Baghdad, shortly after the US invasion. Their wives and children moved in with Hazo’s oldest sibling, his sister Anyah.
Now Mosul’s streets were once again filled with Kurds. The tide of discontentment, however, had merely reversed with resettled Kurds staging violent reprisals - restaurant bombings, car bombings, shootings - against resident Arabs. After all that Hazo’s family had endured, how could Karsaz question the fight for a new Iraq? Otherwise how would the cycle of violence ever end? Could it ever end? Hazo wondered. The grim truth, he feared, was that Iraq’s history would continue to be written in blood.
His sombre gaze traced the wide curves of the Tigris to the outskirts of Mosul where mounds and ruins scattered over 1,800 acres marked the site of ancient Nineveh. The Bible said that the prophet Jonah had come here after being spat out from the great fish’s belly to proclaim God’s word to the wicked Ninevites. But long before Jonah’s mission, the city was a religious centre for the goddess Ishtar. Hazo pulled out the pictures from the cave, studied the woman who’d been depicted on the wall. Had she been a living being? Or might this be a tribute to the Assyrio-Babylonian goddess Ishtar, as Karsaz had suggested?
An eight-pointed star was Ishtar’s mythological symbol, and the woman depicted on the cave wall wore a wristband bearing an eight-petalled rosette. Close. But close enough? He tried to remember if Ishtar was ever portrayed carrying a radiating object in her hands. Nothing came to mind.
Like most Iraqis, he could recall bits and pieces of the goddess’s lore: how the cunning seductress would cruelly annihilate her countless lovers; how after failing to bed the Babylonian hero Gilgamesh, she’d persuaded the supreme god Anu to release the Great Bull of Heaven to deliver apocalyptic vengeance upon the Babylonians; how the Queen of the Underworld, Ereshkigal, had been so infuriated by Ishtar’s antics that she’d imprisoned the harlot and inflicted sixty diseases upon her.
Could this really be Ishtar? he thought
Nineveh faded in the distance and the chopper began tracing a white pipeline that ran north towards the Tawke oil fields. Crude was once again flowing out from Iraq, and making Hazo think that it wasn’t only Ishtar who’d been a prostitute.
Back to the pictures, he flipped to an image that showed a warrior presenting the female’s disembodied head to an elder. He couldn’t recall anything about Ishtar being executed so cruelly. Too many inconsistencies. Though if this wasn’t Ishtar, then who could she be?
The fact that these images came from inside a cave raised even more questions. It was assumed that beneath every earthen mound in Iraq lay remnants of a civilization come and gone. To find such evidence tucked away beneath a mountain, however, seemed highly unusual. Ancient cults were known to practise secret rituals in caves, so maybe the cave was linked to those who worshipped Ishtar.
The chopper dipped and began its descent.
Ahead Hazo spotted Mount Maqloub jutting skywards along the fringe of the Nineveh plain. Only as the chopper closed in over the craggy sandstone mountain did the angular lines of the multi-storey Mar Mattai monastery seem to materialize from the cliff face. Its only architecturally significant features were an Arabian-style loggia running along its top level and an onion dome marking the main entrance. Nestled behind the modern facade, however, was one of the world’s oldest Christian chapels, founded in AD 363.
The Chaldean monks who resided within the monastery’s walls proclaimed to be direct descendants of the Babylonians. They were the earliest Arab Christian converts; the preservers of Aramaic, ‘Christ’s language’. Here they safeguarded the world’s most impressive collection of Syriac Christian manuscripts and ancient codices chronicling Mesopotamia’s lesser-known past.
None knew ancient Iraq better.
And like the Kurds,
Now Mosul’s streets were once again filled with Kurds. The tide of discontentment, however, had merely reversed with resettled Kurds staging violent reprisals - restaurant bombings, car bombings, shootings - against resident Arabs. After all that Hazo’s family had endured, how could Karsaz question the fight for a new Iraq? Otherwise how would the cycle of violence ever end? Could it ever end? Hazo wondered. The grim truth, he feared, was that Iraq’s history would continue to be written in blood.
His sombre gaze traced the wide curves of the Tigris to the outskirts of Mosul where mounds and ruins scattered over 1,800 acres marked the site of ancient Nineveh. The Bible said that the prophet Jonah had come here after being spat out from the great fish’s belly to proclaim God’s word to the wicked Ninevites. But long before Jonah’s mission, the city was a religious centre for the goddess Ishtar. Hazo pulled out the pictures from the cave, studied the woman who’d been depicted on the wall. Had she been a living being? Or might this be a tribute to the Assyrio-Babylonian goddess Ishtar, as Karsaz had suggested?
An eight-pointed star was Ishtar’s mythological symbol, and the woman depicted on the cave wall wore a wristband bearing an eight-petalled rosette. Close. But close enough? He tried to remember if Ishtar was ever portrayed carrying a radiating object in her hands. Nothing came to mind.
Like most Iraqis, he could recall bits and pieces of the goddess’s lore: how the cunning seductress would cruelly annihilate her countless lovers; how after failing to bed the Babylonian hero Gilgamesh, she’d persuaded the supreme god Anu to release the Great Bull of Heaven to deliver apocalyptic vengeance upon the Babylonians; how the Queen of the Underworld, Ereshkigal, had been so infuriated by Ishtar’s antics that she’d imprisoned the harlot and inflicted sixty diseases upon her.
Could this really be Ishtar? he thought
Nineveh faded in the distance and the chopper began tracing a white pipeline that ran north towards the Tawke oil fields. Crude was once again flowing out from Iraq, and making Hazo think that it wasn’t only Ishtar who’d been a prostitute.
Back to the pictures, he flipped to an image that showed a warrior presenting the female’s disembodied head to an elder. He couldn’t recall anything about Ishtar being executed so cruelly. Too many inconsistencies. Though if this wasn’t Ishtar, then who could she be?
The fact that these images came from inside a cave raised even more questions. It was assumed that beneath every earthen mound in Iraq lay remnants of a civilization come and gone. To find such evidence tucked away beneath a mountain, however, seemed highly unusual. Ancient cults were known to practise secret rituals in caves, so maybe the cave was linked to those who worshipped Ishtar.
The chopper dipped and began its descent.
Ahead Hazo spotted Mount Maqloub jutting skywards along the fringe of the Nineveh plain. Only as the chopper closed in over the craggy sandstone mountain did the angular lines of the multi-storey Mar Mattai monastery seem to materialize from the cliff face. Its only architecturally significant features were an Arabian-style loggia running along its top level and an onion dome marking the main entrance. Nestled behind the modern facade, however, was one of the world’s oldest Christian chapels, founded in AD 363.
The Chaldean monks who resided within the monastery’s walls proclaimed to be direct descendants of the Babylonians. They were the earliest Arab Christian converts; the preservers of Aramaic, ‘Christ’s language’. Here they safeguarded the world’s most impressive collection of Syriac Christian manuscripts and ancient codices chronicling Mesopotamia’s lesser-known past.
None knew ancient Iraq better.
And like the Kurds,
Similar Books
