The Wings of Change

Something is not quite right in my small part of the world. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I am sure this is the right time for change. Change from the silly theme, back to my roots.

Middle Eastern and Scottish. A great mix, Middle Eastern passion versus the dour Scot. East meets West, intermingles and balances out, living together in harmony. The way it should be.

The air is heavy with the heat of Summer, the humidity high, and the blossoms fragrant. I feel sleepy, but there are things that disturb me greatly. I dream of my Mother’s last days in Maragha, about 20 kilometers east of Lake Urmia. She and her brothers and sisters watched my Grandfather die tragically, whilst trying to defend them from the dreaded Coral Snake.

My very brave Grand Papa, the only Doctor for hundreds of miles. At one time kidnapped by Kurds to help their wounded, and then released and sent back to the walled city, only to be used on other occasions.

Grand Papa, a member of one of the 5 Assyrian clans of Baz, a leader is his own right. Grandmama, again Assyrian, from Armenia, named by Reza Shah as Ghozal (beautiful).

The story is very long, with political twists and turns.

A diary of times past, and well worth the telling.