Dear Friends,

You may have read in the news about the death of the Chaldean archbishop of Mosul, Paulos Faraj Raho. He was kidnapped in Mosul a few weeks ago by an insurgent group who demanded that the Chaldean church pay a hefty ransom. A few days ago we heard the news that Bishop Faraj passed away. There was a huge ceremony for his burial yesterday in the Christian town of Karamles, about halfway between Erbil and Mosul. I went with the fathers and all the students from the seminary to attend the event. I’ll try to describe a little bit about the meaning and the context of this tragedy as it looks from here.

When the earliest “Christians” first began preaching the message of Jesus of Nazareth, some of his followers traveled east to the land of the Assyrians in what is now Iraq and parts of Syria and Turkey. The Assyrian church that grew there over the centuries followed an Eastern orthodox tradition at the same time that Christianity was making its way across Europe. The ancient city of Ninevah (which is now Mosul) was an important center for Eastern Christians. In the 7th century tribes of new “Muslims” marched out of the Arabian peninsula and established the capital of the new Islamic empire first in Damascus and later in Baghdad. Arab language and culture was new to the Aramaic-speaking Christians in the region, who became concentrated in what is now northern Iraq and southeastern Turkey. The Chaldean church grew out of the larger Assyrian church in the 16th century when the Roman Catholic Pope named one of the Assyrian bishops the new Patriarch of the Chaldean church. Because of this early connection to Rome, even though the Chaldean church is an independent Eastern tradition, since its inception it has always been affiliated with the Catholic church. Today it’s called the Chaldean Catholic Church.

St. Peter’s seminary in Ankawa (where I live) is an important hub and symbol for the Chaldean church in Iraq as the place where its future leaders are nurtured and educated. It used to be in Baghdad, along with Babel Pontifical College where I teach. When U.S. troops arrived in 2003, priests recall that is was not controversial for church leaders to be in contact with U.S. military personnel. Sometimes they celebrated mass for the soldiers or worked with the military on small reconstruction projects. But as the months rolled on and the new, secure, democratic system that U.S. architects of the war assumed would take hold in Iraq never did, latent tensions between religious communities in Baghdad sprouted into open conflict. Priests and bishops became targets of threats and violence along with their parishioners, especially in the Christian neighborhood of Dora. Armed militias opposing the U.S. occupation and whatever status quo came with it began kidnapping church leaders both to drive Christians away and as a source of revenue. Some of the priests who survived these ordeals say that the kidnapper’s hostility is first directed at the church’s affiliation with the American occupiers, but later it just becomes a game of winning ransom money. In 2006, under the pressure of increasing attacks, St. Peter’s seminary and Babel College finally left Baghdad and relocated to the northern Kurdish region.

For now the seminary is located on the same grounds as Kineesa Mar Yusuf (St. Joseph Church) in Ankawa, pictured here.

Here in northern Iraq St. Peter’s is nearby to all of the Christian communities in the Kurdistan region that have been here for hundreds of years. There are ancient Christian villages scattered along the foothills of the Zagros Mountains, and there are also communities of Christians that live with Kurds and Arabs in larger mixed cities like Duhok and Mosul. Because of its location and its importance to the Chaldean church in Iraq, priests and bishops from all over the region are stopping by all the time. It’s common for me to crowd into our aluminum bungalow/dining hall with all of the seminary students and sit down at the dinner table with priests or bishops from all over the north.

Bishop Faraj was from Mosul. In Arabic, people refer to priests with the word abuna, which means “father.” It has a first-person plural ending (“we”), which conveys a collective sense that abuna is “our” father. Likewise, bishops are referred to as sayyidna, which means “lord” or “revered father,” also in a collective sense. In my short time since November I had dinner with sayyidna Faraj at the seminary on several occasions. As we gathered around the table he would always stop to give me a smile and a handshake. He would grab my hand with one of his thick and soft grandfatherly hands, then give it a gentle pat with the other. “Shlonak azizi” (how are you my dear) he would say.

Sayyidna Paulos Faraj Raho

We received word about three weeks ago that sayyidna Faraj had been kidnapped in Mosul, the three human beings he was driving with shot and killed on the spot. Apparently the attackers had contacted him days earlier, demanding that the church leadership pay them to support their militia. He refused.

Mosul is currently embroiled in active combat operations between the U.S. military, the Iraqi army, and various Muslim militant groups. Since last fall there have been sporadic speculations in the international press that the “surge” of multi-national forces in Baghdad had pushed insurgent activity into new centers of concentration, one of which being Mosul. Rather than controlling or eliminating the decentralized insurgency, some say the surge was more like pressing one’s thumb down onto a water balloon—the wide variety of clandestine militias have been displaced for the moment but will return whenever the pressure lets off. For now there has been an increase in insurgent violence and counterinsurgent violence in Mosul. It is a dangerous place for Muslims and Christians alike.

Mosul sits just outside the de-facto border between Kurdistan and the rest of Iraq. Whereas numerous peshmerga (Kurdish army) checkpoints keep Erbil and the Christian neighborhood of Ankawa out of the war zones seen on TV in the rest of Iraq, right now Mosul is suffering through active, open combat.

For the last three weeks sayyidna Faraj has been on our hearts and in our prayers here at the seminary. The kidnappers never let sayyidna speak to anyone on the phone, and many speculated that it was because they knew if he did he would simply tell church officials not to pay any money. What an incredible moral dilemma. Christianity is both a religion and an ethnicity in Iraq, and the Christian community is sewn together through a distinct language and culture that dates back more than a dozen centuries. Sayyidna Faraj was more than just a kind man and a revered pastor. He and the rest of the Chaldean clergy represent the life and blood of the community itself. If the church didn’t pay, they risked losing an important part of themselves. At the same time, how many more guns and bombs would the kidnappers buy with the million dollars they were asking? How many more tragic deaths would that money buy?

