Mesopotamia (modern day Iraq) means between two rivers. In this case, the Euphrates and the Tigris. This ancient land was where agriculture (hey, maybe we should grow something and then eat it! Or sell it!) and writing (hey, if I write it down now, I can look it up later!) were actually INVENTED. First it was the Sumerians as early as 23rd Century BC, then a ruler by the name of Nebuchadnezzar (have you seen the Matrix?) presided over the Babylonians.
I don’t know how to say this, but I mean, that’s kind of a big deal.
Today, a taxi drove us to Dohuk today in Northwest Iraq. We rode through long stretches of sandy wasteland, squat cinderblock villages and checkpoints with Barzani photos. We passed the road to Mosul and Baghdad. (We were 30 miles from Mosul, if you must know.)
We whizzed by a celebrating wedding party in the cracked landscape. A community of mud huts with a proud UN Flag was a refugee camp for PKK families. Dohuk was happier, more hospitable and more articulate than Erbil. Whatever message we implicitly received along its streets had been carved into the air with care and pride. The town was at the foot of one-dimensional, movie-set mountains, much like the Flatirons from Highway 91. Below, the pink, blue and yellow houses of a Christmas-tree sheltered 1970’s train set city lacked only the open-book roofs to make it a Rocky Mountain mining town.
The next day we rode further north. As the grassless, rocky foothills of the depressing landscape became mountains, they formed the long backsides of a stegosaurus or brontosaurus. Amedya was a village on a plateau pedestal, with the carved white gates of Mosul, now cracked and neglected, serving as a shepherds cliff-side refuge.
A family (I think three of these women are wives) in Amedya. Nothing too new. We were served food and drink in two different homes–sometimes a stone shack, other times a furnished house. Everyone was bewildered, but kind.
On this one hundred and thirty fourth day on our life in the Middle East, cultural differences had become mere nuances. The dash of sugar thrown into the stew, the right clogs with an outfit.
Until we visited Lalesh, the principal holy site of the Yezidi people. While the Yezidis are ethnically and culturally Kurdish and they speak Kurmanji, (Northern Kurdish), their religious beliefs distinguish them from Iraqi’s Muslim majority.
Yezidism, with flavors of Christianity, Islam and paganism , believe that they are all descendants of Adam, rather than Eve. They worship Melek Taus, a peacock, which they consider to be the leader of the archangels. Just as this archangel was given the choice for good or evil by God himself, (he chose good) the potential for both exists in human beings.
Are you still with me?
It gets better, or rather, worse. Superstitious laws of purity govern the Yezidi community with a freshly scrubbed and fierce hand. The color blue cannot be worn. Stepping on the threshold of any temple is forbidden. Spitting on any of the four elements, earth, air, water or fire, is considered impure. Perhaps most narrow-minded, is that Yezidi communities believe that contact with non-Yezidi people is polluting to the spirit and soul. Sharing such items as dishes or blankets with outsiders is forbidden. They do not allow converts and marrying outside the religion is viewed as cause for exorcism from society or honor killing. Sometimes, as a YouTube video exposed, in the form of a public stoning. In 2007, Du’a Khalil Aswad was stoned to death for her involvement with a Muslim boy. I still shudder at the thought.
This is not an uncommon practice and not confined to the Yezidi region of Iraq.
However, as Michael learned about the roots of Mormonism in Under the Banner of Heaven, as we stood within the circle of Christianity’s parables and miracles in Jerusalem and as we’ve struggled to focus on the ever-blurry line between the culture and religion of Muslim countries, one thing has become apparent. All religion, at face value, without promotion, politics or emotion, to someone equipped with an average amount of reasoning, sounds a little wack. Yet we must respect the beliefs of those we encounter.
Yezidism is no different, right? This is what I try and tell myself.
But I just can’t do it anymore. Throughout our travels, we are constantly forced to honor the religion around us. To adapt to misogynistic customs and oppressive rules. To listen with the polite expression of a guest and preserve what’s left of the tattered American image. And we’re usually doing this as they explain to us just what’s wrong with the United States.
Honor killings are wrong. And I’m ashamed that we wandered around with these Yezidis without pressing the issue.
