THE MIDDLE EAST

THE ZAGROS MOUNTAINS

KURDISTAN

[7500 BCE]

When I was a cave-woman I shared a cave with my three children and five other women and their children. Our ancestors, who also had lived in caves, roamed the earth for ages. When the days became nippy and the nights chilly we moved to warmer places. As we were often on the move, I couldn’t carry much with me: a basket of grass I made for food-collecting, a stone for pounding tough roots, a sturdy digging stick, and my precious flint knife.

     Our men had tamed some wolves and together they hunted cattle, deer, boars, antelopes and smaller animals for food. They returned to the cave when the catch was large enough to share. But most of the time we, women and children, had to look after ourselves. Three kids and I and the five women and their offspring meant that in our territory we had to search every day for food: the children had to be fed! One season we had a short supply of “hares”, a small furry animal the children caught by setting traps. My hare-kebabs, chunks of hare-meat on sticks marinated in onion salsa and roasted above the open fire, were a big hit with my own kids. Sometimes the weather played tricks. Many moons past, for two summers we were flooded by rains, even hail storms, and the pickings were meager; we looked like skeletons and many children died. We had to—so to say—move along with the FOOD SUPPLY: the migrating animals that also depended on eating the same plants.

     Let me tell you about the time when the weather, or rather climate, was changing. I was told . . . that the polar caps and glaciers had melted and this abundance of water made the rivers larger, many ponds became lakes, and sea levels rose by 350 feet! Millions of square miles of fine hunting-gathering territory disappeared. The animals, our meat-supply, also disappeared. Hunting became difficult for the men and . . . meat became a luxury! Due to this calamity, we also had to adjust to unknown, foreign plants. We suffered from nutritional stress because the environment had made life extremely competitive and . . . HUNGER was always at the cave entrance! So we had to choose between moving farther north with the animals to really unknown regions or stay in one place and grow food on a permanent basis.

     It so happened . . . that my grandmother, who collected the seeds of plants at every place we passed, had thrown these near our caves and water supplies. When we returned we had our little fields of food. My mother, a very observant woman, had noticed that seeds of certain grasses growing near our winter cave wouldn’t grow at all around our summer cave. As my grandmother and mother had experimented before my time, I now also took a great interest in those plants and observed in which areas they grew easily and abundantly. WHY GROW FOOD THAT NEED A LOT OF CARE?

     So, one rainy day, huddling around the campfire, I uttered a simple question: HOW ABOUT getting a permanent place and grow food, keep goats, and . . . I wish I hadn’t suggested this. Because in unison the men shouted: ‘You must be joking! We need real food. MEAT!’ However, I had the full support of my female companions. In the end we compromised. At each of our caves the men would cut down the shrubbery on an area of land of our choice and then burn the vegetation. Once the ashes were cold, we, women, would scatter seeds of plants we liked best. Mother Nature would take care of them. For a long time the “slash and burn method” was popular. The first season was a great success, we harvested plenty. No more foraging! But then we had a drought. We became somewhat desperate . . .

     On our trip to the northern caves we met another family. They told us that three valleys yonder some people had settled down permanently and survived by growing plants and herding animals. They lived in caves called “houses”. Around the campfire we again discussed this adventure of settling down. Well, we decided to find out how these people were doing. And so we crossed the three valleys. From the top of the mountain we saw the settlement down in the valley and we were more than amazed. Everywhere plants flourished along and near the river. Higher up on the slope were the cave-houses. In a hurry we descended towards their settlement and were welcomed by yapping wolf-puppies, children, and old folk: two men and five women.

     We quickly found out—we spoke a similar tongue—that we belonged to the same group-tribe. Right away, the children became friends and off they went to play. We learned that the women were away working in the fields and the men were away grazing the animals. The old folk took us to a log-cabin telling us that this was their clubhouse. I was truly amazed when we entered—it was big! The oldest woman, she told me her name was Nana, gave each of us a small hollowed out gourd. She poured from a larger gourd in our cups red water she called sour cherry spirit. It was yummy! The men waved their cups, saying it was schnapps. Nana offered us food called pita. She told us that besides the clubhouse they had five more dwellings: each was occupied by two families and their pets. There were 10 families: 20 adults and 38 children. Two small cabins were used for their extra, leftover food— surplus food!

     The seven had no families and lived in the clubhouse—the community dining hall, and . . . now also our lodgment. Nana told us that in the evenings everyone stayed in the clubhouse when the weather was bad. They entertained each other: singing, dancing, telling stories—they had fun . . . laughing a lot. Some women occupied their time making thread from sheep fleece; others made from these threads cloth and made tunics for covering their bodies. By the time Nana finished telling us about their way of life, the women and older children returned from the fields with baskets heaped with greens. They were very excited meeting us and soon we got to know each other. Before long, the men came down from the mountain with the sheep, goats, and yapping wolves called doggies.