On Thursday I was getting ready to take a trip with a local youth group to Sheklawa, one of the Christian villages here in Kurdistan, when all of a sudden everyone seemed to receive word at the same time that sayyidna was dead. The news was that the kidnappers called and told church officials where they could go to find his body, buried along the perimeter of Mosul, which they did. Apparently the only gunshot wound was in his lower leg. Sayyidna Faraj had a serious heart condition, and without his medication in captivity people think his condition may have worsened and eventually led to his death. It was clear that he had passed away several days before the kidnappers let on.

We never went to Sheklawa. Instead the youth group at Mar Qardakh church in Erbil immediately dispersed into action, preparing for a special ceremony to take place at their church later that evening. The days had been getting hot with the onset of spring, but on Thursday it was cold and pouring rain. Not even an hour had passed since we received the sad news of sayyidna’s death, and the group was placing glossy blow-up photos of sayyidna Faraj into picture frames and wrapping them with black ribbon. Hundreds of candles appeared out of nowhere and the younger students stuck them through the middle of folded pieces of paper so the wax wouldn’t drip on people’s hands at the ceremony. The Christian news channel Ishtar showed photo montages of sayyidna set to mournful singing in Sureth, the derivative of Aramaic spoken by Christians in the north. It was as if everyone was prepared ahead of time. “Maybe you’re wondering why we don’t seem more upset,” one of the young people told me. “We’re used to this,” he said. “This is our life in Iraq.”

Two young men at Kineesa Mar Qardakh (St. Qardakh Church) hold up newly-framed pictures of sayyidna Faraj as they prepare for a candlelight memorial service

A candlelight memorial mass took place at Mar Qardakh Church in Erbil the day church officials learned that Bishop Faraj had been killed.

The next day—Friday—under black clouds that looked like they would burst into downpour at any moment and with a freezing wind that made everyone feel underdressed, the seminary students and fathers and I piled into trucks and drove east across the greening fields to an ancient Christian town half way between Erbil and Mosul called Karamles. I knew it was not a normal day when we turned off the highway onto the 3-mile stretch of road leading into town. Cars were stopped at the turn off, being inspected by militiamen from Karamles who were making sure no security threats made it through to their town. When they saw all the black suits and white collars in our truck they waved us up to the front of the line, saying “bshena (a greeting in Sureth) abuna, tfuddal” (“Hello father, welcome” in a mix of Sureth and Arabic). All along the road from the highway into the town there were pairs of young and old men from town every 50 meters or so, one on each side of the road. They wore the plain clothes of small town folks, with warm jackets, and many with the strong red and white scarves common in the Middle East wrapped around their necks up to their ears. Each carried an automatic rifle. Armored vehicles of the Iraqi army, each with spray-painted camouflage and a green helmet poking out of the gun turret, passed us along the road into town. Entering the town itself we stopped to be inspected by local men literally every 15 meters, each of them giving us a good look and then a word of welcome. The border between the Kurdish region and the rest of Iraq is not a fence or barrier but a series of checkpoints by the Kurdish army. Karamles is somewhere in the middle, but it is still relatively safe. On any other day we would have been greeted by just one locally-run checkpoint at the entrance to town. But Karamles is close enough to Mosul that extensive security measures were taken for this unusual event, where most of the Chaldean clergy and even Patriarch Immanuel Delly III from Baghdad were gathering in one place.

The town was packed with Iraqi Christians from cities and towns all around the area. Myself and my friend who lives across the hall at the seminary, a Jesuit priest from Boston named Dennis, were the only foreigners in sight. Of course I felt self-conscious—I usually do here—but I was dressed in a black suit just like my seminary students I walked with. The only difference was the white collar and perhaps my height. By now I have met a number of young people from the villages around Erbil, and I received greetings from many familiar faces in the crowd.

Chaldean seminary students from Ankawa walk through the crowd gathered in Karamles for Bishop Faraj's funeral

Karamles is a small cluster of crumbling stone houses and streets built into and onto the ruins of structures that are clearly hundreds of years old. Fresh rain created muddy puddles along the rocky paths that trickled off into unseen crevices. Collections of centuries-old stone shrines and tombs with crosses on them stood leaning and neglected in small courtyards overgrown with dried grass and plastic litter. It was grey, damp, and freezing.

In the dark space inside one tiny stone church was the casket of sayyidna Faraj, covered in plastic flowers and surrounded by candles. The incense used in Catholic churches made the small room smoky and fragrant. Sisters of different Chaldean Catholic orders stood and sat around the edges of the room and chanted prayers in Sureth as the people in town filed past sayyidna’s casket, touching it, kissing it, and sobbing. Local men in charge of security ushered people down into the small stone room and back out the other side.

Chaldean Catholic nuns sing mournful songs and chant ancient prayers around the casket of Bishop Faraj

Later in the day sayyidna’s funeral procession began. With only moderate in-roads into the mystifying code of Arabic, I’m quite used to not understanding what’s going on. But at such a chaotic event, even my seminary students didn’t really know what was happening until 20 minutes before hand. Somehow I ended up in the funeral procession along with my students and all the priests and bishops from the area. Winding our way from the small stone church to the big stone church about a quarter-mile away where sayyidna was to be buried, the crowds were lined up on either side of the procession. First we passed through a column of young women studying to become nuns, wearing black with white open-laced scarves draped over their heads, singing songs and prayers of mourning. When we reached the main road the procession really began to take shape, with seminarians holding up pictures of sayyidna in the front and his coffin covered in bright plastic flowers held overhead in the back. We walked two-by-two, everyone but me singing Chaldean songs that were printed in a small yellow bulletin.

