Friday 13 September: Day 64
Our friend may have exaggerated when he said that this hookah bar was more accepting of women. As we walked in to the third floor café, we could see that all of the faces hovering above couch backs visible through the red-lit smoke were definitely male. I can’t imagine I can’t imagine what it feels like to be the woman who is the subject of 200 simultaneous looks, the topic of every whisper and double-take. But we stood next to each other and held hands and made our way to a couch through the whispers and sideways stares.
Later, one of our friends was talking about being the only man inside of a class of 16 women, and how awkward it made him feel. Mitsu just bit her lip and laughed inside.
“zhin” – woman
Saturday 14 September: Day 65
From what we’ve gathered, one of the tenets of Islam is that we die every time we fall asleep. Our dreams are coded conversations with God spoken in a language beyond our comprehension. When we wake up, we must give praise to God for giving us another day of life. This idea has a pedigree of monastic, theological extrapolations longer than the Dead Sea Scroll, so I’m certainly describing it in terms too simplistic, but I find the notion of “dying” during our sleep to be somewhat romantic.
Mitsu and I recently binge-watched “Russian Doll” and we saw several parallels to the Islamic theology concerning dreams. In the show, two people relive their lives Groundhog Day-style, restarting at the same moment after dying random deaths. At one point, the characters realize that all of their loved ones have had to grieve their deaths 14 different times, and the protagonists are shook, because their 14 deaths were mere personal inconveniences to them but were tearing apart their families and friends in other timelines.
Which made us think – if you died every time you went to sleep, and you came back to life every time you woke up, how would you know that it was really “you”, the same “you” that experienced the previous day, who came back to life? What if minute changes occurred life/day, and it took hundreds or thousands of deaths to realize that things were not as they should be?
Let’s assume that we only “die” once a day (no cat naps, no sleeping for more than a day). That means I’ve died about 8985 times since I started writing this journal entry, since the first time I slept as a child. There must be one “me” who has experienced each new day, Chris0, and who conceivably experience tomorrow as well. How do I know that I’m the original Chris0? What if “I” started living on the 3653rd day of my life, on my 10th birthday in 2005? What if there’s 8985 versions of me, one for each day I’ve woken up? What if a new “me” is born every day I’ve ever lived, so that when I wake up tomorrow, a new “me” will wake up today, experiencing all of my lived experiences for today a second time – and what if this multiplication has happened for every day for my life?
If my understanding of Islam is true, then this understanding of time and life represents a radical ontological departure from Western thought. Go watch Russian Doll on Netflix.
“khaw” – sleep
Sunday 15 September: Day 66
Published our first video testimonials this week. Each one has over 1000 views so far. Not bad for some rookies using iMovie.
Monday 16 September: Day 67
Iranian-backed Houthi rebels launched cruise missiles/drones from Yemen and destroyed Saudi Arabia’s largest oil refinery last night. Iran denies coordinating the attack, the US is claiming Iran did the whole thing, Saudi Arabia is calling the strike a justification for their genocide in Yemen, and tonight we stood on the roof of our apartment wondering if our neighbors were going to experience another depression caused by the warmongering of tyrants who can’t find Kalar on a map.
Another day, another news story threatens to unravel the fabric of Kurdish life.
“hawal” – news
Tuesday 17 September: Day 68
Today is the last day of classes. I told my students to bring food so that we could have a party. The party was, of course, a feast.
Watching my students set up the meal was a humbling experience. Without any communication, every single woman began doing a task with memorized coordination. One student used a large wooden spoon to heap dolma on to plates held by another woman, who passed the plates to a third, who set them at places on the long rug we would eat on. A fourth woman laid out forks and knives at each place, a fifth student poured drinks, a sixth student unwrapped side dishes from their plastic coverings, a seventh served coleslaw into side plates. The men stood by and talked. Without so much as a whisper, a meal for twenty people with as many dishes was prepared in under five minutes.
I saw history and religion and culture in that process. I saw an exact, mechanical process. I saw gender roles, the likes of which are discussed abstractly in college seminars and ignored in conscious daily life. I also saw a happiness, a fulfillment blossoming before my eyes. I tried to help, to be a part of the process, but I was just shooed away.
Like everything else, the reality of life here is complex, unsettling and raw. Thankfully, the food wasn’t confusing at all.
“jazhn” – feast
Wednesday 18 September: Day 69
“Ok, I understand, but how do I pass?”
One of my students joined my class after the course and half-heartedly turned in a paper worth a huge chunk of his grade two weeks late. He signed up for his presentation and then missed the time. There was no way he was going to pass, but he persistently approached me after class these past few days and demanded a higher grade.
I’m just not used to that. Rwandan students were deferential to a fault, afraid of engaging with the foreign teachers. Japanese students, according to Mitsu, treated her decisions about grades with religious reverence. And yet for some reason, Kurdish students consistently argue with us about grades.
You’ve got guts, friend, but you’re still going to fail my class.
“nmra” – grade
Thursday 19 September: Day 70
Today the plan is to go to the Ministry of Education office in Kalar and meet with the man who will help us navigate the red tape of setting up a new school. It’s going to be calm, serious and productive. After our meeting, we will be one step closer to starting an American-curriculum international school in a neglected community of Iraqi Kurdistan.
Of course, none of that happened today.
Aram took Mitsu and I to the Ministry of Culture instead. The director of the Ministry is a college friend of Aram, and we were “guests of honor” for the grand opening of Kalar’s first art gallery. Ushered in to the Minster’s lavish office, we sat in our wholly informal clothing, jeans and un-ironed shirts, as notable artists, generals and technocrats came in for a photo-op with the director. I got up to use the bathroom but managed to lock myself inside and had to knock for someone to let me out, which everyone was giggling about as Mitsu and I provided valuable “international” scenery to the slow, photographer-laden crawl through the gallery, all the way to an auditorium. Political allies and police chiefs were given awards for their “cultural contributions” to Kalar in a ceremony with a lot of synchronized clapping surrounded by rifle-wielding bodyguards and smoke-stale air. At one point, Mitsu and I were asked (told?) to get up on stage and either give or receive awards – for what, I’m still not sure – but we turned down the offer in confusion in what amounted to an unintentional slap-in-the-face to the director. Our penance was instantly paid, however, as we were taken back to the office for a private photoshoot with the most notable attendees, tea, and invitations to future events.
If the morning was a piece of art, it would be absurd, with bright colors and uneven lines. We’re starting to get used to the style.
“hunar” – art
certification 
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