İstiklâl Caddesi

Rootless Origins

Sprinkled are my origins, as I prefer to imagine, and scattered aromatically among the pine tree spiny leafs. Somewhere in Bou Saada, somewhere in every lost civilization. In every Diaspora, in every minority, sprankled are my origins, for the love of the poor, and the white hearted.


"The last [bullet] struck two meters over the projection booth, hitting the face of the clock, which, having stopped working sixty years earlier, was now covered with dust and cobwebs." P 161

I read those lines from the novel and put my head back on the pillow. As the electricity power was lost, and I shut my eyes, I remembered him with his yellow umbrella.

When I marched so fast on that moving forward ground I reached Aksaray so fast in that rainy black night in Aksaray-Istanbul. I threw my heavy bag in Uzbek hotel. Took a quick tasteless snatch of a sandwich. Sat next to rain when he approached. An elderly in 80s. or might be in 90s. or even more. He got many lost teeth as evident from his giggle.His yellow childish umbrella is so specific. And he used to say things like:

The Mediterranean didn't contain me,
Nor did the Red,
In the Atlas I got a wrecked ship,
In Uzbek a bed.

My Danube joins the Caspian to the Black,
I'm Armenian in Diaspora,

My duduk is my identity.

I'm the Kurd, the Chaldean, the Amazeigh,
The Assyrian out of Nineveh.
The Yezidi, the Mandaean,
I am the rootless origin.

I had walked after Saint Augustin
From Thagast but didn't reach Rome,
I've ended in Efes,
Making a soup out of mushroom.

I remember how he used to come and disappear. He still remember how estranged I was with his line "I am the rootless origin". I remembered Amin Maalouf book "Origins" in which he said that he prefer the term "Origins" to the term "Roots" cause we are not tress. We are not fixed, unmovable. I remembered also Shakir L'Aibi poems collection entitled "Roots and Wings", a collection that I didn't read it per se, but read an interview with the poet about it, about roots, wings, and travels. I decided that I need to travel so a lot. I went to sleep that night and woke the next morning to find the old man waiting for me in a café. He was nodding his head as if saying: yes, you need to travel a lot dear. Speechless, he offered me a sea food dish. The seagulls were quaking above our heads. White we are, snow our novel is, frightened our scary hiding dreams, yet in the day, we find some peace to meet and exchange some silent ideas.

Iraqi Architecture

Typical Iraqi modern quarter and houses from Kirkuk.

Ankara-Kerkuk

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.

Here is Kerkuk.

Bou Saadi Last Moments

In my last days in Bou Saada, I started to spend some considerable time sitting on the bench of our door smoking.

The very last 24 hours I visited one of the oldest cafes in Bou Saada. I somtimes sit here and watch the stork couple who got their nest in the front tower (not shown in photos).

Pine tree aroma is now linked in my mind to Algeria since it was here that I mostly smelled it summer and winter, under sun and under rain.

Took a hair cut, put a headphone, and go Tracy Chapman.

Wondering what the clouds may offer from shapes. I didn't want to believe that they may offer a map of Iraq.

Contemplating one of my favourite dad's painting of the Espresso machine.

Dad came with me at dawn to the airport. My dad offered me my last Espresso drink. I took an Espresso maching with me to Iraq but the coffee beans' types are different from Algeria to Iraq. I failed to got that same flavour I used to love in Algeria.

Kissing goodbyes. Viva Turkish Airlines.

La Nuit des Origins

Our ancestors live in El Alleig, a village about 10 km south to Bou Saada. El Alleig literally means Blackberry. It has a natural water source. It is older than Bou Saada. We headed to El Alleig that evening to bring some water from its source. All El Alleig inhabitants are our relative. There was a wedding and we were invited. When we asked to leave an hour after that we weren't allowed to do so because the bride was expected to arrive few minutes later and we were told that we should stay to witness the entrance of the bride. We were invited to dinner. After dinner, Ouled Naïl percussions and that special flute named Ghaita started to play. Ouled Naïl dancing started. It was a night of going back to origins.