Chaldean seminary students participate in the funeral procession

Hundreds of people gathered in Karamles to mourn the death of Bishop Faraj

The streets were lined with ranks of mothers and grandmothers, dressed in black, holding olive branches, and crying uncontrollably. This was where the impact of sayyidna’s death really hit me. Surely some of these women knew him and knew what a kind man he was. But most of the women who were sobbing and wailing as sayyidna Faraj’s coffin passed by had probably never met him. But I realized that it wasn’t about an individual connection and grieving process. It was a collective wound. The women were sobbing over the pain of a community that was kidnapped and murdered; the pain of a community that has suffered this way many times before, and the pain of a community that is slowly crumbling under the weight of war and emigration.

Women wearing black and holding olive branches break into tears and sobs as the funeral procession passes by

During the mass that followed the big stone church was absolutely packed, with people looking in from the small windows on the roof. A few Muslim Sheikhs sat in the front row to convey condolences from their communities. The seminary students sang hymns, priests and bishops offered eulogies, and the people sat, stood, prayed and sang along with the liturgy. At several points Patriarch Immanuel’s voice cracked to hold back tears as he talked about his old friend. I couldn’t see him from where I stood, but I could see the faces of the people as he spoke. Breaks in his voice were met with brows that wrinkled and sobs that echoed through the hall. At the end sayyidna’s coffin was carried to the four corners of the church and bumped three times against each wall before being taken into the room behind the alter and buried next to a young priest who was shot in Mosul last year.

People throw flowers and women raise long and sharp ceremonial shrieks as the casket of Bishop Faraj passes through crowds of parishioners one last time

I’m not sure I have any analysis or reflective thoughts to conclude this entry with. I think we are an amazing species, as miraculous for our love as we are blind for our violence. I pray for Christians in Iraq who are suffering, and I pray just as genuinely for Muslims and Yazidis and mystics and atheists and every other category we create.

Dear friends,

I thought I would write a little bit about what MCC is doing in Iraq in terms of programming. I think my previous posts were a little on the looooong side, so I will try to be concise with this one.

MCC first began sponsoring Iraqi partners in 1993, and sent its first service worker to live in Iraq in 1998. During the time of Saddam (this is a phrase that is used a lot here, and I can tell sometimes it still sounds funny to Iraqis when they say it, now 5 years after the fall of the regime.) During the time of Saddam, the work that MCC sponsored through its partners focused on relief and development work in the context of a downward-spiraling economy under the sanctions regime. In earlier decades Iraq had been prosperous relative to neighboring Arab countries, but a long and bloody war with Iran during the eighties, the tightening grip of totalitarianism, the invasion of Kuwait and subsequent backlash, and a decade of international sanctions left Iraqi society poorer and more broken every year. Projects sponsored by MCC were aimed at alleviating the corrosive effects of underemployment, poor health, and deprivation.

Two young Iraqis working on the construction of a new building pause for a picture

The basic needs of Iraqis, like the course of their history, changed somewhat after 2003. When the United States failed to establish security in the first few months after the fall of Saddam and various ethnic and religious groups began competing for control, cycles of violence slowly accelerated the polarization process until a state of decentralized civil war became inevitable. Five years later polarization is advanced, both physically and emotionally. Iraqis who were not able to leave the country now live in a checkered geography of homogeneous zones, divided along lines of religion and ethnicity. But it’s not only checkpoints and the threat of death by local militias that keep Shi’is and Sunnis and Kurds and Christians in their respective places; it is the deep wounds of murdered loved ones and the visceral revulsion that grows between mortal enemies. Iraqis are skeptical that their country has the ingredients it needs (such as a unifying national consciousness or the rule of law) to make the slow transition from horrific civil war to a stable society and economy later on in the future. If it does, it will take many generations.

A Christian man prepares tea for his guests at a construction site

While the burdens of poverty and deprivation that weighed heavily on Iraqi families during the years of sanctions continue to erode the quality of life, Iraqis are now facing new, multi-layered crises generated by the wide-spread violence and insecurity. Through its partners MCC is working to respond to the urgent needs of Iraqis while also laying foundations for long-term social change. A majority of MCC’s partners are Iraqi non-governmental organizations (NGOs), and some are international non-profits who have a history of doing responsible work in Iraq. “During the time of Saddam” civil society organizations were officially non-existent, and functioned only dimly under the radar of the Ba’ath party. Since 2003 thousands of NGOs and other civil society groups have been formed, but flagrant assassinations and kidnappings have forced them to operate with a very low profile. Many managers of Iraqi NGOs have become refugees because of their social service, and they now work remotely from Amman. Yet civil society in Iraq is a creature destined to live, struggling to breathe but very much alive.

Iraqi youth from several villages in the north gathered in Erbil in February to talk and connect through games and discussions. Youth are an important sector of Iraqi society

MCC partners carry out relief programs all over the country, such as supplying hospitals in Baghdad with emergency medical supplies, providing clean water to rural villages in the north, or providing school supplies for the children of uprooted families. At the same time they also do longer-term development projects designed by beneficiary communities themselves, such as micro-credit projects for stimulating small businesses in Kirkuk, operating a supportive home for widows and orphans in Mosul, and providing conflict transformation courses for university students in Baghdad and elsewhere. Peace-related programs are especially important, helping to nurture a social infrastructure of relationships in Iraq that cross the boundaries of religion and ethnicity. MCC and its partners approach this long-term work both through stand-alone peacebuilding programs like dialogues and workshops, and by designing community development programs in such a way that they have a natural “connective” effect between groups in conflict. This kind of “integrated” programming holds particular promise in Iraq; While people permeated with the fear and mistrust of violent conflict might be skeptical of programs that address the relationship between enemy groups directly, antagonist communities may be more willing to work together toward a shared goal.

