Back home....

Dear loyal reader, friend, family….

What a week it was.

I am writing from Erbil, I am writing from the heart of my Nest…

Feels soothing to type in the only place in the world I call home, from the second floor window I look outside, the curtains aside, bright sunlight coming through: Hawler looks beautiful.

Sound of trucks, and building in the morning hours. When I left the house opposite us was just bricks, right now it seems like I am looking at a castle as finishing touches are being put on.

I landed home to sad news… my uncle left this world less than two hours before I arrived which took away much of the happiness and excitement as I was given the news in the airport. I returned to a body in the middle of a living room and the sound of cries from the corner of the street. How would I have felt if I was told over Skype in my room in Nottingham, I wonder to myself. I was on time to kiss the body goodbye and touch it over the blanket. I am sure he felt my presence… I hope he did.

On the other hand my cousins Vian, Shirin, Haidar, Ali, and Dlshad were all given the news of their father’s death over the phone; each one in a different corner of the world, that is ghareebi* that we always refer to.  I know every day there are young people in Europe who receive phone calls from home giving them sad news… when you are far you feel helpless. When you are here at least you mourn together, support those most hurt and feel close.

I am writing at the desk where many of dad’s lines and pages have been written. This is my favourite room, and now I know why my father spends hours here every day.

While he is still away at the funeral, I take the chance to breathe in the air in this room; everything in here reminds me of how grateful I am to be back home. The statues, the books, paintings, and the Kurdish carpets, lantern and everything that’s old and tattered … I AM HOME. Since I have left there are pictures of me placed in every room including the fridge in the kitchen, this one on dad’s desk is of me around 3 years old playing on a slide, there are few lines written at the back of the picture, but it’s a pity dad’s calligraphic handwriting is illegible to me.

Usually with all this noise outside I could never write or study, today the noise of builders and trucks doesn’t bother me, it is music to my ears.

I haven’t had a chance to leave home yet… but be sure dear loyal reader, I will make you part of this journey back home. Day by day….

*I once wrote my column in the Globe about this: http://kurdishglobe.net/display-article.html?id=6191F7FE07550D44BDADCB2EB1AED724