Grazing across the Fertile Crescent

It was bad enough that these kids woke up every day in the middle of a global disaster, but the fact that I’d lost sight of their mere existence felt surreal.

Me. The one who’d spent years advocating for marginalized children worldwide.

Me. The one who’d written volumes of global studies curriculum to help American students learn more about the larger world beyond the often-narrow confines of their communities.

At the moment, the only thing worse than my cringeworthy myopia was realizing that if a “cultural expert” had lost sight of these kids’ existence, it was likely that others had as well. It was true. An urgent world crisis had slowly sunk into the oblivion of American distraction. (And Smartphones and Twitter wouldn’t be teaching us the real meaning of distraction for another four years.)

Over the coming days and weeks, this haunting realization trolled my subconscious, but a fascinating thing happens once the seeds of discomfort become planted. As uneasiness grows, a shift in our consciousness opens us up to new ideas and questions. Like: what do I DO— now that I can’t “unknow” what I know?

‍Sure, we can always find ways to distract ourselves, but by choosing to stay open to the questions, we’re also open to finding almost serendipitous answers. In fact, I didn’t really consider it a coincidence when I made a seemingly random acquaintance with Sandra Hakim.

Sandra was a New York City makeup artiste for celebrities and jet-setters. As a former clothing designer myself, we naturally bonded over our passion for fashion. But after learning about her early beginnings growing up in Baghdad, Sandra and I soon discovered that our shared interests went deeper than discussing seasonal color trends. We both cared about the Iraqi children hidden in the shadows of war. We both knew their stories were going unheard. And we both felt compelled to help them be told.

Of course, we may have been optimists– but we weren’t naïve. This was Iraq we were talking about, and there were more than a few obstacles in our way. But when creative people become captivated by a vision, it’s usually only a matter of time before something begins to manifest. So, between Sandra’s ability to speak Arabic and her in-country social networks, my experience running children’s youth empowerment programs in far-flung locales, and a trust that our collective creativity could produce something beautiful, we decided to push forward with our vision and hope the details would figure themselves out as we went.

And they did.

Sandra serendipitously connected with an acquaintance named Ibtisam who, in turn, connected us with the Nawroz Children’s Culture Center (NCCC) in Sulaymaniyah. Located in the autonomous Kurdistan region of northern Iraq, the NCCC engaged Iraqi children in cultural arts, music, and painting as a means to help address their emotional needs. And their emotional needs were significant.

Protected by a UN-enforced no-fly zone since the early 1990s, Iraqi Kurdistan was a safe haven from the violence in other regions, but it was no stranger to strife. It was home to Halabja, the town that Saddaam Hussein gassed in an attempted genocide in the 1980s. It was home to Khurmal, an al-Qaeda-controlled region liberated by US forces in 2003. And it was currently home to numerous IDP camps where Iraqis fleeing violence in Baghdad and other restive regions had been flooding into for refuge over the past several years.

In fact, there were so many different groups of children affected by war in Kurdistan that when NCCC directors heard that a fashion designer and a makeup artist wanted to come and engage their children in a unique art therapy project, they were curious to hear more.

Enter: paper dolls.

To prove that fashion was more than just skinny jeans and hemline trends, Sandra and I created a therapeutic art project that utilized clothing as a powerful storytelling agent. By embellishing blank paper doll templates with fabric scraps, trimmings, paint, and other craft materials, the Iraqi children could create characters that externalized the war’s effect on them. By releasing suppressed feelings, memories, and traumas— without fear of judgment— this cathartic storytelling experience would not only help promote healing but provide an important opportunity for others to hear their stories as well.

‍So when the NCCC directors rolled out the welcome mat, we sprang into motion.

In August 2008— suitcases stuffed with supplies— Sandra and I met up in New York City and hopped a plane to Jordan. After a 10-hour layover (for a little R&R, camel petting, and a pitstop at a hookah lounge), we were soon flying into Iraq.

From the moment we landed at the Erbil airport, we were warmly embraced by Arab hospitality and even warmer 115-degree heat. It didn’t matter that our driver’s car had sucky a/c, windows that didn’t work, and a faux fur carpet stretched across the entire back seat. And it didn’t matter that we were detained at every checkpoint along the highway to be grilled by police officers with big guns (and even bigger mustaches) who wanted to know why American tourists were driving across Iraq in such a crappy little car. Everyone was glad we had come to help their children, and welcomed us with open arms. Arab hospitality.

By the time we rolled into Sulaymaniyah, we had just enough time to regroup at our hotel, meet up with Ibtesam, and head off to meet the children.

