My heart is yearning for the Kurdistani spring..
As my government has announced a 48-hour lockdown, and more than three weeks into isolation- today there was not a single heart beat in the roads of my city. What is fresh air and oxygen without souls of people to inhale it?
I am yearning to smell the freshness of life on a mountain top. In the ocean of greenery I want to swim in Nergis. I want to make a head halo for little Lenya with the tiny yellow flowers, weave them together one by one with the tips of my fingers for her to wear…
I am yearning to see a mother’s bright Kurdish clothes as she serves her manjal of dolma prepared well into midnight hours of last night.
I am yearning to see baaba playing backgammon under the shade of trees in Heran and Nazanin.
I am yearning to run after my new sandals through cold waters of Jundiyan, while a child accidentally wets me from head to toe with their water gun.
I am yearning to pickup a shooti from the ice waters of Bekhal, and watch it drip and stain my children’s clothing as they take cold bites of a juicy red slice.
I am yearning to see my Yad flying a kite, running in his shrwal, while the only kite flying is the pshten of his jli kurdi behind him
I am yearning for a walk in Park Sami AbdulRahman, where couples come to fall in love, or break their love and walk separate ways; to whisper their words and know the trees have promised to keep their secrets.
I am yearning for guests to flood my house, to be in the kitchen cooking meal after meal, serving tea after tea. For our single friends to complain about love, while I create music with the sound of gwlabarozha as it mountains in front of me (while I refute all their claims)
I am yearning to walk into Baba and Daya’s garden, and be introduced to a new rose, a new plant, a new bird nesting high in a tree
My hearts is yearning for all the loo and chai stops from Hawler to Masif, to Shaqlawa, to the Grand Canyon of Kurdistan, Rwandz
I miss the smell of exhausted families with smile lines and pain in their stomachs from laughter at the end of a long day, as they stand for hours in the traffic between Shaqlawa and Hawler well into their Friday midnight
I am yearning to see workers go home at the end of the day in their paint stained clothing, walking into their home with kilos of fruits and veggies in hand, to be greeted by their children
I am yearning to see the Kurdistan that I know, but no longer see
I miss my nest the way it used to be, with all its flaws, I always saw its beauty…
Lots of love from
My Nest in Kurdistan