Traditional Oral Storytelling: Voices That Ground and Empower

The room felt alive that evening, filled with the kind of love only a family can bring into the world—soft and constant as a river meeting the earth. Children sat cross-legged on the woven ser?iv rug, their small bodies leaning into one another like branches of the same sturdy tree swaying under the mountain wind.

I nestled between my cousins, our shoulders brushing, knees pulled tightly to our chests. Together, we reached for the naan—warm, soft in the middle, its edges kissed by the smoky breath of the fire that had baked it.

At the heart of the table rested a clay pot of mast (yogurt), its smooth surface swirled with golden honey, tracing the shape of suns. My grandmother, Day?kê Min, had prepared it the night before, swaddling the pot in layers of cloth she called lawik—her little boy.

"Nêrojê min," she’d hum, her voice low and melodic like a lullaby. “Tuck him in. Let him rest, bêzar?. Tomorrow, you’ll wake him with love, and we will share him as one.”

Her hands—wrinkled but certain—folded each layer with reverence, pulling the cloth tight as if swaddling a child. “No sunlight,” she’d whisper to me, her tone gentle but firm, “he must sleep well to wake well.”

And when she had finished, her eyes would brighten as she turned to me, planting a wet kiss on my cheek before I could escape. My giggles echoed through the quiet room, her laughter rolling with mine. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though even the earth had paused to listen.

“And in the morning,” she’d say, smoothing the folds of the lawik, “you will unwrap him gently. Your hands will light the room, and you’ll paint the sky with honey.”

A Tradition of Togetherness

The adults pulled mismatched chairs from the kitchen, their voices rising and falling like the ebb and flow of the Tigris. My aunts moved with graceful hands—passing bowls of steaming rice and bread—soft glances and knowing smiles flowing between them like silk.

My uncles leaned back, their voices rich and animated as they retold stories of neighbors long gone, mimicking their quirks with a joy that made us laugh until we couldn’t breathe.

Near the low table, the elders sat with folded knees, shaped over a lifetime of sitting close to the earth, the same earth that had raised and cradled them. Their hands—knotted, warm, steady—rested on their laps, as though holding the weight of unspoken histories. Each wrinkle and scar told of flocks tended at dawn, of harvests under gold-lit skies, of lives bound to time’s gentle rhythm.

“Axaye,” my grandfather would say, his voice both soft and unshakable. “The earth is where we begin and where we return. Sit close to her, and you will always be grounded.”

He wore his freshly pressed sherwal—wide, flowing trousers perfect for sitting low—and over his white shirt, ironed smooth as the dawn wind, a dark vest. “For the day and for respect,” he’d say of the vest, his morning ritual after namaz.

Mornings That Were Demanding Yet Sacred

I used to wake early just to watch him iron. Every touch of her hands and his, deliberate and tender, spoke of a care born from years of love, habit, and tradition. The board creaked softly, and his tshora—his gray Yazidi robe, its gold threads shimmering faintly in the morning light—hung nearby, whispering of generations past.

“Mornings didn’t wait for you,” he’d begin, his voice strong, steady as a shepherd’s stride across a ridge. He tore a piece of naan, dipped it into the yogurt, and paused, drawing us closer with silence.

“Xeyran,” he continued, “the cold comes first. Before the sun stretches her arms across the sky, she is sleeping, and the cold fills the space she leaves.”

The bread hovered in his hand, as his head moved slightly, settling the memory into his voice. “The cold isn’t cruel. It doesn’t ask. It simply wakes you, pushes you, reminds you that there is work to be done.”

His voice softened as if wrapped in the memory. “Smoke curled from every chimney, rising like a single prayer into the sky. The smell of wet earth after rain mixed with the air. That’s how you knew life was moving.”

The Silent Strength of Mountains

He lifted his tea, its steam curling like the mist on a valley morning. “The mountains,” he said, “they don’t speak. They watch. They hold us, root us, remind us that no matter how heavy the world feels, we can carry it.”

His words filled the room until it felt as though the mountains themselves had entered—silent and vast, their strength unspoken but unwavering.

What We Brought With Us

“When we left,” he said one evening, his voice heavy with the weight of memory, “there was no time to think. You took what your hands could hold.”

His gaze rested on my grandmother as she adjusted her ?e?ik, the narrow cloth framing her face. Each movement was purposeful, anchoring the scarf that anchored us all.

“The cloth,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, “was hers. Deep red, stitched with gold by her mother’s hands. It wrapped our bread, our strength. It kept the cold from breaking us. And the photograph? It held our promise—to never forget.”

What Endures

The room fell silent—not empty, but full. Full of stories, love, and a truth that bound us together. My eyes lingered on her hands—the same hands that had folded the bread and stitched the fabric. They carried generations of resilience.

“She didn’t need words,” he said, his voice like a slow flame. “The way she walked, the way she carried us, it said everything.”

Through his stories, I could see her walking those steep hills, her dress caught in tiny hands clinging like lifelines. She carried not only a bundle but our survival, our past, our future.

A Legacy That Rises

Even now, miles and years between us, his voice still reaches me. These stories are not just echoes of the past—they are alive within us, threads of gold running through our veins, holding us to our roots.

We are our stories. They bind us, lift us, and carry us forward. And as long as we share them, they will rise—unbroken, alive, and full of love.

#Storytelling #OralTradition #Resilience #HumanConnection #YazidiHeritage #TechForGood #CommunityLedAI