A Kurdish family from Erbil welcomed MCC staff in their home during a trip to northern Iraq. Most Kurds are Sunni Muslims, but with a different history and identity than Arab Muslims.

MCC’s Iraqi partners themselves are a reflection of important peacebuilding values. They come from every community: Kurdish, Sunni, Shi’i, Christian, and combinations thereof. While they face significant challenges not only from general security threats but also the difficulty of working across deeply divided sectarian lines, they do an excellent job creating inclusive programs designed to meet the needs of all Iraqis.

The Chaldean church in Iraq is another long-time partner. For many years MCC has provided funding for Babel College of Philosophy and Theology, a Chaldean college in Baghdad. MCC funds have allowed Babel College to buy books for its growing library, as well as other improvement projects. A series of MCC service workers based in Baghdad also supported the college over the years by teaching English and Theology classes part-time. The last of these, Peter Dula, who is now a professor at Eastern Mennonite University, worked for MCC in Baghdad and taught classes at Babel until late 2004, when it became too dangerous for him to stay. Threats and kidnappings of Chaldean priests and parishioners by militant groups in the area were steadily increasing. Finally the college itself left Baghdad a few years later under heavy pressure. It relocated to the city of Erbil in the Kurdish region of northern Iraq in early 2007, where there is relative safety. Based for now in Erbil, the college invited MCC to send another service worker to come back to Iraq and continue teaching classes part-time. I arrived in late November, and the rest of the story we have yet to see. MCC will continue to strengthen its relationship with the Chaldean church in the coming years.

Many students at Babel College are young men studying to become priests in the Chaldean church. I live with them at St. Peter Seminary in Ankawa. They come from all over Iraq, many from Baghdad and many from villages in the north. Here a few of them are posing with me outside of their shared residence. Some of them are also my English students

Iraqis have been crushed by violence and repression for a long time, yet they are magnetic peoples with a beautiful spirit. The current cycles of violence dismembering their society do not show signs of ebbing any time soon, yet Iraqis of every kind are working hard to build better communities. MCC has nurtured important relationships with Iraqis over the years, and it remains hopeful that the strength of these relationships and the good work that results will offer a constructive contribution to a more peaceful life in Iraq.

Hello again and welcome!

Many folks reading this web log might not be familiar with MCC or the Mennonite church in general. If Mennonite readers will permit me (hopeful, unassuming smile), I would like to give a little background information about the organization I am working for and its roots in the Mennonite church. I am no expert on Mennonite identity and history, of course, but I will do my best.

MCC AT A GLANCE

MCC (Mennonite Central Committee) is an international non-profit, non-governmental organization that supports local partners around the world to do relief, development, and peacebuilding work in their communities. It works on behalf of Mennonite and Brethren in Christ churches in the United States and Canada, as well as other churches and other places. As an organization MCC has been around for almost 90 years, and currently works in 55 countries, including the U.S. and Canada. Over the course of its long history MCC has gained a good reputation as an organization that respects the values and traditions of different cultures, and seeks to meet the human needs of communities as the communities themselves have defined them. In so many cases MCC has succeeded in establishing lasting connections between peoples who are struggling through violent or oppressive circumstances and peoples elsewhere in the world who offer open hearts and resources. Through MCC, over the years such partnerships have become the basis of mutually-transformative positive change in amazing ways.

A Honduran family whose house was washed away during Hurricane Mitch in 1998 received assistance from MCC. (Photo by Marlisa Yoder-Bontrager, A Common Place Magazine, June 1999)

WHO ARE THE MENNONITES?

MCC is an extension of the Mennonite and Brethren in Christ churches in the U.S. and Canada. Mennonites trace their origins to Western Europe during the Reformation period in the 16th century. As an Anabaptist church, Mennonites believe in re-baptizing Christians when they are old enough to understand the faith they are claiming, after they have made an informed decision to dedicate their lives to following the teachings of Jesus. Anabaptist churches include Mennonites, Amish, Hutterites, Church of the Brethren, and Brethren in Christ traditions. (Sometimes people confuse the name Anabaptist with Baptist. But while they are both Christian denominations, these two categories have different histories and traditions.) One of the early Anabaptist leaders was a Dutch Catholic priest named Menno Simons, from whom Mennonites take their name. In addition, because of the church’s unique history, Mennonite identity is also fundamentally rooted in a commitment to peace and nonviolence. The message of Jesus that Mennonites hear in the New Testament is a call to peacemaking and reconciliation—not only reconciliation between people and God, but also a reconciliation between all peoples.

Menno Simons, 1496 - 1561. (photo borrowed from www.mcc.org)

From its humble beginnings until today, Mennonite communities have been traditionally pacifist, refusing to take up arms against enemies or even defend themselves from attack. For their refusal to participate in the regional wars of the time and for many contextual reasons, Mennonites were a marginalized and persecuted church in Europe, suffering systematic massacres and displacement. From their roots in Holland, southern Germany, and Switzerland, many Mennonite clans emigrated to the Americas, carrying with them an identity of victimhood and a tradition of living in quiet, simple communities removed from the violence of the outside world. Over the centuries these ingredients of pacifism, simplicity, and community shaped the unique identity of Mennonites.

