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=> Re: Emelian memories in Bet-Nahrain
| Re: Emelian memories in Bet-Nahrain |
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Posted by
Maggie
(Guest)
- Wednesday, October 26 2005, 6:29:53 (CEST) from 4.245.101.99 - dialup-4.245.101.99.Dial1.SanJose1.Level3.net  Network -  Windows NT -  Internet ExplorerWebsite: Website title: |
The most beautiful memory I have from my childhood, is when I lived in Khanaqueen. I thought I was in paradise. No child could ever want more from a place. Our little town was surrounded by the Iranian foothills. When I stood at the top of the hills, I could see Qasr Shereen, where legends were made. Shereen and Parhad were star-crossed lovers, and because Parhad couldn't be with his sweet heart, he built a palace in her name on the Iraq/Iran border, called "Qasr Shereen". In the back of our house were luscious orchards, full of palm trees loaded with dates and orange groves as far as the eye can see, and toot, (berries) and yangee donya, trees. I couldn't stand meat because lamb smelled so bad to me, so I practically lived on the fruit from the orchards, climbing the trees like a tomboy and helping myself to the fruit of paradise. When I bit into a yangee donya, the juices flowed down my chin and neck. When I peeled an orange you could smell it all the way to the end of the world. Our toot tree gave the most fabulous and gigantic berries you've ever seen, sweet and juicy. Just a few yards from our house, was the mighty Alwand river, where I went swimming and fishing with my two brothers, after school, everyday. On the other side of the river were green pastures and the big green valley, we called raoola, or wadi in Arabic. Just beyond the valley, over the top of the eastern hills, were the Kurdish villages. The Kurdish tibesmen all knew my dad because he employed their relatives or helped them out in difficult times. Kurdish shepherds would come down to the wadi to herd their sheep everyday. In the summer it would get somewhat hot, so my dad would come home for lunch and we would eat together around 2PM. We were home from school by then. On my way home from school, I would stop at Gawhar's, a Kurdish woman who baked the best bread I have ever eaten. I can still see the tiny balls of dough formed on her arms as she stretched the dough and flung it in the air and down again on her arms to stretch it as big as she can. She would then sprinkle water on one side of the stretched dough and flop it in the tanoor. A few minutes later she proudcued hot and deliciously crisp bread and stacked it on my arms to carry home. After eating lunch together, my dad would turn on the air conditioner and ask us all to lay down for a nap. I couldn't sleep in the day time if you killed me. So I would wait for everyone to fall asleep and then sneak out of the house, my pockets full of chocolates and candy and run nonstop all the way to the top of the hill overlooking the wadi. I'd find the Kurdish shepherds tending to their flocks. Of course they all knew my dad, so they were somewhat intimidated by my presence at first, as they wondered what I was doing there, a "Christian Assyrian" girl among Kurds. They couldn't say no to me out of respect for my dad. I would speak to them in Kurdish and would ask them if I could exchange my chocolates to herd their sheep for an hour. This became my favorite afternoon pastime for years. I would take the shepherd's cane and herd the sheep, singing Kurdish sheep-herding songs I had learned from them. Sometimes, I would switch to singing Bint Al Reef songs I learned from the Kawleeya, (the Bedou Arabs) who came to town to sell salt off the backs of their camels. After herding the sheep, I would run home and take a shower before my family woke up so they wouldn't smell the sheep on me. My sheep-herding days were over, when one afternoon my dad nearly swallowed a fly napping and snoring with his mouth open. He woke up coughing and found me missing. I had to confess where I had been and for how long I had been doing this sheep-herding business. Needless to say, my dad contacted the village sheiks and investigated, or I should say interrogated their shepherds. They gave me away begging my dad not to hurt them. My dad ordered them not to ever let me talk them into herding their flocks again, and my business ended abruptly. The evenings were just as beautiful as the days of Khanaqueen. After lunch, my dad would go back to the office around 4 PM. He would come back home around 7 PM and we would have dinner around 8PM. Afterwards, the whole family would go for a walk. My dad always said "Nitaasha, nitmashaa" meaning dining then walking. We couldn't stay out late because the Kurdish Peshmergas would come out of hiding at night. Most evenings, we would have friends and neighbors over and we would sit near the fireplace roasting chestnuts and peanuts. My dad would play the violin for a while or read us one of the plays he had translated into Assyrian. Some nights our neighbor, Rouel Zomaya, the singer, would come over with his family and sing his beautiful ancient Assrian folk songs. Then around 10 or 11 PM the sound of gunfire would be heard and we would know Barazani and his Peshmergas were fighting the Iraqi soldiers. Some nights, the fighting would get so heavy and so close, that Rouel and his family would have to spend the night at our house. There was never a dull moment in Khanaqueen. I thought I was going to die the day we left Khanaqueen to come to America. I never forgave my dad for taking me out of paradise. While living in Skokie, Illinoise, I would always dream that I would see Khanaqueen some day. I finally went back to Iraq for the first time in 30 years, in 2001. I asked my cousin Jon to drive me from Baghdad to Kahanqueen to see my old house. He argued with me for a week, refusing to do it. I finally got it out of him. He told me that during the Iraq and Iran war, not only our house but our entire neighborhood was flattened by all the bombings back and forth, during the 8-year war. He said Khanaqueen had become a soldier's fort, sort of a check-point during Saddam's reign. I cried uncontrollably when I heard all this, because I knew I would never see paradise again. --------------------- |
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