Massoud’s little house in Shariya was surrounded by villagers, all clamouring to see the relative of the Mir.
Sinàn, a junior member of the Chols – the Yezidi royal family – was nervous. From out of the much-travelled suitcase he carefully took the three components of the senjaq and assembled the bronze pieces. A sheykh of the Qatani clan watched closely as Sinàn screwed together the large circular base, the smaller middle disc and then the bulbous, bold-breasted bronze peacock with its stunning fan-like plumage. At the end of each feather was an eye, symbolising the all-seeing lordship of Tawusi Melek, the Peacock Angel.
The Qatani sheykh smiled and kissed the base of the senjaq. Women outside the house in long velvet skirts and round linen turbans trilled with excitement. The senjaq, or standard, was the sacred image of the Lord of the Earth’s destiny, the invisible patron of the Yezidis, the world’s secret governor, the greatest angel of them all, given control of the universe by the highest god, whose spirit dwelled in everything. Several villagers shook with emotion to see the sacred peacock, the focus of devotion, a signifier of the divine presence, his all-seeing will. It was a symbol of continuity and of the future blessings guaranteed to faithful Yezidis, God’s special people – born to suffer, in a unique way, the miseries and trials of the centuries.
It had been a long time since these people had witnessed the parade of the peacock through their village. Their village – as most people would understand the term – was gone.
The inhabitants of seven villages from the surrounding mountains had been forcibly relocated to Shariya by Saddam Hussein during the seventies, obliged to start again in a unified cluster of spare, concrete nests constructed by the government on a cruelly arid plain. Yet the identities of each of the seven villages had remained intact. So much so that during this, the annual visit of the Baba Sheykh to the Yezidi villages, the spiritual guest had to stay for seven nights, with a host from each of the original seven villages.
A Yezidi village, like the sheykh, was a spiritual as well as a physical entity. The official map said ‘Shariya’, but in their hearts the Yezidis were still linked to their own mountain pastures, with their crops and goats.
But where was the Baba Sheykh? The villagers expected him. This was tradition and Tawusi Melek willed such things to be.
A meeting with the Mir in Baghdad had decided the issue. News of the Baba Sheykh’s kidnap was to be withheld from the murids, or followers of the sheykhs, as long as possible. Such news could only dampen morale, already at a low ebb. Worse, the news would surely lead to rumours and then to vivid but fictional accounts; there would be cries for revenge. Someone would be blamed.
The sheykhs, in the absence of their leader, were particularly concerned. Rather than have one of them deputise for the absent Baba – which might give rise to speculation that the Baba had been replaced high-handedly by a rival – it had been decided to dispatch Sinàn, a much respected close friend of the Baba Sheykh.
As a doctor, he could provide immediate and much-appreciated assistance. And, as extra compensation for the absence of the Baba Sheykh himself, it had been agreed that the Sheikhani senjaq would be ‘walked’ through each ‘village’ of Shariya – a special privilege, much envied by surrounding Yezidi communities.
The story put out was that the Baba Sheykh had remained behind to offer special spiritual service to the absent Yezidi brethren who were undergoing difficulties in Germany. The Baba Sheykh’s presence in that country could be confirmed, at least for the time being, by relatives of German-based Yezidis still living in Kurdistan.
This was the reason Sinàn had driven fifty kilometres northwest from his much-neglected apartment in Mosul to this dry and dusty satellite of the big, bustling city of Dohuk. There were added responsibilities, and these too made Sinàn nervous.
It was the custom for the Baba Sheykh, while staying in the houses of the village hosts, to try to solve disputes and feuds. Since 2002 there had been a particularly painful feud going on which had already claimed several lives and threatened more. Lacking the spiritual authority of the Baba Sheykh, with his conduit to the will of Tawusi Melek and the judgement of the ancestors, Sinàn was thrown back on variations of the ‘you must look at the bigger picture’ argument. This authoritative strategy was artfully combined with moral injunctions carried, it was believed, from the mouth of the absent religious leader.
The previous night, Sinàn had told visitors to Massoud’s house that just as they were now watching the bigger world, through their antennae and prized satellite dishes, the bigger world would be watching them also. They had entered a new era, an era that demanded exemplary behaviour. The reputation of the Yezidis was at stake. They were a special people, called to a higher destiny. The spiritual integrity of all Yezidis would suffer from the follies of the few.
Sinàn was not at all sure that his words – coming from one in a smart Western suit with a silvery silk tie – carried much weight with people who were suffering great anxieties and hardship, as well as the peculiar pressure that comes with great hope. If only he knew what had happened to the Baba Sheykh.
Amid the chatter of the excited women, Sinàn could hear the gathering beat of the massive tambours held by the qewwals. Then the flutes began their transcendent melismas. The qewwals began to sing. Sinàn raised the standard aloft. As he emerged through the front door into the dusty street, the qewwals began singing ‘The Morning Prayer’:
Amen, amen,
The blessing of the faith.
God is the best of Creators.
Through the miraculous power of Shem el-Din,
Fekhr el-Din, Sejadin,
Nasir el-Din and Babadin,
Sheykh Shems is the strength of the faith,
Sultan Sheykh Adi is the crown, from first to last.
Truth, Praise be to God. Oh Lord of the Worlds,
Give good things, avert evil.
We long for a moment of the Presence.
Light comes from the light of dawn,
Praise to you, my Creator.
The Angel is facing us.
From house to house,
Sheykh Shems is the lord of lustre…
Past the cream-coloured houses, the procession continued. Ahead of Sinàn marched a flautist dressed in a long black embroidered waistcoat and baggy black trousers. Children gathered, running cheerfully alongside the growing procession. White-bearded old men joined in too, wearing Arab-style red-chequered headdresses bound with black rope. Fathers in white linen robes had wrapped checked turbans about their skull caps; some sported pointed black beards. A few visitors from the Jebel Sinjar still wore the long black ringlets of days long gone, framing their handsome faces. Old men with huge moustaches – a sign of religious devotion – waved on the procession with their walking sticks. Teenage girls in Western-style blouses and sandy-coloured cotton trousers cheered along the senjaq’s ‘walk’ as Sinjari matriarchs in massive white headdresses bound at the chin by great swathes of cotton clapped their hands and trilled along with the pulsing prayer.
On every side and surface of the uniform concrete houses the flash of the morning light added to the colour.
Sinàn began to relax; things seemed to be going well. He joined in with the prayer he had heard so many times in this life.
From pillar to pillar,
Sheykh Shems is the lord of mystical knowledge, of the pillars of the faith,
And of discernment.
From eye to mouth,
The baptism of Sheykh Shems falls on one,
The Great Ones are busy; they do not allow you to sleep.
From head to feet,
Oh Sheykh Shems, you designed us and set us on our paths…