There is a well-known story about a famous Mennonite named Dirk Willems. During a period of religious persecution for Mennonite communities in Europe, Willems was being pursued by a man who intended to kill him when his pursuer fell through a layer of ice and began to drown. As the story goes, instead of fleeing to safety Willems turned around and saved his attacker's life. He was subsequently taken into custody and later executed.

When people who are not familiar with the Mennonite Church hear the word “Mennonite,” they might picture horses and buggies and traditional folks living a bucolic lifestyle without the complications of modernity. While this image remains partly true of some Mennonite communities (similar to Amish communities) in certain parts of North and South America, today the life and appearance of most Mennonites in the U.S. and Canada would be hard to distinguish from other Americans and Canadians of European descent. In recent decades there is also an increasing number of Mennonite churches of non-European descent in the U.S. and Canada, as well as all over the world. That is to say, while the Mennonite church continues to be relatively small in comparison to other Christian denominations, today it is a modern, diverse, and dynamic church. Yet its identity continues to be rooted in community, peace, and reconciliation.

I mentioned that throughout their history Mennonites have been known for their belief in strict pacifism, or nonresistance. The strength of their aversion to fighting meant that sometimes Mennonites would shy away from involvement in conflict altogether, regardless of whether the victims were Mennonites or other peoples in the world. But within the Mennonite community, the wars of the 20th century—especially World War II—catalyzed an important shift in Mennonite thinking and theology. As a result of these events and perhaps the onset of a more connected, “globalized” world, the writings of Mennonite theologians began to reflect a movement away from a belief in passive nonresistance and isolationism toward a commitment to active, nonviolent engagement in the world. Taking stock of so much brutality and exploitation on an industrial scale going on around them, Mennonites began to take another look at their tradition of living in isolation. They began to preach active, nonviolent involvement, living out their belief in peace-making by working for social justice in their communities and around the world. While Mennonites continue to be pacifists who believe passionately in the power of nonviolence, the philosophy of “nonresistance” has been widely transformed into a pro-active “resistance” against violence and injustice.

MENNONITE CENTRAL COMMITTEE

MCC is a direct result of this shift. It is a reflection of the now well-established and remarkably accomplished track record of Mennonite involvement in the world for the cause of peace and justice. MCC began in 1920 when the Mennonite church sent its first overseas workers to Russia following the revolution. While MCC has the official status of a non-profit organization and largely functions as such, it is technically part of the church. It represents Mennonite and other Christian constituencies, as well as any other community or individual that has an interest in a more peaceful world. MCC acts as the eyes, ears, heart, and hands of the people who support it. It does not require its staff nor its supporters to be Mennonite, but it does require them to profess genuine faith in Jesus and a commitment to nonviolence. For them, following the example of Jesus and loving one’s neighbor means working to edify our human community by living out the values of compassion, respect, fairness, tolerance, and community.

Sharing a meal with a Jordanian family near the Dead Sea. MCC helped the family open a small bakery. (photo by Mark Beach. A Common Place Magazine, April 1999)

The ethos of MCC’s work stands out among international humanitarian organizations because of the humility with which it embraces other cultures and customs, and because of the sincerity of its commitment to long-term relationships with host communities. Workers who serve overseas are asked to commit to a three-year minimum term, which reflects MCC’s dedication to lasting relationships and sustainable programs. During times of political tension or violent conflict in a host community, MCC is known to stay when other international organizations pull their foreign workers out. In each location around the globe the MCC team is a mixture of international and local professionals; International staff might come with relevant experience and skills to offer, and local staff bring skills from their own backgrounds. Local staff are the ones who know the culture and context of the setting the best, and are therefore key actors in MCC’s work. MCC relies on all of its team members to build sustainable partnerships and programs in the places it works.

In terms of programming, usually MCC does not run its own projects. Rather, it supports local partners and communities to achieve their own goals through the projects they themselves envision. A partner could be a local church congregation, a local non-governmental organization (NGO), an international non-profit organization working locally, a school, a clinic, an orphanage, a farming cooperative, or a group of community members. The work these partners do may be reviving an agricultural industry, providing emergency relief during a disaster, stimulating local businesses and creating jobs, advocating against exploitative policies, building up schools and educational capacities, or mediating between groups in violent conflict. MCC supports these partners in one of three ways: 1) By providing the funds they need, 2) by supplying material resources such as school kits or health and medical supplies, and 3) by sending workers with useful training or talents to live and work with the local partners. Usually all three of these forms of support are present is a given location.

A student at a school in Baghdad supported by MCC. (Photo borrowed from www.mcc.org)

MCC’s money comes from many sources. The majority comes from individual donations made by people who believe in MCC’s work and values. Mennonite and Brethren in Christ churches in the U.S. and Canada are an especially important foundation of financial support. In addition, MCC administers several long-standing fundraising programs that provide a steady flow of resources, such as its network of local thrift stores staffed by volunteers. Thrift stores may not sound like big money-makers, but this network of local shops across the U.S. and Canada actually earns several millions of dollars each year thanks to the donated time and energy of its staff members. MCC also receives grants from funding bodies and foundations that support humanitarian work. And while MCC does not receive money from the United States government, it does receive grants from the Canadian International Development Agency. The important thing to know about all of these sources is that MCC does not accept money from donors unless it is in accordance with MCC’s mission and values.

WHAT'S THE MOTIVATION?

