WHILE I PLAYED AT BEING A SOLDIER, THEY DIED FOR REAL

/a reflection by Lukasz Firla/

On a trip outside of Suleimani, as the taxi drove by beautiful rugged mountain ranges that run throughout Kurdistan, Ensar's (name was changed) story stuck deeply in my mind.
"When I was a kid in the 1980's, my brother and I secretly hiked in the mountains. We visited and brought supplies to Peshmerga guerillas hiding in the abandoned and displaced villages. Eventually, my older brother joined them. One day, my mother and I went to search for him but couldn't find him. One of Saddam's numerous chemical bombing campaigns started. We ran up the hill to escape from the gas. My brother didn't survive..."

Later in the day, as I hiked up one of the mountains surrounding Dukan lake which is beautifully situated amongst rocky heights, my thoughts hovered upon Ensar's story and my own childhood. I thought about the make-believe I played with friends pretending to be warriors and guerillas running around with wooden and plastic swords and pistols and building bunkers in the woods.

In Iraqi Kurdistan, guys my age were soldiers for real. They hid in caves and emptied villages, shot from real machine guns, killed and died for real. These experiences were shared by almost every man in his late twenties and up. One wouldn't find an adult in Kurdistan that hadn't lost a relative or friend to a violent death. An ever present and shared experience. Never can I fully comprehend its depths. Never can I truly relate. How do I even think of helping?

A steep zig-zag road leads up Sara peak. Deep in my thoughts when a truck carrying dirt for the road construction slowly passed, the driver stopped and offered me a ride. I couldn't share much with this friendly young driver other than a few basic Kurdish phrases, my thanks and smiles. I brought him laughter as I unwillingly brought down my bottom to the ground while getting off.

As I ascended higher, the snowcapped summits of the Qandil mountains began to emerge from the surrounding mist. Magnificent overseers of unending misery, violence, terror and confusion. PJAK vs. Iran vs. Kurdistan vs. PKK vs. Turkey vs. Iraq, and everybody vs. the villagers, who lost everything; even their hope.

A group of young Peshmerga soldiers welcomed me heartily at the top of the hill. Six young men and an officer, more likely their older brother, in his thirties "guarding" several mobile phone towers, a bunch of stone houses and a dog. After an unavoidable photo session, the soldiers invited me for lunch. They were truly happy to have a guest and I was happy to be one. We played cards together, ate, drank tea, enjoyed the presence of one another and looked at pictures of family members and foreign movie stars.

As the time came for me to depart and we said our Insha'allahs in the doorway crammed with loaded Kalashnikovs, the guys asked me to take them away – back to my home or any other country – with me.