Lailan. Stepping out, taking in the yard. The orange trees and the pink azaleas. Her mouth opens in shocked pleasure when she spots her favorite color, and then she’s looking up and seeing Olivia in the window. And so she waves. And Olivia’s heart rushes. Full of love and promise for a future in a place where hopefully this girl will never be judged for anything other than her kindness.
Delan, as well, will see Olivia in the window. And he will stand with Lailan on the front path and squint against the sun. A moment of stillness before the rest begins. Before years unfold and one day Lailan announces she wants to go by Lily, and Olivia will remind her again of the woman who’d named her, who’d raised her as her own, alone but never alone, and she will bring out that photograph from the trip all those years ago, that moment that captured a mother’s love for her daughter, a love that was plain and ferocious and true. And Lailan will go silent, and the next day Olivia will hear her correct her friend when she calls her Lily. You did good, Delan will tell Olivia. And she will shrug it off and credit the image. The power of a picture. And Delan will draw her to him and whisper in her ear. The power of someone who loves.
But now. Now the gray clouds seem to split in places, like a puzzle come loose upon a table of light. And now she watches the birds in the sky, their form twisting and expanding, ducking and turning. Thousands seen as one, moving against the scattered brightness.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel is inspired both by my father’s stories of life in Kurdistan of Iraq, as well as my family’s 1979 trip to the region. During that visit, there were many events I drew upon, including a bomb threat on our flight there, soldiers who held us at gunpoint at a picnic, my father being taken in for questioning, and a restaurant that exploded only moments after we left (upon spotting too many political figures). But it wasn’t just these experiences that were crucial—it was the memories of many Kurds, Kurds who often had to struggle to tell their tales. For that bravery, and that generosity of spirit, I am indebted.
Though inspired by true events, this is a work of fiction. As mentioned in the book, Kurdistan is spread over four countries, so isolation has been both geographic as well as political. Because of this, traditions, landscapes, dialects, and spellings all vary, and though I made every effort to stay true, some aspects were melded to create the world of my characters. That said, please know that the kindness and hospitality of the Kurdish people is accurate in all parts of Kurdistan. They are truly some of the most giving, loving people I’ve ever met. On my most recent trip to Kurdistan, I was embraced as an American (I am), fed like I was starving (I was not), and honored to witness the pride the Kurds have in their culture and history.
Growing up in Kurdistan of Iraq, my father and his family endured atrocities I could never fully capture with words. There were five children born to my grandparents: my father (Sardar), my two uncles (Sarchal and Baktiar Zuhdi), and my two aunts (Ronak and Anjum Zuhdi). Each one coped and thrived differently. Ronak, tragically, never made it out of her twenties, and to this day my father cannot say her name without crying. My other aunt, Anjum, became a Peshmerga who was jailed and banished to the south of Iraq, and she went on to become a high-ranking KDP member in charge of underground activity. Due to her invaluable work for the Kurdish cause, her face is immortalized with other key figures in the city of Sulaymaniyah. And my uncle Sarchal—a doctor. On that trip my family took to Kurdistan in 1979, my brother became extremely ill with a high fever, and my uncle (who at the time was living in London) dropped everything and returned to Iraq to care for him, despite the fact that he knew doctors were in demand and he’d not be allowed to leave again. A true lifesaver, may he rest in peace. My other uncle, Bak, is an engineer who worked under enemy fire on the front lines with the Peshmerga to keep roads and bridges open and was also exiled by Saddam Hussein to the south of Iraq. Since moving to the United States, he has worked to provide relief aid to help his community both here and back home. An amazing gardener, a fantastically knowledgeable tour guide, he is most importantly a central and loving part of my life. Without both he and his wonderful wife, Barham, as well as my aunt Anjum, my recent trip to Kurdistan would never have happened. (Bak, Barham, Anjum—words can’t express how much I cherish your generosity and time and love.)
And my father, Zuhdi Sardar, who is not Delan but was the seed that grew both the character and this book. Out of all the children in his family, he went the creative route. An incredible visual artist, he is someone who does “put it in his art” and who is loved by everyone he meets. In fact, his kindness actually saved his family during a raid, much like in the novel. And despite what he’s been through, he will smile at strangers and feed anyone who’s hungry, and even those who are not (seriously, Kurds love to feed people).
