I listened with surprise. My initial impression of Kamerin Beg as an unsophisticated tribal leader with little experience of the outside world had been way off the mark.
Despite the stature of Kamerin Beg’s father, he had not been mir, or the supreme Yezidi prince; that honor belonged to Kamerin Beg’s uncle, Tahsin Beg, who lived in Shaikhan, in Baathist-controlled Iraq. Later, others told me that there’d been a rift in the princely family, with Tahsin Beg coerced into cooperating with the Baath regime. But Kamerin Beg told me only that he himself couldn’t travel to the Iraqi side because of his close connections with the Kurdistan government.
“We have had much trouble in our history,” he said. “We say there have been seventy-two genocide attacks against the Yezidis. These were all Muslim attacks, most by Turks.”
“What about Muslim Kurds?” I asked.
He shrugged. “In the past, sometimes. But we have no trouble now.”
A servant entered with a tray of colored eggs, and offered it to me. It was the day before the Yezidi New Year, held on the first Wednesday in April of the Yezidi calendar, which begins thirteen days later than the Christian one. During the festival, the Yezidis paste nosegays of red flowers over doorways and give and receive colored eggs.
“Why colored eggs?” I asked. Raised in a Protestant family, I’d colored Easter eggs as a child, but it had never occurred to me that the ritual might have ancient roots, shared with other religions.
“Eggs because God had a jewel, which, when it exploded, became gases and the earth,” he said. “And the same thing happens when an egg is opened. Colors because with the spring comes the colors of plants, and eggs and plants are the beginning of life.”
Kamerin Beg’s wife entered. Dressed in multiple long layers, she was small and round—“like a Hindi,” Kamerin Beg said. It was time to go to the graves, he added—I had requested going to the graves, hadn’t I?
We climbed into a waiting Land Cruiser, Kamerin Beg’s oldest son behind the wheel, his father beside him, and his mother, younger siblings, and I in back. I had asked to see the graves of Ali Beg and his wife Mayan Khatoun, renowned figures in Yezidi history. Ali Beg had ruled as mir from 1899 until 1913, endured torture rather than change his religion, and been found murdered in his bed one morning.
But it was Mayan Khatoun who really interested me. Born in 1874, and also of the princely family, she had been beautiful, intelligent, bold, sly, deceitful, and ruthless. Some had even accused her of masterminding her husband’s murder. Whatever the facts, Mayan Khatoun claimed to have solved the crime, and had a family of suspected usurpers—husband, wife, four sons, and two daughters—arrested and sentenced. Wearing a red dress as a symbol of revenge, she watched as her guard shot all the family except the two girls, whom she later adopted. She then rose calmly from her chair, walked over to the bodies, touched their still-warm blood, and licked her finger. And the next morning, she reputedly replaced her red dress with the black one traditionally worn by Yezidi widows.
After Ali Beg’s death, the Yezidi leaders agreed that Said Beg, Ali and Mayan’s son, should be the next mir. As he was still too young to rule, Mayan was appointed his guardian and administrator of the princely revenues, a role she did not relinquish until her death at age eighty-three in 1957. Serving first as regent for her son, a weak man whom she despised, and then her grandson, it was she and not they who ruled over the Yezidis throughout the demise of the Ottoman Empire, the establishment of Iraq, and World War II.
At the Baadri cemetery, Mayan Khatoun and Ali Beg were buried beneath fluted, cone-shaped spires of the type I’d seen at Lalish. We had to traipse past other overgrown graves to reach them, and when we entered, we found a dozen men seated in a circle on the floor before Ali Beg’s walk-in tomb. Most were dressed in shal u shapik and red-and-white turbans, and had huge white mustaches. Several were astonishingly fat.
Everyone lumbered to their feet to kiss the hands of Kamerin Beg and his wife. She responded by kissing their heads, and a few women materialized out of nowhere, one wearing the traditional red-and-green dress and silver-and-black turban of the Yezidi women. Candy was passed in honor of the New Year. Two women supplicants entered to visit Ali Beg’s tomb, careful not to step on its threshold, covered with a thick layer of dinar bills.
“Where is Mayan Khatoun’s grave?” I asked, and was pointed toward a flat and disappointingly nondescript grave near the door, marked only by an inscription on the wall. With death, the patriarchal order had reestablished itself.
