Vegetarian pizza, Ofelia, Geshtiyar, Duhok. January 2019
Geshtiyar (Kurmanji Kurdish: the tourist) and the others
One of the first places I learned about in Duhok from my Canadian, alcohol-swilling colleague Paul-Philippe, was the liquor store in the nearby Geshtiyar neighborhood. I will admit to it being a novelty having lived in Saudi Arabia for five years, so I walked there occasionally to get a bottle of red wine from the garrulous Assyrian Christian, Adnan. On those trips I found a cheap kebab house, Jazeerah, and stopped for lunch a few times in the coming months for cheap and filling fresh grilled lamb or chicken. Nearby was a "new" looking restaurant called Ofelia. One Friday afternoon I decided to give it a try. Suffice it to say that my attempts at Western fare in non-Western places were generally failures, so my expectations could not have been lower.
I went to Ofelia early, around 2pm -- they had just opened. I was literally the only customer there. The interior was filled with sleek, modern furniture imported from Turkey. A young, very dashing waiter with blond hair and blue eyes, Rayan (Ray, please), attended me immediately with excellent English. I perused the menu, a kind of catch-all western food selection with a few mysterious dishes thrown in. I noted they had a variety of pizzas (some of which were intriguing such as "Mexican") and behind the counter I spied a real pizza oven, so I went for that. To my surprise, it wasn't too bad and certainly better than anything I tasted in Japan, Indonesia, or Saudi Arabia and maybe almost as good as Dubai or Singapore. I did try a few other dishes there over time, but pizza was my "go to" dish. Slowly, I got to know more of the staff and the story behind the place.
The chefs and managers (but not owners) were Aras and Hejar. These two guys had lived several years in Norway and worked in restaurants/pizza shops. They both decided Norway was NOT for them and returned to Duhok (some people came back even after expensive and dangerous escapes). With their new culinary skills they decided to bring some European food to what they considered uber-provincial Duhok (I kind of agreed on that). Hence, the mystery menu items like "Snaider" were actually Norwegian dishes. Aras and Hejar were amazed I had never heard of a "snaider", but given my knowledge of Norwegian food was about zero, I was not surprised. They DID manage to create a fairly successful restaurant in Duhok, and when I passed by in evening hours coming home from the bar, I noticed they were busy. I was happy for their success.
In front of Ofelia panhandled three little Yazidi kids who lived in a used UNHC tent under a partially completed building nearby. Coming home from Efes Beer Cafe or from the Dilshad Palace Rooftop Bar I had to pass by them, so over my time in Duhok I came to know them as much as I could know three little kids who spoke only Kurdish and Arabic. They were refugees from Sinjar in Syria and had been driven out by ISIS. They had virtually nothing in Syria and they had less of that nothing in Duhok. The kids panhandled (to their credit they sold little sweets and tissues) to help support the family. After I came to realize that they were absolutely not fake and the money went straight to helping their family survive, I donated every time I passed by, usually 5,000 Iraqi Dinar (at the time $4). Most people were giving them literally small pocket change, so what I gave them was a lot comparatively. I met the kids sometimes daily. Heaven help anyone walking with me when I doled out those alms who had the temerity to criticize me for being too generous. Apparently my angry stare is bone-chilling. One of my friends said, "I never thought it possible you could be that angry" -- and that was without me even speaking.
I did visit their tent once and met the family which, of course, was somewhat useless since no one spoke English. There were grandparents, one of whom was bedbound, and then some adults whom I assumed went out and worked during the day. I am most certain those kids never were in school. I felt it keenly at times - both a soul-crushing and frustrating feeling. Just throwing money at them was not going to change anything, but at least I was doing something. On one of the rare occasions I spoke to the NGO staff who drank at the Rooftop Bar [see: Rooftop Bar] at Dilshad Palace Hotel, I asked what might be available to them as aid. I was told if they didn't live in one of the camps, there was nothing anyone could do. WMF had lived in a camp for awhile and got his family out as soon as he could. Maybe they felt the same? In any case, during the lockdowns when every place was closed and the streets were empty, I still walked by and caught sight of the kids. They looked a lot thinner. It is upsetting to remember even now as I write this.
I only knew the older brother's name was Maher and it was to him that I gave the money (much to his younger brother's dismay). Maher was about 10 and looked more like 7. I ghosted their little sister (who might have been 5 or 6) entirely out of fear that she would make erroneous assumptions about generous people in her future. She was an adorable little girl. They haunt me until now - people with literally no future.
So in Geshtiyar, Duhok it is possible to get decent pizza made by Kurds who learned to make it in Norway. Who knows, you might get a huge side of reality there, too.
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