In Ankara the skies were grey. A white derwish was turning around his heart over a clock. There was a brige too. White and grey, were the colors.
Hours after travel I succeded to fall asleep. Woke up to see a face of an owl. A symbol for wisdom according to the westerners, a symbol of bad luck according to us. I remembered that brige in Ankara. Remebered Ataturk. A brige between East and West. I am already longing to go out of Iraq.