The ruins of Ali Beg and Mayan Khatoun’s palace still stood on a small hill. As we stopped to visit, the owners of a nearby house rushed out to kiss hands and invite us into their garden for tea. I could sense their excitement when we accepted, and there was much running to and fro as chairs were set up in a semicircle overlooking the town.
We sat down, birdsongs weaving around us. A man came out with a pitcher of water and a single glass that he refilled for each person in turn, followed by a woman carrying a silver-colored tray, about three feet in diameter and piled high with fruit. Both the single water glass and the silver tray were trademarks of Kurdistan. I encountered them everywhere, and marveled at the way the women could hoist the huge platters, often loaded with dishes, from the floor to above their shoulders in a single smooth swoop.
After the fruit came “chicklets,” meaning candy, followed by more colored eggs, orange juice, and tea. Kamerin Beg instructed me how to take a colored egg, hold it in my fist, and tap the end of his egg while he tapped back. It was a New Year’s game, and there was a knack to it; whoever cracked the other’s egg first, won.
“Three things are special for the Yezidi men.” Kamerin Beg fumbled around inside his shirt, pulling out a small pouch, which he opened to reveal a pebble. “One is the Lalish pebble, made from the dust of Shaikh Adi’s tomb. It brings us good luck, and we give it to our enemies to make peace. It can pass from men to men, but not from men to women. My wife also has one, which can pass only to women.”
He said something in Kurdish to her, and she smiled, but didn’t oblige by pulling out her own pebble. She had been smoking steadily since our arrival, and each time she reached for her cigarettes, one of our hosts hurried over with a light, which she languidly accepted without a word of thanks.
“Another is our mustache,” Kamerin Beg said. “It is our duty to wear a mustache. And a third is our white undershirt.”
Kamerin Beg then offered to show me Shaikhan, still under Baathist control, and led me to the end of the hill beyond the palace ruins. We gazed west, over a rolling brown plain peppered with darker brown settlements—all in Saddam Hussein’s territory, only two or three miles away, with no real barricades between.
“My uncle and brother live there—that’s Shaikhan,” Kamerin Beg said, pointing to one of the larger settlements, as I suddenly realized with a shock that his uncle, Tahsin Beg, the current Yezidi mir, must be Mayan Khatoun’s grandson. As otherworldly as the Yezidi history seemed to me, it was no fairy tale.
KAMERIN BEG AND I continued our conversation later, in the garden behind his house. Dusk had fallen, and a bulldozer moved through town below us, its hungry mouth raised in the air, as if to catch the emerging stars. Giggling children peeked at us from behind a nearby wall until a man with a yellowing mustache big as a kitchen brush appeared to chase them away.
Kamerin Beg began to list for me the dozens of Yezidi villages that had been destroyed, partially destroyed, or moved by the Iraqi government— some before Saddam Hussein came to power, but most afterward. I tried to write them down at first, but finally gave up, confused by the seemingly endless litany of strange names.
A man in a turban and slippers approached, carrying a small silver urn and two handle-less ceramic cups. He poured Kamerin Beg a swallow of coffee, and then offered one to me, before wiping out the cups and serving a second round.
I would encounter the same ritual later in the homes of other Kurdish aghas, but it wasn’t until I r
eached Turkey and saw a museum exhibit on mirra, meaning “bitter coffee,” that I understood how widespread the practice is—or was, as it is dying out. The coffee brewer, who holds a privileged position in his employer’s household, must always carry the urn in the right hand, the two special cups in his left. He must serve the eldest or most respected guests first, then, after serving everyone once, begin a second round. Only important personages can serve mirra, and should a poor man become wealthy, he must invite the elite of his village to a feast, where he asks permission to serve the brew.
“Saddam Hussein tried to enter Baadri one year ago,” Kamerin said. “When there was no Bush, no Clinton.”
“During the presidential inauguration, you mean?” I said, startled.
He nodded. “They came and surrounded the town for three days.”
“What did you do?” I couldn’t imagine the scenario. Baadri didn’t seem capable of defending itself for more than ten minutes.
“I telephoned to Dohuk for peshmerga, and they came. They prevented the Iraqis from entering. There was some firing, but no one was hurt. The United Nations interfered.”
