end, and you would realize your Sazo will come along, but she's only coming to make you happy and nothing more. Remember all the times when I complained "offffff Haladen again?" Do you recall the days when you and mum would come sit next to me while I'm alone in the family room, you would both look at each other and somehow try to tell me "what do you think of a trip on Friday," You would quickly add, "We go Friday afternoon and come back early Saturday morning" (But I knew this was never going to be the case. You need two days just to say a million times "aaaaaakh era bahashta, bahasht!!").
Bawka gyan… remember all the times when I put off weekend trips for poor excuses only because I abhorred visiting the village? All the times when I would stay inside reading or studying, not leaving the room, until we left the next day? Baaba, I don’t need to remind you of all the times I whined that I couldn't sleep and the "FLIES HAVE BITTEN ME ALL OVER!!" You always smiled and said "They like sweet people!" I always got mad, saying it wasn't funny.
Your daughter was naïve, she didn't understand you, she didn't understand the world.
Here I am, so far from you, an hour and a half past midnight. My tears that have fell on the keyboard have formed a river and every time I press a letter it forms a little splash. With the tears I have a confession to make. The best day of my life, with no doubt what so ever (after my graduation day that is) was when you and I woke up when it was still dark in the Village of Haladen, and you took me on a morning walk that lasted more than three hours.
Dad, everything you had taught me in my life I learned on that walk.
Dad, I can't forget how you walked with a Sheppard and talked to him, if anyone didn't know they would have thought you were best friends.
Dad, do you remember the breakfast: maast, chay, and naan in the company of someone we bumped into during our walk… who later turned out to be one of your previous students?
Do you remember the sheep that walked all around me… and you laughed as you told me "stay here for two months and you will make a great village girl"
Dad did you realize I didn't scream when the donkeys walked past me? And I didn't walk away when the chickens and roosters came closer...
Remember the very old woman in jli Kurdi hitting the cows? You admired her.
Baaba, remember how it rained, I took off my jumper, untied my hair and walked under it, feeling every sprinkle on my face with my hands wide open to welcome it on me. You are the only person in the world who doesn't tell me off when I walk under the rain. In fact, you are the only person I remember who has agreed to walk under the rain with me so many times.
How I miss those times. Now that I am far from home, I wish for those moments to be re-lives once again. I need you in my life, until my last breath. I need those days. I treasure every second with you in a Kurdistani village.
Dad, you know how you gave me your tasbeeh that morning to hold for you? (also seen in the picture above... around my wrist). But what you don’t know is that the same tasbeeh is around my wrist right now. When I know I am going to have a tough day I wear it, when I have an essay or an exam it's the first thing I put around my wrist when I wake up in the morning.
Baaba gyan, your dream has become my dream.
You always said: "I wouldn't change an hour in the village for a lifetime abroad"
Dad. Me too. I wouldn't either.
And that's my confession to you.
