Erin in Iraq: Learning the Language of Presence

When sometimes you don’t have words.

By Erin Wilson | Twitter: @biscotti_brain

I rely on words. I rely on words to make my way in the world. I use words to discover people’s stories, and the tales behind their eyes. I use words to comfort, and to encourage. I didn’t realize how dependant I was on words until I arrived in northern Iraq, surrounded by Kurdish speakers in the city of Sulaymaniyah … and my words no longer worked.

I’ve been fortunate to travel to a few different parts of the world. In each situation, I’ve found many people speak English, and I don’t recall any significant language barriers. It was different in northern Iraq. While some there speak English, the majority of people I met, do not. I stayed with an amazing Spanish- (and English-) speaking family who helped me navigate, but there were still times when I felt utterly helpless.

The people I met in Kurdistan had a deep longing to be seen, heard and understood. I had a deep longing to hear and understand. But it couldn’t happen through language.

I discovered the value of presence quite by accident. Reluctantly, if I’m honest. It was a slow process of frustration being won over by calm; of awkwardness being replaced with the subtle comfort of companionship. While I had many opportunities to learn this lesson, I had two primary teachers.

My first teacher was three-year-old Liam. Liam and I were the early risers in the house and each morning as the sun came up, we’d find ourselves in the golden light of the kitchen–me clearing up dishes from the night before and him looking for milk. Liam’s grogginess never lasted long and he would settle into the patter of conversation. Except that I couldn’t hold up my end. I’ve never learned Spanish, and his English was limited to the phrase “What happened?”

It took a few mornings for us to figure out our routine. We were both frustrated, and as I eventually learned, Liam was thirsty. When we got the milk situation sorted out, we had a wide expanse of time to spend with each other. Liam would tell great stories. I know they were great because every now and then he would crack up laughing. Which, of course, would totally crack me up.

And on it went until the rest of the house woke up.

I felt so badly that I couldn’t understand what Liam was telling me, until I finally saw that it didn’t seem to matter to him at all that I couldn’t understand his words. In being focused on what wasn’t happening (communication with words), I was totally missing what was happening… we were spending lovely early mornings together, laughing, and simply being with each other.

My last few mornings there were beautiful, settled into our routine of milk and presence.

My second teacher was M. I had wandered around the warmly lit reception room at the Family Center for a long time before she beckoned me over. She was Kurdish. I was a Canadian who couldn’t speak Kurdish. And we found ourselves together on a bench when our bilingual friends-in-common were suddenly tied up with work.

I didn’t yet know my new friend’s tragic story, but I knew something was very wrong. Her hands shook involuntarily. She mumbled to herself and she sucked in her breath in the sharp way you do when experiencing sudden pain. I had no words for comfort. Oh, I tried. I spoke some simple phrases of English, and we would both smile and shrug with the realization that the message wasn’t getting across.

I began to pray, that silent prayer in your head that’s as much for the other person as it is for yourself. I prayed for comfort for her and for an easing of her pain. A soon as my prayer-words trailed off in my mind, she reached out and took my hand in hers. We sat like that on the bench together, holding hands and smiling.

She didn’t need to hear my words, she needed to feel my presence. And in more ways than she would ever know, I needed to feel hers.

That might just be the most powerful lesson I learned about presence. It is a great equalizer. We all have it in the same amount. No one can earn more presence than anyone else. No one can buy it. All we can do is open ourselves up to receive it … we can’t even give it away until we’re open to receive.

About Erin:

Erin Wilson spent the better part of September teaching photography to kids on the margins in northern Iraq with her partners in The ONE-SHOT Project. When not seeing the world though a camera lens, Erin designs and installs museum exhibits, blogs, creates a line of handbags with vintage fabrics, eats local, and dances around her kitchen to Jack Johnson.  You can find pieces of Erin’s heart in northern Iraq, Swaziland, and strewn around the wide-wide landscape of Canada.

Images: View from the mountain & view towards the city, by Erin Wilson