MCC staff and volunteers see their work as an expression of Jesus’ message of love and reconciliation. The motivation for their work comes from an earnest desire to live out their faith and follow the example Jesus set about what it means to love and care for people. Regarding the question of evangelism, this is a complex and sometimes controversial issue for MCC just as it is for other Christians. On one hand, MCC and the people who support it believe the gospel of Jesus is a transformative message, and part of caring about others means offering insights from one’s own faith journey when it comes from a feeling of genuine love. As a matter of official policy, evangelism is not the focus of MCC’s mandate, but neither is it explicitly excluded. But there is an important difference between being open to sharing one’s faith or even working to strengthen the spiritual life of a Christian community, and blindly proselytizing others as if the religion were more important than the person.

This group of Cambodian women sell fish from their bicycles in a place where food is not always plentiful. MCC funds local partners who design development programs that improve the health and prosperity of their communities. (Photo by Pearl Sensenig. A Common Place Magazine, April, 1998)

Part of the reason MCC has earned such a positive reputation around the world—especially in non-Christian communities—is because MCC has the experience and the wisdom to understand that the world cannot be viewed through only one lens, and that Truth can be found in the dialectic between different perspectives and beliefs. It is possible to remain true to one’s own Christian identity and beliefs and still maintain an attitude of humility and a genuine desire to learn from the valuable perspectives of other cultures and belief systems. A common axiom in MCC circles is that MCCers learn during their assignments much more than they teach. One thing is certain: MCC would never disrespect or trivialize the beliefs and traditions of others, because such an attitude is both short-sighted and antithetical to what it means to love one’s neighbor. At the end of the day, MCC is a relief, development, and peacebuilding organization composed of people who are trying their best to follow the example of Jesus. It exists in order to meet the needs of people who are experiencing terrible hardships like war and exploitation. Its only mission is love.

This is an important distinction to make about MCC’s identity. In many settings across the world where MCC works, it would severely damage MCC’s legitimacy and its ability to do meaningful work with host communities if people thought that MCC was simply a missionary organization trying to convert people to Christianity. It is not. In the Middle East, and certainly in Iraq, there is an extremely high public sensitivity against Christian groups who are even perceived as evangelistic in nature. And there is good reason for suspicion, given Iraq’s centuries-long history of manipulation by external forces. Of course this collective resistance is vast and deep in Muslim communities, but Christians in Iraq are equally wary. There have been some evangelist groups who have appeared since 2003 to woo Christians away from other churches, and it has created a big problem. MCC has no such agenda. Its goal is to work together all Iraqis to meet the needs of people who are suffering the terrible consequences of violence and deprivation.

Fatima Sabra (right), a nurse at the Imam Sadr Foundation in Lebanon, talks with students between classes. The Sadr Foundation is a Shiite Muslim organization that serves women and children from low-income families in Lebanon. MCC provides funds for management training for the foundation's staff. (Photo by Melissa Engle. June, 2006)

Of course, Christian communities continue to be the backbone of MCC’s involvement around the world. Often it is local churches that invite MCC to work with them and establish an initial presence in a given country. MCCers who live and work in these communities share in the life and faith of the local church, building lasting relationships. At the same, time a large percentage of MCC’s partners are not churches, nor Christian. MCC partners with a wide range of civil society groups, such as non-profit humanitarian or human rights organizations, schools, local governments, or community cooperatives, and these partners may profess religious beliefs that are different from Christian traditions. This is not a drawback from MCC’s point of view, but rather central to its identity as a vehicle for peacemaking. Indeed, building mutually-edifying relationships across the lines of disparate identities (especially religious identities) is the essence of peacebuilding in a divided world. As Mennonites cling tightly to values of respect and humility, and as MCCers work for justice and peace in a pluralistic human community that conjoins every belief system under the sun, MCC could not remain true to its identity and purpose if it only worked with certain kinds of people.

MCC has been working with partners of every religion and ethnicity in Iraq for more than 10 years. These relationships continue to be incredibly valuable, especially in the context of the current civil wars that are disintegrating Iraqi society. But this is a big topic, and this blog entry is already too long. I better save it for next time. Thank you again for reading! My best wishes to you,

- John

What’s it like in Iraq? What does it look like…what are the people like…what’s really happening there? For folks in Canada and the United States who have been following the events and storylines in Iraq for the last 5 years or for the last few decades, these might be recurring questions. They have certainly been relevant for me in recent years as I have watched my own country’s narratives intermingle with Iraqi narratives in increasingly dramatic and violent ways. As it turns out I now find myself inside Iraq, still watching with curiosity and concern but from a very different vantage point. And the things I’m seeing and hearing no longer come from my mind’s eye but from the real life around me. Of course, as a foreign civilian I do not have access to the parts of Iraq where people are suffering the most from the horrors of war. But northern Iraq provides a unique perspective on life and conflict in Iraq, just as the Iraqis who live here are no less affected by tragedy directly or indirectly. I am humbled by them, and by their grace for welcoming me here. There is so much to see and so much to share, and so much learning that will only come with time. But with this entry I thought I would begin by painting just a tiny corner of the view from northern Iraq, as it looks so far.

While the place where the midsection of Iraq transitions into “northern Iraq” is not easy to spot, the north is often identified with the three Kurdish provinces (Suleimaniya, Erbil, and Dahok) that are splashed across the northeastern corner of the country. Here in the north this area is referred to as Kurdistan, bordered to the east by Iran, and to the north by Turkey, with the beautiful Zagros mountains in between. I live right in the middle, in Erbil, one of Kurdistan’s largest cities. Before moving here I pictured northern Iraq as mostly mountainous, with cool air and a green landscape, contrasting sharply with the flat, dusty desert that stretches across the rest of the country. But as it turns out, much of the land here in the Kurdish region is also flat as can be. And right now the days are dry and dusty because of the season, so when I take in a panorama view from the roof of my building I see miles and miles of golden brown horizon in every direction. Other than the large herd of square buildings and beige streets that cluster around Erbil there aren’t really any other structures that punctuate the open space. I’ve been told the golden brown brush that covers the terrain turns into a beautiful green in the spring, so I will look forward to that.

