The rain drops... and I.

I took this picture on my way to the library.

At nights like this I know I am not going to go to sleep for many hours tossing and turning in bed… even if the time is 3 am I will end up taking a pen and my diary out to write. So I might as well getting this out the way now so I can get a good night's sleep with a clear mind.  

Here is the story…. I was at the library today and it was raining nonstop—of course I walk to the library under the rain without an umbrella (MUM – I know you’re about to pick up the phone and tell me off, but please don't!) For me it was as though I was in heaven. I walked the entire library twice to get a good seat that a) had a computer because I hadn't taken my laptop and more importantly b) to have a nice view looking outside. I couldn't find the seat that I wanted free. I ended up sitting with an okay view. I was going through some of my research for one second and the next second I was day-dreaming, staring out the window.

I was looking at the roof top of the building next to the library. It amazed me how the rain fell on the roof, how it had created a puddle that slid down towards the pipes, how every time the heavy drops of rain fell into the puddle it would create a little ripple. I loved it. Every time I would read a few paragraphs then lift my head again to study those rain drops on the glass roof of the building opposite to the library.

Speaking to a friend later in the evening I asked "am I normal" their reply was "your mind must be so clear that you are thinking of rain drops." No. this is not the case. In fact my mind is never clear, it is always thinking, dreaming, imagining. Sometimes I wish it would stop for few minutes a day. Sometimes  I speak to my mind "you're over doing it this time" I say.

Is this how the human mind functions? What do normal girls my age think of? What do normal people think of when they are doing research? I am sure they don't analyze the rain drops on the glass roof of a building. Do they?

In my room when I have nothing better to do (I admit, as much as I hate myself for it, but sometimes I do go to the MBC.com and watch a few soaps) but most of the time I am either on TED or YouTube searching for what psychologists and scholars say about happiness, about the human mind, about thinking, about bonds (don't worry internet connection in this part of the world is so fast that the video loads before you even click on it… which makes my search a treasured experience) the point is I often question and think too deeply—just between me and me. It never bothers me… I can be alone with my thoughts for days on end without being bored. Sometimes me and my imagination are in harmony, other times we have our arguments, but somehow we manage to get along perfectly. We both know I am different and sometimes lonely in my thoughts, sometimes hard to let people understand how you think and what you believe in, sometimes you would wish you can tell someone what you're thinking and for them to say "yes me too" but that rarely happens. In this modern day and age, saying you think of the power of a smile, a rain drop or the smell of wet soil in plane terms "you're insane."  At such times my silent side takes over.

I don't look for one who thinks like me, but one who understands and appreciates these thoughts.

A peshmerga's love

on the train (picture by- SA)

I'm on the train... but no I am not writing on some fancy iWhatEver (iPad?!). I'm writing with a pen in my diary... which happens to be on paper. On this long journeyI have been reading Jean Sasson's book "Love in a Torn Land" after my Indian sister (we're a long story, but we met on mandalawi.blogpost long ago and have become pen-pals since) recommended it. 

Today, during this train journey I reached a page where Sarabast (a Peshmerga) writes to a Kurdish girl in Baghdad, in one of the love letters he writes:

"You are crushing my heart with your silence

Don’t be silent.

Don’t be cruel.

You are in every page I turn

In every word I write

All the birds here chant your name…"

In a second letter he writes…

"Dearest Joanna,

If sadness had sizes, I would wake up every day to a mountain of sadness.

If yearning had language and tunes, you would hear symphonies.

I know no geography except that towards the south. From the mountain top my vision is as clear as that of Zarqa Al-Yamara, and it pierces the distances towards Baghdad's gates to your window.

The north asks the south about you, the mountain tops ask Baghdad's buildings about you,

The pecan trees ask the palm trees about you,

But there is no answer.

I cover distances,

I go over mountains looking for one word of you,

But words are missing, and the distances are killing me.

Tell me how to reach the road to your heart,

Give me a sign, and I will be there.

I am ready to travel to you; only give me a sign,

And I will come to you. I do not want to lie to you,

But I mean it when I say I will sacrifice my life for you

Sarbast"

This is one of the many Peshmerga love stories I have read. Back home I often look through what is left of my own parent's letters (Sadly bags of notebooks and diaries were lost as they fled) the tragedy is my father's writing is too neat, beautiful  and the language is so poetic that I can't read it; mum's writing is so messy and quickly written that half the letters aren't there and therefore, I also can't read them. But the point I am trying to make here, my dearest reader, is that the Peshmerga were not only fighters in the mountains with guns, but life and its experiences made them loyal lovers and fighters of love, it made them poets and writers, it made them look into the world in a different manner and appreciate the smallest but the greatest things in life.

Today, in Kurdistan this isn't always the case. Maybe I am mistaken, maybe there is but we don't hear of it or see it. But this Peshmerga powered love that endured and risked, that fought and suffered is often no longer there. [SA just took a picture of me, seeing me write she says: "You are talking to the birds again," I smile. Maybe she is right, maybe I am talking to the birds. At least the birds might understand what I'm trying to say.]

Where are the words written on paper?... in an envelope sealed with love that was passed from hand to hand, person to person till it landed in the hands of someone who would confidently say their happiest moment in life was while opening that letter? Where is the feeling of smelling the paper, observing the ink, the handwriting, and the tear drops that have dried on the paper? I wonder where that feeling is when trying to analyze the way every word was written. Where is the poetic words that reflect feelings and thoughts? Where is the suspense of waiting for weeks or months until the next letter is receive?d

Where is the feeling of ones fingers slowly touching every word on the paper….?

Peshmerga, a freedom fighter for his country by weapons and with the mountains. And a fighter for love by the pen, with his heart. 

My dearest reader, in my father's words "aaaaaaax how the times have changed" 

(I know there are many punctuation errors here. I have tried correcting my computer skills aren't helping. You need to forgive me because this was all hand written)

Just a quiet night...

Me, under the sprinkle of light rain. Picture by P.KH.

9:51 pm in my room. I woke up to the sound of rain pattering against my window, and I will make sure before I sleep to open the window and breathe in some pure oxygen. I love the smell of soil after a strong rain.

It's another usual, quiet night here. Just me, the books, papers, pens... I love the atmosphere, but sometimes it gets to me, the reality is I am chasing a dream, and I am far from family and loves ones. But I miss home.

I know what I want to do as soon as I land in Erbil International Airport. I am going to rest for one day, and the second day going to get my camera, recorder, note book and pen and start doing something that I used to do often. I want to go and see people and write their stories. I want to do feature articles about simple, yet inspiring people, as I did before when ever I had a free morning or afternoon.

I didn't realize at the time, but now I know it was those interviews and articles I wrote that kept me going, it was like the engine to my soul and mind. I met fascinating people, in the most amazing places, the experience was incredible. It dug deep inside me, I lived with every story I wrote. I met people, bonded with them, and with time I began forming friendships with those simple, down to earth individuals.

I miss it. It was never a job, I did it as a hobby. And if I had that as a full time job, I would think I was the luckiest person. My dearest reader, you see, when you write an article, even if you're not a professional journalist, you don't just write the words that make the story, but you live the story. For nights you go to bed thinking how to write the first line, and how to end it. In the middle of the night a perfect word comes to your mind  that describes that elderly woman so well that you actually get out of your warm bed and write it down.

I am counting down the days to return so I can go hunting for my little stories....  Kurdish stories are precious in every way.