Aleef Hassan / Sinjar
In a visit that lasted four days, every moment felt as if it contained a lifetime of emotions and reflections. My journey to Baghdad was not the first, but it was the deepest. This time, it was different… it was human in every sense of the word.
From the streets of Kadhimiyah to the visit of the two Imams, I found myself walking through scenes I had become familiar with in pictures and books, but now they were pulsating with life. Those places were part of my memory, but seeing them in reality gave me the feeling that I had entered a parallel world, a mixture of the past and the present.
The next day, I visited the Iraqi Museum, and there, among artifacts spanning thousands of years, I felt I was facing a living history. I sat in front of the statue of Naboo, one of the symbols of Assyrian civilization, contemplating it as a grandson contemplates the features of his ancient grandfather, searching for his roots, wondering: what remains of this great body? And how did Iraq, the cradle of civilizations, turn into a battleground of hatred and division?
Yet despite that, I found beauty. Beauty in the faces of the people, in their artifacts, and in those small details that say: this country is alive… and loving.
At the shrine of Imam Abu Hanifa al-Nu’man, we met Sheikh Dr. Abdul Sattar Abdul Jabbar, who took us into an inspiring revealing dialogue in which I realized that all religions, despite their apparent differences, carry one message: peace, mercy, and humanity.
In the house of that beautiful Zoroastrian family, in the heart of that Iraqi beauty where peace resides in souls, love fills the corners, and soft music embraces the evening, at a table that brought together Muslims with Yazidis, Mandaean Sabians, Christians, and Faily Kurds — in the house of a great Zoroastrian. It was a Baghdad night as if it had escaped from the tales of a thousand and one nights.
That night, which does not repeat, was filled with everything rare and enchanting, as if Baghdad had shone in a moment of dream, embracing everyone, as it always did.
During a visit to the St. Gregory the Illuminator Cathedral, I stood before the Armenian Genocide monument; it was not just a statue or a stone carrying history for me. I lived the same pain, the same details, the same hunger, the same fear and abduction ten years ago, while holding in my hand a piece of rock from Mount Sinjar that carries with it the sanctity of the mountain and its historical symbolism, where it was a refuge for the Yazidis during 74 genocides, just as it was a refuge for Armenians in 1915.
At the end of the journey, we sat in a warm Baghdadi home, welcomed by a beautiful-hearted Iraqi woman who spoke about her brother, the pilot, who was injured while delivering aid to Sinjar. Despite his injury and loss of ability to move his hand, he did not lose his humanity, just as his sister did not lose her love for Baghdad, Sinjar, and Iraq.
His voice remained a testament to sacrifice, and the house continued to tell the true stories of Iraq: about love, resilience, and sharing.
And there, in that house, on a table adorned with Iraqi food, and under old pictures decorating the walls, the spoons played Iraqi melodies in the Iraqi tea glass, which is a common folk tradition that carries a special character reflecting the generosity of hospitality and the celebration of gatherings.
I felt that I had found the true Iraq: one country, one people, and a shared pain.