A view across Erbil from the citadel in the center of the city. To the northeast in the background are the foothills of the Zagros Mountains

To the east the open expanse slowly climbs up into the Zagros Mountains. The land in Suleimaniya province is a lot more rolling and wrinkled than Erbil, and being winter now it’s also considerably colder. (Of course, Erbil is cold-d-d-d enough!) The mountaintops in the background are glossed white with snow that you can see even through the dusty desert haze. It is said that the first hunter-gatherer tribes to master agriculture came down from the Zagros mountains to farm in the fertile lowlands around the Tigris and Euphrates rivers thousands of years ago. Over the centuries these nomadic clans slowly transitioned into a settled way of life, and from their foundations the earliest civilizations in human history began to grow. European scholars refer to this time and place in our history as ancient Mesopotamia. Today it’s Iraq.

The landscape of ancient Mesopotamia and modern Iraq. In the distance are the Zagros Mountains that watched over the first civilizations in human history

Northern Iraq is predominantly Kurdish, but there are plenty of other ethno-religious identity groups that also call it home. All of Iraq’s history, from the earliest civilizations until today, is a story of merging and purging of peoples from different nations and tribes as empires both foreign and home-grown have come and gone: Sumerians, Babylonians, Assyrians, Mongols, Macedonians, Arabs, Persians, Turks, and Europeans, to name just a few. Back in the seventh century when the first Caliphs of the new Islamic faith swept northward through Mesopotamia with their Muslim armies from the Arabian peninsula, there were tribes of Christians living in and around the city of Ninewah (now Mosul) who spoke Aramaic, the language of Jesus. Today in northern Iraq many small Christian villages remain, and they have an identity and history that is quite distinct from the other Iraqis.

Iraqi Christians attend mass at St. Joseph Church in Ankawa, the main Christian neighborhood in Erbil

While the spread of Islam Arab-ized many of the diverse peoples of Mesopotamia to varying degrees through language, culture, and lineage, most modern Iraqi Christians do not consider themselves Arabs. Rather, Christianity in Iraq is a religion and an ethnicity. At home, especially in the villages, they grow up speaking “Christian” (called Sureth) which is the modern derivative of ancient Aramaic. Living in a predominantly Arab country, most Christians learn Arabic in school and may even use Arabic most of the time. But for them it’s a second language.

The Kurds also have a distinct ethnicity and history. The precise origin of the Kurdish people as a collective identity group is hard to pinpoint, but since the Kurdish narrative came into being the Zagros Mountains has always been their home. Some scholars believe the rough terrain of that mountain range is one reason why many empires of centuries past were not able (or not interested) to conquer and assimilate Kurds into their languages and cultures. While the first official language of the modern state of Iraq is Arabic, “Kurdish” is more akin to Persian. They are Muslims, mostly Sunni, but the expression of their faith and the role of Islam in their lives is different than it is for Arab Muslims in the middle and the south of Iraq.

If you ask a Kurdish Iraqi about his homeland, he might tell you about Iraq, but he will almost certainly tell you about Kurdistan. But for many Kurds, the land of their ancestors is not just northern Iraq—it encompasses large parts of Turkey, Iran, and a little bit of Syria as well. Kurds represent about one-fifth of Turkey’s population, and Kurdish communities make up about one quarter of Turkey’s national territory. They also represent major minority groups in both Iraq and Iran. But there is no officially-recognized “Kurdistan” on record with much of the international community.

When Britain and France invaded the Ottoman Empire during World War I and the Ottoman regime crumbled, the Europeans carved up the empire into “protectorates” that lumped diverse ethnic groups together in ways that didn’t always make sense. The Kurdish areas that are now part of Iraq, for example, did not have any real connection to the middle and southern provinces of Baghdad and Basra, which were largely Arab Sunni and Arab Shi’a provinces, respectively. Yet after the war these three areas were lumped together by British and French leaders into one political entity and mandated into Britain’s custody by the League of Nations. During the decline of the Ottoman Empire the Kurds had lobbied vigorously for the independence for their homeland, but the Europeans had a different agenda. Instead of receiving statehood, Kurdistan was divided and incorporated into what is now Turkey, Syria, Iraq, and Iran.

Iraqi Kurds enjoy a traditional Kurdish dance at a wedding. People lock hands in one line and step in unison, creating a beautiful collective movement that winds all around the dance floor

Since that time the Kurds have been minorities in each of these countries, and have often suffered violent repression at the hands of Turkish, Arab, or Persian majorities. In Iraq, Kurdish Iraqis have a long and bitter history with Arab Iraqis, as successive Arab governments have instituted policies to try to Arab-ize Kurdish language and culture, often with draconian force. U.S. wars against Saddam Hussein have been helpful to the Kurds in some ways, and many Kurdish Iraqis I’ve spoken with seem happy about the cautious increase in economic development they have seen in their communities.

Erbil itself is almost entirely Kurdish. As I mentioned, the city sits on land that quite flat. But for some reason there is a broad mound of earth right in the middle of the city that might be as high as a four or five-story building and measures perhaps 300 meters in diameter. It’s such an anomaly that one wonders how exactly nature put it there.

The Citadel sits on top of a hill in the middle of Erbil. It dates back to the time of Alexander the Great.