Why had that mini invasion taken place, and why had it ended? The Iraqis could easily have taken Baadri if they’d wanted. And how many other mini invasions of Kurdistan had occurred?, invasions we public heard nothing about in the United States.
THE NEXT MORNING, Kamerin Beg excused himself after a light breakfast, saying that it was time for him to go to the “house of the old men.” By this, he meant a dark building next door, housing a long hall and small kitchen. The “old men” were the villagers who dropped by every morning to ask for his advice or blessing. Today, there would be many of them, paying their respects for the New Year.
I followed my host about a half hour later, assuming that since it was still early, the hall would be half empty. But by the door of the building nested dozens upon dozens of black shoes, many made of plastic and edged with drying mud. My heart sank a little—so many strangers’ eyes lay ahead.
Entering, I found the hall packed with even more men than the empty shoes had prepared me for. Numbering about seventy or eighty, they rimmed the entire room—talking, smoking—with Kamerin Beg sitting in the center of one long wall, near the wood stove that was the hall’s only furnishing.
He beckoned to me, putting me more at ease, and made room for me beside him, dislodging a young, heavyset man in the process. I sat down on the thin carpet, my mind swirling, unable to take it all in.
Before me sat an astonishing array of faces, heads, and bodies, most well worn with age and the elements, and clothed in striking costumes. There were turbans of red and white, black and white, pale pink, and solid white, some piled high on the head in a double spiral, some just a modest ring, and some draping down around the shoulders. There were flowing white gowns of the kind usually worn by Arabs, bulky woolen jackets, and hand-woven shal u shapik with wide brown-and-white stripes. One younger man was in starched, pale green khak worn with an electric green shirt and burnt orange sash. Another older man was entirely in white, from his socks to his turban, except for a richly textured black cape.
A few men had old-fashioned pistols, a few had tobacco pouches, and many had prayer beads. And whenever there was a lull in the conversation, the click-click-click of the beads was all that was heard.
The men in the flowing white gowns were Yezidis originally from the Sinjar region in Baathist-occupied Iraq, Kamerin Beg explained to me. That was the style there, due to Arab influence, and even though the men had been forced out of their homes following the Algiers Accord in 1975, they had never changed their dress. The brown-and-white-striped shal u shapik were typical of Dohuk province, and the heavyset man whom I’d displaced was now a citizen of Norway, back to collect his wife and children.
Every time a new man entered, “b’kher-hati” came from all sides, as the man crossed the room to kiss Kamerin Beg’s hand. And occasionally, when the guest was very old or distinguished-looking, our host stood up, to embrace him or kiss his head. Others then cleared a space for the new man on the floor, and servants proffered him a tray laid with open packets of cigarettes—Kent, Victory, Craven—followed by a tray of colored eggs, and a splash of bitter coffee from the silver urn. Kamerin Beg oversaw these proceedings carefully, making sure no man was slighted.
By ten-thirty or eleven, the crowd was thinning out, and we moved to the reception room of the main house. I naively thought that the visiting was nearly done. But almost immediately, it started all over again, this time with mostly younger guests, some dressed in khak, some in pants and crisp shirts, and some in suits and ties.
Throughout, I was the only woman in the room. The Yezidi women, I thought I was told at one point, were visiting in the back, but when I went to investigate, I found only Kamerin Beg’s wife, daughter-in-law, and children, looking bored.
Two English-speaking doctors from Mosul arrived. They had crossed the Iraq-Kurdistan border secretly at night, traveling the back roads, taking a chance, in order to be in Baadri for the New Year. Kurds from apolitical families, which often meant uneducated, poor villagers, could usually cross the border in either direction without incident. Kurds from political families, which usually meant better-educated urban folk, could not. Heading either way, they would be subject to interrogation and perhaps worse.
A half hour later, a local official appeared with an entourage that included a TV cameraman, causing the two doctors to rise abruptly. We’re sorry to be so rude, they said to me as they slipped away, but we don’t want to run the risk of being seen on television.
Car doors started slamming on the driveway outside, and, a moment later, in swept two Chaldean bishops and a group of Assyrians, arriving together “by chance,” someone whispered to me, while explaining that the two Christian groups didn’t always get along. Like Bishop Raban of Amadiya, the Chaldean bishops were dressed in long black robes with fuchsia caps and belts, while the Assyrians wore black suits.
