To God do we belong, and to Him is our return. Kurdistan lost one of its lions today. He was a large gruff man, not too tall, but lions aren’t very tall either and their presence still evokes an awareness of great dignity, courage and strength. They move with purpose and intention, softly but meaningfully, and their voice can easily alternate between a soft whisper and a deep roar. Their eyes are like lenses that have captured tales of more adventure, violence, forbearance, evil and good than you or I could ever hope to see in our lifetimes. There were two things that my grandfather reminded us of-the first, initially pointed out by my youngest brother, was Aslan the beloved lion of the famous “Chronicles of Narnia” by C.S. Lewis. As ‘good’ as Aslan was in the stories, he was still a lion, and his gentleness with the Pevensie children could just as easily turn into a frightening roar in the face of evil. “He is not a tame lion” a number of characters remarked. Indeed. My grandfather was Khalil Johari-or Mam Khalil-as he was affectionately called by Kurdish communities in the United States and in Kurdistan. His incredible life not only included service in WWII, but a good number of decades after it were also marked with armed resistance, especially when he served as a Peshmerga under the leadership of the legendary Mullah Mustafa Barzani. My grandfather was a particular kind of Kurd, the one who has two primary purposes in life—to please and serve God in every way he knew how, and to live, breathe and exist for the Kurdish cause for independence. With a large framed portrait of Mullah Mustafa Barzani wearing traditional Kurdish clothing hanging in his living room to this day, his favorite spot on the couch was beside his beloved Kurdish General, watching hours of Kurdish news and television to remain connected to the country he so often missed. During the last few months of his life, I learned much about the power of enduring memories. I recall a number of nights where he would cry out in pain, asking if he were safely hidden from the Iraqi military who were trying to torture him again. My grandmother recalls more than a dozen times when she and her sister-in-law would go searching for him from prison to prison to prison begging the guards to disclose his actual whereabouts when they were informed he’d been captured – again. Whenever a ceasefire between the Kurds and Iraqis was announced, they’d release him, often half alive, bruised and bleeding from multiple gashes. But once he recovered, he would always return to the battlefield. His family would go back into hiding and he would continue to fight. “Is it over?” he asked me one Saturday morning as he squeezed my hand. “Am I safe? Are they coming?” On one day in particular he was getting restless from the pain so we decided to play some Quran for him. Not long afterwards he fell asleep for hours with the most beautiful and peaceful look on his face. His heart rate returned to normal and his cheeks had more color. When he awoke, he meditated on every word that was recited and looked off into the distance in silence. The power of God’s Words never ceases to amaze me. Later, he asked my aunt to play Kurdish music for him. “What song?” she asked. Half awake and only partly able to respond he said softly, “Muhammad Arif”. If you’re a Kurd who speaks the badini dialect, you—or perhaps, your parents—know that there is nothing more old school than Muhammad Arif. Listening to him will evoke distant memories of a Kurdistan of long ago when life was simpler, mountains were greener and Kurdish music was golden. As the song played and our eyes welled up with tears, you could not imagine the look of sheer bliss that came across my grandfather’s face. He was no longer in that hospital room. He was in a chayxana in Duhok, drinking tea and playing tawla with his old comrades, listening to Muhammad Arif sing a song about a man named Khalil. When we were questioning if he was even aware of the music after he’d fallen asleep, the singer broke for a pause. “Ay hehii…” he whispered under his breath- the traditional response to this particular type of Kurdish song. My grandfather was the epitome of a man who easily combined a love for God and country that I firmly believe remains unparalleled today except by a select few. In reality, our hearts ache not necessarily for him but for ourselves because we don’t want to move forward without him. We can’t go to “Bapeer’s house” without Bapeer…without seeing him sitting on his favorite couch with the same remote controls neatly placed in a row on the table beside him. We can’t eat the vegetables in his garden early on in the summer until he walks us through the different things he’s planted and the logic behind their order in rows and the depth of the holes he’s dug and the length and frequency of the times he waters them. He bought me my first bike, taught me how to mow the lawn in the spring, rake the leaves in the fall, build a snowman in the winter... As Muslims we must hasten the burial of our dead for if they were good then we should not delay the blessings that God will bestow upon them, and my grandfather so loved God that I can only imagine the peace he has finally come to know, inshallah. My family and I grieve for ourselves, for the brother, father and grandfather that can no longer physically be in our lives, for the adviser he constantly was to us all—one of his last pieces of advice to me before we started to lose him was, “Do not delay your prayers Behar, you must pray. And you must read the Quran, basha? Promise me.”—and for the example he set for his whole family through his impeccable character, honesty and wisdom. He was a man who loved his children but adored his grandchildren-and we all knew it, so much so in fact that when a nurse noticed the sheer number of family members coming in and out of his hospital room for months on end, she remarked, “He’s so lucky to have all of you.” We all unanimously replied that it was all of us who were lucky and honored to have had him…. ...had him. How odd it is to talk about someone you’ve known your entire life in the past tense, because the love you had for them isn’t in the past at all. It’s so incredibly present and transcendent of all time and space. This grief brings with it an ache that shakes us to our cores, but our only comfort is knowing that he is no longer in pain and is resting in the eternal peace he fought six months to finally obtain. May God grant you the highest levels of heaven, Bapeer. Jehe ta bahesht bet inshallah. يا أيَّتُهاالنَّفس المُطمئِنَّة * إرجعي الى ربِّكِ راضيةً مرضيَّة * فادخُلي في عبادي * وادخُلي جنَّتي “O reassured soul Return to your Lord, well-pleased and pleasing to Him Enter among My righteous servants And enter My Paradise. Al-Fatiha.
Posted on: Sat, 22 Nov 2014 06:27:50 +0000
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