Iraq smells closed. It is a country installed in the world's attic, that he is looking forward to ventila. Wants to open the doors of fear to air that smell of war, to confinement, Upload the blinds to illuminate the gloom of their tyrannies.
The country has too many scars, But he tries to compensate for his appearance in ruins with an open smile abroad. The Baghdad airport terminal is like a big hug to seal a visa in which everything sounds like a welcome. A “Welcome to Mesopotamia” is printed on the passport.
When the city goes out for a walk, At that time where the first impressions take place, One realizes, eg, that lYoung people have a perfect beard and extraordinary tupés, that women go to their air, Many covers, But others do not. Anduve how to go through new streets and outside our way of understanding life. Greeting at every step to shopkeepers and passersby, All happy to pose his smile and his tupé in front of the camera.
And one does not know very well how it ends up lost in the city of the city, labyrinths of a time that does not exist
And one does not know very well how it ends up lost in the city of the city, labyrinths of a time that does not exist. There are spinned vultures in street cages, aquariums full of colored fish. There are motley passages with copper ornaments, where artisans continue to carve Torres de Babel, And the visitor can find Arab inscriptions, harps of antiquity, Half moons and even lost crucifixes between Islam objects. There are narrow runners of illuminated electrical appliances with thousands of colored lamps and there are fruit and spices and turbant stores and mobile and shoes covers .... And there are books, Many books.
Al-Rashid Street was once the lustrous center in the capital. Today the facades are barely standing, But they tell the traveler that there was a more splendid time there. And on the sidewalks, There are tables with old books that live with the smell of Falafel, Kebab's positions, or the terraces where tea serves you, Boys with his insolent toupee pointing to heaven.
In Baghdad, statues are erected to his poets and the madrasa of Al-Nizamiyya resists, yet, as a temple of knowledge. It is a higher education school, founded almost a thousand years ago, recognized as the largest university in the world in medieval times. And 1258, Genghis Khan's hosts entered the city sweeping everything in their path. They looted the madrasa and, Account legend, that by throwing all the books to the tigris, The river was dyed black.
They looted the madrasa and, Account legend, that by throwing all the books to the tigris, The river was dyed black.
Iraq is the cradle of writing what converts it, therefore, In the place where the story is born. It is enough to enter its National Museum to understand that this is a town that has risen about the foundations of civilizations such as Assyrians or Sumerians. Baghdad is the capital of a country that is in the center of the hottest region on the planet.
Navigating the Tigris river in a boat, observing the birds that fly over the bridges or the terraces bet on the shores, One tends to forget the horror of pumps and the tension accumulated in centuries for so many clashes. I do not fit in this place the anger of Shiite and Sunnas accusing themselves of that nuance that will condemn them to hell.
But to understand today's reality, You have to stop the step in one of the cafes, Where they don't give coffee, but tea, Between the smoke of the Shishas. I entered the famous Shabandar Café, as who crosses the door of a temporary vortex. It is a place where the history of the city is told and among its tragedies, The portraits of 5 men at the entrance. Mohammed al-Khashali is the owner of the premises, a respected old man who already exceeds the 90 years. Every day he sits among the faces framed of his four children and one of his grandchildren who were killed in 2007 In an attack with a car bomb located at the entrance of the premises. His gaze is the look of Iraq's old, Affable and sad. Tired, But still resisting a future that goes out. The young, however, They meet to talk about Palestine or see the last influencer on Instagram.
The young, however, They meet to talk about Palestine or see the last influencer on Instagram
I went only to coffee shabandar and asked for a tea between the aroma of the shisha, that creates an atmosphere of gathering. In front of me, A young man, He looked at me with that Arabic kindness, that invites spontaneous conversation. His name was Salam, that in Arabic is a greeting and his attitude combined with his name, Well, with his gesture he would have the doors to the talk. We smoked and drank tea in that coffee, While Salam spoke in a perfect English of his Iraq vision. He reported with an invincible smile all wars and tyrannies, From Sadam Hussein, Even the attacks of the Americans, The Civil War and the atrocities of ISIS.
“How is it possible that with so many tragedies the Irakíes are so hospitable and kind to foreigners?"I asked. "Precisely for everything we have had to suffer, I can assure you that there is no town on the planet with more desire to live than the Irakí. ”
I aspired to smoke, in silence, trying to assimilate your answer.
