Monday, October 03, 2005

A Different Day; But....

(The following posts were delayed because the power was cut off for long hours last days)

A group of talented artists, musicians and painters, gathered today in "Qishla" hall in Kerkuk playing ud and violins and exhibiting paintings. They were trying to give color and taste to an Iraqi day; trying to make it different.
They succeeded although the paintings were reflecting the every day pain and violence. The painters used bright colors giving some feeling to blood was shed before a while somewhere in Iraq.
Qishla, a Turkish word means the place where the army stay at the winter, built by the Otomans about 200 years ago. Qishla was maintained a decade ago and became the Kerkuk museum. As the other Iraqi museums, Qishla bombed, looted and burnt in 1991 and 2003.
The Union of the Turkmen Artists decided to maintain the old building and today they were showing their first activity. "We will survive", the music, paintings and the eyes were saying.
(........) the communist poet who left his southern town 30 years ago hiding himself in Kerkuk became a follower of Muqtada showing his "NO" to the occupation.. The poet told me, "They are working against us, the followers of Muqtada". Who are they? "Those who are working against the Iraqis". He answered adding," They arrested Abu Nadhim along with his four young sons and Abu Hameed with his three sons week ago. Then the freed them but keeping one son from each family arrested".
I closed my eyes trying to enjoy the music but a boom sound came forcing me back to the real life.. Is it life?
Since the sanctions I used to say, "I am surviving not living". I guess you know the difference between surviving and living.
The Union did an excellent job. Qishla became a wonderful piece of architect yet one can feel its wounds while touching the white gypsum walls.
On my way back home; an ID exploded targeting a police patrol. The incident took place in a crowded place. Two policemen and four civilians were killed.
I am writing now while it is raining outside. The first drops paving the way for the winter.
WINTER, the season I love. Do I love it till now? I could not answer. The rain is knocking the window; recalling the previous winters. How warm were the previous winters when love and dream were possible without any fear. Love became pain in Iraq. the Americans "friendly bullet" or a car bomb can easily steal the beloved persons. How much the heart, any heart, can bear losing the beloved persons?
Written on Sep 30th.