On top of the hill sits the ruins of a citadel or small city that dates back to the time when Mesopotamia was occupied by Alexander the Great. It’s clear that later generations have built and rebuilt the citadel on top of the ancient foundation several times, and I’m not sure exactly when the current structure that sits on the hill was built. People say Erbil residents used to live in the citadel as they do in any other part of the city, but some time ago the Kurdish authorities relocated the occupants elsewhere so it could become a source of tourism revenue.

A view of the downtown market area in Erbil from the citadel in the center of the city.

From the citadel at the center of the city the layout of Erbil fans outward in a series of ever-wider concentric circles. The dusty streets, the boxy concrete buildings, and the activity that flows through the city create a look and feel I find hard to capture in words. Maybe I would say it doesn’t look fancy. It’s a clean city in terms of garbage and litter, but seems very unkempt because there is construction going on absolutely everywhere, and because the city is covered with a thin layer of dust from the desert. Piles of sand, concrete blocks, construction vehicles, and other building materials line the streets everywhere you look, either for a building being erected or for road construction. Half of all the buildings you see are still being built. Grey concrete frames of homes and offices seem perpetually unfinished. The construction process is fun to watch. There are few buildings made with steel beams, and absolutely no homes made of wood. Rather, concrete for each floor of the building is poured and set with rebar into a wooden mold that is held up by hundreds of wooden poles standing on the floor below. When the concrete hardens, the wooden moulding and the poles are removed and the process repeats for the next floor up, leaving a boxy, grey, concrete building. They are everywhere.

Wooden poles and moulding hold up the concrete floor of a house under construction. They will stay there until the concrete dries

Sitting just outside the city on Erbil’s northern side is the neighborhood of Ankawa, where I live. Whereas Erbil is mostly Kurdish, Ankawa is mostly Christian. Many local residents wear Kurdish-looking clothes and may even speak Kurdish, but they’re not Kurds. Ankawa has doubled in size since the U.S. invasion of Iraq, as indigenous residents have been joined by Christians from various villages in the north and a large number of families from Baghdad. International aid agencies would classify these new arrivals as “Internally-Displaced Persons” (IDPs.) They have returned to their families in the north or they have moved here for the first time because of threats to their safety in Baghdad and elsewhere. Some tell stories of loved ones killed by U.S. troops or kidnapped by insurgents. Many were forced to leave because they happened to live in the wrong neighborhood, or because of death threats they received from insurgent groups for being employed by U.S. companies or the U.S. army. Everyone has suffered in some way because of the war, no one discusses it in much detail, and they all make jokes about it.

Rooftops on a rainy day in the Christian neighborhood of Ankawa on the north side of Erbil

People relocate to the north because it is relatively safe here. It’s not only foreigners like me who cannot go to Mosul or Baghdad and walk around freely; many Christians would also be in danger, not to mention Sunni or Shi’i Muslims who happen to be on the wrong side at the wrong time in a violent civil war. It doesn’t seem as common to find Arab Muslims Iraqis who have relocated to the north, maybe because they are historical enemies of the Kurds. But Christians who have enough money are generally able to move.

Typical homes in northern Iraqi towns

Before I arrived I tried to imagine how it works exactly that the awful violence in the center and the south of the country that we watch on TV doesn’t spill over into Kurdistan. I thought maybe the Kurdish soldiers (called peshmerga, meaning “those who face death”) had set up heavily fortified checkpoints on every road and hilltop and perhaps found themselves in regular skirmishes with Sunni or Shi’i militias to keep the war out of the north. But when I got here I saw what appeared to be a much more casual system. There are indeed checkpoints, but not the heavily fortified blockades like I’ve seen in the West Bank. Soldiers do look at cars and plates and faces and names as people come through, redirecting vehicles for further questions now and then. But traffic flows relatively fluidly. On my visits to some of the villages here in the north our truck usually passes through without a problem (although our driver always does his best to tell the soldiers that we are Christians, not foreigners from the U.S. Not that there is an immediate concern, but it’s a good safety precaution in general). The peshmerga are not concerned about Christians or Kurds, or even foreigners. Rather they’re looking for Arab Iraqis who might be militiamen coming from Mosul or elsewhere to Erbil. Of course it’s overt racial profiling, but this is the tone of life in the context of an ethnic civil war. Some cities on the rim of the Kurdish region have active insurgent groups that Kurdistan takes great care to keep out. I’ve only been here a short time, but this system seems to be effective. Erbil and the rest of the north feels very safe.

The Christian village of al-qosh nestled against the Zagros foothills in northwestern Iraq

But other than this mechanism, the “border” between Kurdistan and the rest of Iraq that is suffering under the weight of civil war is not really a border in a traditional sense. Iraq still looks and feels wide open. (That is, it feels wide open to me, a privileged foreigner. The picture looks quite different for many Iraqis.) I think part of the reason that the Kurdish provinces are not experiencing the war the same way that Shi’a and Sunni identity groups are living through it in the center and the south of Iraq is because in the northern provinces there are completely different groups of people with a completely different set of issues. Conflict is still here, and violence still lies beneath the surface. When the course of events in Iraq finally gives its full attention to the Arab-Kurdish dispute over Kirkuk and its rich oil resources, it’s possible things could deteriorate rather quickly. But for now, I’m grateful for the subtle sense of “peace” that people seem to enjoy here in the north.

Maybe I’ll stop here for now. There’s more to come….Thank you for reading, and thank you for your interest in the lives of Iraqis!

- John

A church in the village of karakosh, in northwestern Iraq

Guests eat well in Iraq.

A truck full of sheep and one sheepish shepherd on the way to a village in Northern Iraq.

Sunset over Ankawa