IDP CAMP

Our first stop was to meet several families living in an IDP (internally displaced persons— basically refugees that haven’t crossed an international border) camp on the outskirts of Sulaymaniyah.  It was one of the many camps providing shelter to Iraqis fleeing the violence in their cities.

Visually, it resembled images I’d seen in the news; hundreds of makeshift tents stamped with logos of international relief organizations, as well as garbage, debris, and despair as far as the eye could see. Most families were from areas of Baghdad that had been overrun by insurgents and the sectarian violence that had torn apart their neighborhoods.

Walking through the camp, a woman stopped to ask why we were there. After we explained about the art project and wanting to hear their stories, she welcomed us over to her tent for tea.

We sat on a mat under a canopy outside while she brought out a silver tea service and cut crystal glasses— one of the few precious items that she took from home when they fled. She explained that her family had owned a grocery story. They weren’t rich but had a good life until their store was reduced to rubble in the daily bombings. Amidst the death threats and kidnappings, they tried to stick it out, but ultimately, the fear was too great. They packed up whatever they could fit in the family car and headed north. As the woman poured our tea, her struggle to maintain a sense of dignity and normalcy amidst the chaos was poignant, but her fear was palpable.

Afterward we had the chance to sit and talk with several other families. Some had been in the camp for weeks. Some months. Some years. None seemed to have any idea how long they would remain there.

Some raged with anger. Others sat despondent. All seemed overwhelmed with despair, living with uncertainty on a constant basis.

At the end of the meeting, we gathered up about 35 kids into a large tent at the center of the camp. They bunched into groups on the floor where we’d spread out the supplies, and for the next hour they were busy creating, laughing, relaxing, and enjoying the chance to feel free for a while. When they finished, we took photos of them holding their characters as each child shared their story.

A group of sisters created wealthy women who wore fancy clothes— explaining that while their family currently lived in squalor they were once prominent women in Baghdad, owning several businesses.

Another girl created a character wearing an outfit designed like the Iraqi flag because she loved her country. The words on the page said “Thank You, America. Love.” for the U.S. troops who saved her family from being killed.

A 12-year old boy created a pirate because they were strong and fearless—just like he was.

After the projects were completed, we lined up the kids to thank them and pass out small toys we brought. But as soon as the toys were handed out, things fell apart. Bigger kids stole toys from smaller kids, knocking some to the ground. Other kids came crying to me saying they didn’t get anything while hiding the toys they had behind their backs as though I wouldn’t see. It was total bedlam.

Sandra and I were desperately trying to restore order, but the next thing I knew I was bawling them out, taking toys away, and flipping out like an exhausted parent at the grocery story during a whining kid meltdown. Finally, we got the situation under control as the kids stomped out of the tent, but the scene was unnerving. How could these kids go from adorable and innocent to downright feral in a matter of moments?

But reflecting on the earlier meeting with the parents, it didn’t take long to connect the dots. Children respond to the energy of their environment and look to grownups to feel a sense of security in their world. How could these children feel secure when the “cradle of civilization” had become a place so uncivilized it was impossible for parents to provide emotional security for them?

KHURMAL

The next day, Ibtesam and the directors of the Children's Culture Center took Sandra and I to Khurmal, a town on the Iranian border. Controlled and terrorized by Islamist militants for six years, it was one of the first Iraqi cities involved in the 2003 U.S. intervention when rockets ripped through their village.

NCCC’s plan was to build an art/community center for the kids in Khurmal, as there were still no facilities or emotional outlets for them. Currently we only had an outdoor park to work in.

About 50 children were recruited to participate in the art project. It had been five years since they had endured the daily stress of AK-47s and rocket-propelled grenades, but while the younger kids had a quiet compliance about them, the older kids seemed tentative— still scarred from the violence.

Under a shady canopy of trees, we divided the children into groups, opened the suitcases, and spread out the supplies. They were surprised and delighted by the assortment of colorful silks and sparkly trimmings, and for the next hour they crafted, glued, and posed for photos while sharing their stories with the translators.

As with the previous project, the stories showed a range of emotion, trauma, and resiliency. One little girl’s colorful character was simply a friend she enjoys playing with.

But another little boy created a non-descript character with no face, no details, and only a simple patch of brown fabric as his clothing. When asked about what he could share about his culture with us he replied: “I have nothing to say. We have no culture here. We have no music. We have no art. We have nothing.”

HALABJA

During the same day trip to Khurmal, the NCCC had also brought children from nearby Halabja— the Kurdish town that Saddam Hussein tried to erase by gassing thousands of men, women and children in an ethnic cleansing effort.

