Go Beyond

A Page from My Journal
Kurdistan, October 29, 2008

   Zawee Spi is the name of a place that is not written on a map. But, it’s there. Located outside of Harmoda, it’s one of several camps that Kurds displaced from Iran call home. This huddle of bland, earth-colored houses is barely noticeable against the barren backdrop of the surrounding hills. But, it’s there. Zawee Spi is a simple place powdered with dust, pock-marked by time, and governed by despair. However, if you listen carefully, you can still hear the faint pulse of hope. It’s there.

   Those who live in Zawee Spi share more in common than the poverty that tethers them to this spot. Every family is on a first-name basis with Death. The shrouded specter is no stranger here. I listened to widows mourn the untimely departure of husbands and providers. I looked into the eyes of children penalized for a lifetime by Death’s unwelcomed intrusion into their homes. I walked with a father to the grave of a daughter near an ancient olive tree on a rocky hillside. We stood silently. He wiped his tears and then slowly touched his forehead and shoulders as he made the sign of the cross. The cross: the ultimate symbol of death and, for this grieving father, the only hope for life.

   Death continues to employ despair in an attempt to kill the people of Zawee Spi before they actually die. In fact, many of those living there are already lifeless. But, Death will not have the final word. Members of our team immunized the hurting with compassionate touches and injections of prayer. Our team members played with children … children running and laughing while rows of headstones standing in the adjacent cemetery looked on in silence. The presence of children: the fruit of those lying silent beneath the field of death.

   Death has encamped among the Kurds for centuries and refuses to leave. Most recently, Death paid the rent with the currency of Saddam Hussein’s initiatives against the Kurds. I listened to a man describe what it was like to watch Saddam’s military make an example of two of his childhood friends, boys he had once laughed and played with. Those are the guys who were pushed out of a helicopter to their deaths (see post entitled “Field of Death”). “I love George Bush,” he said, accenting every word with a raised finger, “because he removed Saddam.” This was an oft-repeated theme among the Kurds.

   For the past several days, my friends and I have walked slowly among the Kurds and looked for every opportunity to wipe away the suffocating film of death from their hearts. We have talked about life and the life-giver and watched smiles return to vacant faces. We have served in the name of the One who has defeated death. We have liberally planted seeds of life in the places death has marked off-limits. The life-giver is at work here and His harvest is coming.

   We are on our way home as I write this final journal entry. The Kurds have purchased real estate in my heart with their open arms, gracious hospitality, and persevering spirit. I will pray daily and often for the triumph of life, the kind of life that only Jesus can give, among this people accustomed to death. I also return home with the dust of Kurdistan on my shoes. I like that and I won’t wipe it off (Luke 10:8-12). The dust on my shoes will remind me of the open-armed welcome I received among the people of Kurdistan – a wonderful people who live in a terrible place.