KDP confirms government rotation - Kurdish Globe

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No. 335, Saturday, January 07, 2012
M
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By Sazan M. Mandalawi
In a drive from Iraqi Kurdistan
into the Iranian side of
Kurdistan—from Khanaqin
to Kermanshah—Dad puts
his hand around my shoulder
and pulls me toward him. I
sit comfortably with my head
against his shoulders. It has
been a while since I lay against
dad’s shoulders. As I place my
hand on top of his, I pause for a
single second. My father’s hands
represent the hands of many, if
not all, Kurdish fathers.
In their hands you can read the
story of Kurdistan.
Looking at Dad’s hands, it
appears like a complicated map
created by wrinkles and folds
in the skin, rough marks, and
tones of different colours. There
are little faded wounds here and
there. His hands are worn out,
yet they are still softer than
A father’s hand
mine. Gently stroking them, I
ask myself many questions. Not
just questions of my own father,
but of many Kurdish fathers.
How many mountains have
these hands climbed? How many
tasbeehs have they carried?
How many flags have they
waved while holding sarchopy
(leading the Kurdish dance)? I
close my eyes, holding his hand,
thinking how many snakes this
hand has killed because there
was no meat for food. How
many wounded Peshmerga
have they helped to heal? How
many heart-breaking lines were
written by those fingers holding
We should
feel guilt,
sympathy
and
responsibility.
a pen? I wonder to myself how
many birds those hands have
fed, and just how many wings
they helped to heal.
These are the same hands that
carried us when we were young,
that held our own hands so that
we could learn to walk; it is these
hands that guided our first steps
and the same hands that treated
our wounds when we fell, that
took us to the doctors when we
were ill and helped build, block
by block, the house we live in
today. It is these hands that have
planted the trees our children
will play under.
Has it ever been that hands
seem to speak words? Observing
and feeling my father’s hands
didn’t just speak words but told
thousands of stories. Here we
are today enjoying the result
of the pain suffered by these
hands.
For a few seconds I was in doubt
whether I should reach out for
the hand cream in my bag and
put some on my father’s hands.
Can I give something in return
to let these hands heal? Could
Nivea really revitalize these
hands and its tired and worn out
cells? Could it bring back life
and its youthful appearance? I
am embarrassed and in doubt:
Would he accept it if I offer a
little Nivea on his weary hands,
or will he laugh considering my
action to be silly.
All this aside, I feel guilty
seeing my still fresh-looking
hands holding his. Even a little
child could tell that that his
hands suffered and endured so
mine could remain as they are.
Maybe with age it is normal for
hands to become wrinkly and
shaky; maybe I am thinking too
deeply. There are many maybes.
However, there is something
I am certain about despite
all the doubts: Today as the
younger Kurdish generation we
should feel guilt, sympathy and
responsibility—guilt for living
the life that that our fathers,
mothers and grandparents
worked hard to obtain, sympathy
to give something in return, and
responsibility not to allow the
tireless efforts of millions of
those hands that helped create
today to go wasted.
Now the shaky, wrinkly hands
under mine show signs of
strength from years ago. They
still yell out “you don’t know
what I am willing to do for this
nation.” They probably are still
ready to sacrifice for the cause.
After so much thought, I
decided against Nivea; instead,
I lifted Dad’s hand to give it a
gentle kiss. It means I appreciate
what you have done. But deep
down I know there is much
more I can do than just that.