Both groups had come to wish the Yezidis a happy and prosperous New Year. Both had their contingent of guards, and photographers, including two Assyrian visitors from Australia, who snapped dozens of shots as the religious leaders drank tea together. Unable to understand Kurdish, Arabic, or Syriac, I wondered how much of all this goodwill was political.
Then, suddenly, we were all rising and crossing the yard, back to the “house of the old men.” Apparently, it was time for lunch. Reentering the hall, men flowing around me, I saw a long skinny cloth on the floor, stretching the entire length of the room. Place settings for about fifty rimmed its edge, while in its middle rose heaping platters of rice and lamb, wheat and chicken, broiled whole fish, flat bread, and fresh greens. A Pepsi or Fanta soda can stood at each setting.
The men sat down quickly and began digging in, eating with spoons and fingers made slick with grease. From the head of the table, Kamerin Beg beckoned, and I sat down beside him and the older Chaldean bishop, who was gingerly balancing himself atop two cushions. But I had barely started eating when many of the men started rising again, already finished, to leave the room as abruptly as they’d entered.
We returned to the reception room for fruit and glasses of tea. Then it was time to go. The Chaldeans left first, followed by the Assyrians. Finally, only Kamerin Beg, a few neighbors, and I were left.
“I am sorry you are leaving,” Kamerin Beg said, his kind eyes tired. “I wish you could stay.”
He looked as if he meant it. The room felt cold and deserted, the chilly wind of an uncertain future brushing against our necks. The Baathists were only a few miles away. Anything could happen here.
A FEW MONTHS later, I visited the shrine of Soltan Sahak, the founder of the Ahl-e Haqq religion, in Iranian Kurdistan. The shrine was located in Perdiwar, an isolated spot between the southwestern Iranian city of Paveh and the Iran-Iraq border. With me was a high school student who spoke moderately good English, and one of his relatives, who was our driver.
The l
ate-afternoon sun was pouring gold over our windshield by the time we pulled off the main road and onto the circuitous dirt lane that led to the shrine. Bumping our way along, we crisscrossed slopes bristling with bleached grasses, while below meandered the Sirwan River, shining with a strange, bright, dark green color—perhaps the effect of algae. No other person or vehicle was in sight.
As we pulled up to the compound that enclosed the shrine, I wondered for a moment if it was closed—it was so still and quiet. But then I noticed a souvenir shop where a vendor with a bushy mustache was lounging, half asleep.
Another mustachioed man wearing a loose shirt and sandals came out to greet us. As the guardian of the shrine, he, Taher Naderi, would be happy to give us a tour, he said. His family had protected Soltan Sahak’s tomb for over eight hundred years, ever since the Soltan’s death, when a Naderi ancestor had been by his side and pledged to take care of his body.
The Soltan’s shrine was divided into two small rooms, with a tall marble tomb in the second chamber. Dozens of prayer rugs and photos hung on the walls, most depicting a doe-eyed man with a green mantle draped over his head. This was Imam Ali, founder of Shiism and a prophet for the Ahl-e Haqq.
Soltan Sahak had been born in the holy town of Barzinja, in Iraq, Taher told us as we left the tomb, and had come to Iran only later. When he first arrived, the sound of the river had been very loud, but Soltan prayed and now—listen!—the river was very quiet.
I had read about Soltan Sahak. As the story goes, before his birth, three dervishes visited his father, Shaikh Ise, then an old man, and urged him to marry again. The shaikh, who already had three sons, tried to excuse himself, but the dervishes insisted, and he finally gave in, saying that he fancied the daughter of a local agha. Upon hearing the proposal, the agha was outraged—he would never marry his daughter to such an old man!—and ordered the dervishes torn to pieces. But no sooner had they been killed than they came to life again. This happened two more times, until the agha finally agreed to allow the marriage if the dervishes carpeted the road leading to his door with expensive rugs, brought him a thousand mules loaded with gold, and awarded him ten thousand camels and the same number of horses and sheep. The threesome went away and came back in the morning with all that he had requested. The couple was wed, and, a year later, in 1272 or 1273, Soltan Sahak was born.
A Thousand Sighs, A Thousand Revolts Page 17