In 1988– in a geopolitical maneuver to rid the oil-rich region of Kurds– Iraqi planes dropped mustard gas on the town where 5,000 people died as an immediate result of the chemical attack. An estimated 10,000 more were injured or suffered long term illness. Despite having taken place twenty years prior, when these kids weren’t even born yet, it was clear that the stories of this atrocity had become a part of their Kurdish identity.

One ten-year-old girl created an imaginary friend dying of poisonous gas, with blood coming out of her eyes, ears, nose and mouth.

Another girl created a character wearing the traditional Kurdish costume to honor and preserve her heritage.

SULAYMANIYAH

We returned to the NCCC to conduct the art/character project with another group of about 25 IDP kids— but not ones living in the squalor of a camp. Like many other IDPs, these children and their families had assimilated into the Sulaymaniyah community, making up about 75% of the IDPs in Kurdistan. They had been in Sulaymaniyah anywhere from one week to three years. At first glance, they looked like any other middle-class kids, but, while they may have had more comfortable living conditions, they continued to live with the insecurity of “what happens next” on a daily— even hourly— basis.

A little boy from Baghdad created his mother, who he described as his hero for helping him escape the violence in Baghdad. While she was once a professional woman, she currently worked as a cleaning woman to support the family. Another little boy from Baghdad created a clown that represents himself. When he was living in the violence of Baghdad, he was very sad. Now that life is more peaceful, he feels happy— like a clown.

SULAYMANIYAH

The final morning, we stopped by for a visit to family friend of Ibtesam to listen to a very powerful story. The day prior, several extended family members literally showed up on her doorstep after fleeing their home in Baghdad. They wanted to share their story with us so that we could share it with the world.

We all gathered in the living room for coffee while the parents told us the story of their journey to displacement— from the father’s work in the US government “green zone” to the threats from Al Qaeda, to the kidnapping of his brother and their ultimate departure to Kurdistan. Meanwhile, we had given their two young daughters some character templates and art supplies I had in my backpack— telling them to just go and have fun in the bedroom while the adults chatted. Knowing they’d just come from a harrowing trip we didn't want to burden them with the actual project assignment like all the other kids.

When the little girls later returned to the living room, proudly showing us their finished artwork,  we were shaken. One picture showed a terrorist holding guns and knives. Another was their uncle getting his head shot off by kidnappers. A third character created was me— blond hair, smiling, and happy. The vacillating and extreme perspectives of these children was unsettling.

***

After ten days of character-creating and storytelling, the realization that Iraq’s children had endured so many horrific aspects of war made my brain hurt. While there may have been differences in situations, timelines, and scope, these children carried psychological burdens that were often unseen by parents and caretakers struggling to make sense of the chaos themselves.

Some carried the burden of displacement— the lack of amenities and the uncertainty of what’s to come.

Some carried the burden of watching their communities change as new people arrive, straining resources.

Some carried the psychological burden of genocide, as the traumatic events of one generation gets passed to the next.

Little by little, the background noise of chaos slowly crept into their souls.

But despite the overwhelming feeling of hopelessness all around, a common thread of hopefulness still ran through many of these children. For every picture of a gun-toting terrorist, a child being gassed to death, or a kidnapped relative, there were pictures of best friends playing together, clowns, and self-portraits of happy smiling kids.

The greatest part of children is their resiliency and their ability to imagine possibility. But the grim reality remains that despite efforts like the Nawroz Children’s Culture Center, other regional child-welfare advocates— and even projects like ours— vulnerable, disengaged children in war-torn countries eventually become teens who are easy prey for those eager to lure them into future violence. If these kids didn’t get more help, the future of this whole region would be grave, no matter when the war was declared “over.”

***

Latest updates:

It’s 2019— more than ten years since I was in Iraq. The world has now seen the wider effects of upending a government without a clear end game— despite the best of intentions. We’ve seen growing sectarian violence, fomented hatred of the west, and millions forced into poverty. We’ve seen the emergence of ISIS, its startling rampage across Iraq and Syria, as well as its ability to recruit disenfranchised young people from all corners of the world. We’ve watched a global wave of refugees and migrants destabilize much of Europe and ignite populist movements.

But while the world continues to scramble for solutions, Sandra’s makeup brushes have been shelved and the celebrity styling put on hold as she continues her work on behalf of Iraqi children. Whether helping resettle refugees with the International Rescue Committee, spearheading the establishment of innovative new housing facilities that support the emotional well-being of refugees, or illuminating the plight of migrant families in a gripping documentary film, Sandra continues to not just help these war children, but to tell their stories so we cannot forget that they exist.

And as the chaos grows louder and our digital distractions continue to fight for our attention, it’s urgent that we take time to listen.