Thousand Sighs, a Thousand Revolts Journeys in Kurdistan

chapter one Through the Back Door the maltai family lived in a big airy house on the outskirts of Dohuk in northern Iraq. Out front stretched their even bigger garden, its borders etched with fluttering purple blossoms mixed with penny-sized red wildflowers that the patriarch, Aziz Maltai, had transplanted from the mountains. Here and there bloomed flowers grown from seeds sent by friends in Europe. In the middle splashed a hand-carved fountain, water spilling from cup to cup to cup into a violet pool below. "Flowers are like young sheep," Aziz Maltai said, examining a rosebud on our way into the house. "The more time you spend with them, the more they grow." At the door, a line of women waited-dressed in floor-length gowns of lilac, black, deep green, and bright red, their long lacy sleeves tied behind their backs while still allowing for freedom of movement. Most of the older women's heads were covered with gauzy black or white scarves, most of the younger women's heads were bare. "B'kher-hati, b'kher-hati," they all cried-welcome, welcome-and kissed me on both cheeks before ushering me into a large room furnished only with Oriental carpets, a kerosene heater, and shiny benchlike couches lining two walls. Women sat on one side, men on the other, as Aziz was joined by some of his nine sons and other male relatives. In contrast to the patriarch, who was wearing a Western suit and red tie, many of the men were dressed in the Kurdish shal u shapik, or trousers and jacket. Resembling billowing aviators' jumpsuits, traditionally made of goat's hair, the shal u shapik come in a variety of muted hues-browns, tans, blacks, and whites-and are cinched around the waist with elaborately woven cummerbunds, which can be up to twenty feet long when unwound. The style of the shal u shapik varies depending upon region or occasion, but today, all were wearing their finest: it was Newroz, or New Year's. Tea was served in delicate, tulip-shaped glasses, along with cookies stuffed with walnut paste, made specially for the holiday. Then we were off-Aziz and his wife, most of his sons and their families, cousins visiting from Baghdad, and me. Moving out into the garden, amid excited children's cries, we climbed into a cavalcade of gleaming BMWs and sports utility vehicles. Proudly mounted on the lead car was the striped green, red, and white flag of Kurdistan, a yellow sunburst in its middle. Aziz seated me in a BMW next to his son Siyabend, a small, wiry, dapper man wearing fashionable minimalist glasses and a starched military-style shal u shapik made of khaki. He and I had both spent time in Iran, and Aziz hoped we would be able to communicate in Persian. Kurdish music spinning from the tape deck, we headed north toward the Turkish border and then east toward Iran. The snow-capped mountains of Turkey's Kurdistan appeared, along with an expansive plain shining like an enormous silver tray as it soaked in the rays of the sun. "There's Silopi, and that's Mount Cudi." Siyabend pointed out several sites across the Turkish border. Later, I learned that Silopi had suffered especially badly during the Kurdish-Turkish civil war that ended in 1999, and that Mount Cudi, along with the better-known Mount Ararat, is believed by many Kurds to have been the resting place of Noah's Ark. Turning off the paved road, we headed up a grassy mountainside. Although only midmorning, the slope was already half filled with parked cars and sturdy white tents shaped like miniature big tops. Children played ball, men built bonfires, and women socialized or cooked, the lush fabrics of their gowns blinking in the sun. After parking, the men quickly set up a tent, into which the older women immediately retired, and started a fire. Many of the rest of us set off to roam the mountain and to look for wildflBird, Christiane is the author of 'Thousand Sighs, a Thousand Revolts Journeys in Kurdistan', published 2004 under ISBN 9780345468925 and ISBN 0345468929.