Part two - The difference between you and I is Opportunity!

A Mountain Sanctuary

Balisan. The name echoes in my mind, not as my birthplace, but as the crucible that forged my early years. I was born in the city of Hawler (or Erbil), but my story truly begins when I was just three months and nine days old - a detail my mother never failed to emphasise. It was then that my father, driven by his commitment to the Kurdish peshmerga movement, uprooted our family from the relative comfort of city life and embarked on a journey that would lead us, after brief stays in surrounding villages, to the mountain sanctuary of Balisan.

Balisan is nestled in the embrace of the Zagros Mountains, Balisan was a world apart from the bustling streets of Hawler. The village clung to the mountainside, a patchwork of simple mud homes and narrow pathways around the mountains that seemed to defy the laws of gravity. The air here was different - crisp, clean, and filled with the scent of wild berries, herbs, mushrooms, fruits, nuts, seeds and many other edible plants that clung to the rocky slopes. It was a natural garden we as children grazed on as we explored around the mountains. One of my favourite memories with my father was going to the freshwater creek and picking some fresh beautiful watercress. The mountains of Kurdistan possess more than 2000 Species of Edible and Medicinal Plants. It truly is a natural wonder.

Our home, humble as it was, quickly became a beacon for the Kurdish resistance. Young men, their eyes burning with determination and dreams of freedom, would arrive at our doorstep seeking rest and respite, invariably, they found it. My mother, a woman whose strength I've yet to see matched, welcomed each of them as if they were her own sons. She'd cook meals that seemed to materialise out of thin air, wash clothes caked with the dust of long journeys, and create beds from whatever materials we had at hand.

These young Peshmerga fighters became our extended family, older brothers who taught us the ways of the mountains and showed us how to navigate the challenges of life in Balisan. They brought with them stories of the world beyond our village, tales of struggle and hope that fired our young imaginations and planted the seeds of a larger Kurdish identity in our hearts.

Life in Balisan was far from easy. We had no running water, no gas, no electricity. Most of our cooking and baking was done over wood fires, and sometimes we would be lucky to have a bottle of gas for cooking. Bread was baked in the communal tandoor. My mother would hike through the cold snow and blizzard to get water from the one of many spring water sources called Kani in Kurdish. Some Days she would do 5-10 trips carrying 20-30L of water back up. Despite the daily struggles there was a beauty in this simplicity, a sense of connection to the land and to each other that I've rarely experienced since.

I remember the women of the village gathering to prepare for winter, their hands moving with practised efficiency as they preserved fruits, vegetables, and grains. These were lessons in resourcefulness, in making the most of what we had and planning for an uncertain future. It was a stark reminder that in Balisan, opportunity often meant creating something from nearly nothing.

One of my most vivid memories is the rare treat of a watermelon. The anticipation would build as we carefully placed it in the Kani, the cold mountain spring served as our natural refrigerator. The whole family would gather for this special event, and as my father sliced open the melon, revealing the deep red flesh studded with black seeds, the sweet aroma would fill our humble home. It was more than just a fruit; it was a moment of joy, a celebration of life's simple pleasures in the face of hardship.

The spirit of sharing was woven into the very fabric of our lives in Balisan. If my mother prepared a special dish, she would invariably send us to deliver a portion to our neighbours. This wasn't mere courtesy; it is an unwritten rule of our Kurdish identity, a recognition that our fates were intertwined. We shared what we had because we never knew when we might be the ones in need.

Looking back, I realise that Balisan was more than just a village; it was a living embodiment of Kurdish culture and the spirit of our people. In it's rugged landscape and the resilience of it's people, I saw the strength that has allowed the Kurds to endure centuries of hardship. In the generosity of our neighbours and the courage of the young fighters who passed through our home, I learned the true meaning of community and sacrifice.

It was in Balisan that I first began to understand the concept of opportunity. Here, opportunities weren't handed to us; they were carved out of the unyielding mountain, cultivated in rocky soil, and nurtured through collective effort. Every meal shared, every load of laundry washed for a weary fighter, every lesson learned from our surrogate brothers - these were all opportunities. Opportunities to grow, to contribute, to be part of something larger than ourselves.

As I sit here now, worlds away from those mountain slopes, I can still feel the cool water of the Kani on my feet, smell the flowers, and hear the birds, remembering waking up to the sound of the woodpecker pecking at the aspen tree. Hearing the livestock and the humbling voices of our neighbours speaking in Kurdish, I can still taste the sweetness of that watermelon, still hear the laughter of friends and family echoing off the valley walls. Balisan, with all its challenges and beauty, was not just a chapter in my life; it was the foundation upon which all other chapters would be built.

In Balisan, I learned that life is about making the most of what you have, about finding joy and purpose in the midst of hardship. It's about recognising that even in the most difficult circumstances, we have the power to create moments of beauty, to forge bonds of community, to nurture dreams of a better future.

This is the lesson of Balisan, the truth that has guided me through all the years since: That the greatest opportunity of all lies not in what life gives us, but in what we choose to make of it. It is this lesson that I will always carry with me, a testament to the spirit of my people and the enduring power of hope.