     When it was time to eat we went indoors. Grass plates with home-grown greens were put in the center of the room. Warm pita, topped with pungent oregano, passed around in large baskets. The men apologized for not serving us meat, but soon we would eat kebabs. We finished the meal with a fruit called melon. My son Joe, the only child still alive as I had lost my daughter and the baby, rolled his eyes as the sweet juice dripped down his chin. In our honor the male nannies served a beverage called BEER. With a wink at Nana, they told us it was made from fermented barley. Very soon we became very merry! Some girls got up to dance, shaking their rattles. Two boys took to thumping their drums. We had a memorable evening, you bet! Our hosts promised to introduce us the next day to what life in a Stone Age settlement really was like.

     We awoke when the doggies barked. The two men went outside—their work was making pita in a nearby lean-out shed named kitchen. Nana and the other women rekindled the fire. Finally, the first meal of the day, called breakfast, was ready. Everyone came indoors and left with their portion of pita and a handful of berries. We could eat as much as we wanted; and to us, cave-dwellers, this was big news. The children ran around the compound while the men stood in groups, eating. Chatting all the while, the women came and went. It was a lively scene. Only at the occasional tribal meeting in the past had we seen that many people together. Our children were happy to have playmates. Finally everyone left for WORK. Our husbands joined our hosts who were leaving with their animals for greener pastures. This was an adventure for us all!

     It was a beautiful morning when our group split up. I went along with Ruby and Pearl and their children. Walking to their field, the two explained that the land belonged to everyone and that all food grown was for everyone to eat. Extra food was stored in the cabins. Our first work was watering the seedlings they had planted some days before. We went to the river with large hollowed out gourds and scooped water. It was a coming and going: watering; it kept us busy for quite a while. Then we had a rest and chatted. Pearl decided that the next job was weeding. Ruby told me that most of the real work had been done: like preparing the fields and sowing the plants wheat and barley. I learned that pita was made from wheat grass. Barley, the beer plant food, did well, especially the two-row kind. Pearl said that if they were to grow the six-row variety then they would have three times more grains on the same size of land and, of course, less work. I was all for this: less work! Ruby told her that they had already started this project and that at some later day . . . they were looking forward to collecting huge amounts of barley. After the weeding was done Pearl said that her kids loved eating sweet melons. We should prepare a field for growing this gourd. Before returning to the settlement we cleaned our hands and faces in the river.

     Upon our return Joe greeted me wildly, throwing his arms around me, telling me about the wonders he had seen. So nobody had to go to the river when they were thirsty, the men had made an underground water-hole that they named wishing-well. They let down a leather string with a hollowed out gourd attached and then pulled up filled with water. And that Tom and Tim, the old men, looked after the boars they kept in a fenced place. That Tim had slaughtered a sheep for our meal. That an old woman fed seeds to big birds and that the kids collected the eggs. Nana and the women were preparing the kebabs and pita. The men returned with their animals. Adam told me about his experience; he liked the work! The sheep kebabs were as delicious as my hare-kebabs, Joe and Adam agreed. The pita was topped with seeds named sesame. I was curious to know more about their food and I asked Nana. She said that after we finished eating she would unfold the story of the grasses that came to be our FOOD.

Nana sat cross-legged in the center of the clubhouse with a large pita in her hand. ‘Children,’ she started saying, ‘pita is our belly-food.’ Nanny Tim rushed up holding a cup and sat next to her. ‘Beer,’ he said, ‘is our whoopee-water!’ Laughing, we clapped our hands in unison. Nana shook her head and said, ‘Tim, go to your place’—she pointed—‘and kindle the fire. Go!’ Tom clapped when his mate joined him. I giggled: Nana made sure who was boss.

     Nana held the pita above her head—everyone was laughing—and hollered ‘Attention!’ Then she said, ‘Eva, come and sit with me because this story is for you.’ I got up, took Joe’s hand, and we sat in front of Nana. She gave Joe her pita saying ‘This is your belly-food.’ She smiled, and started:

‘What I tell you now I heard from my grandmother, who heard it from . . . her grandmother . . . and other ancestors.

All over this earth Mother Nature fostered different grasses to grow and with our helping hands, these magic hands’—she spread them in the air for all to see—‘these grasses we cultivate to nourish and sustain our families. The most nutritious is WHEAT, providing us with a lot of calories to keep working! Eva and Joe, so you know . . . the grains of grasses are dry fruits. We eat pita every day so we have energy to get up and work. The hardiest grass is the shallow-rooted BARLEY. The grains come off easily, that’s why barley’—Nana chuckled—‘is known as a naked grass. It will grow practically in any location (except in tropical areas, the dessert, and icy zones). That’s the reason we like growing a lot of barley.’ Nana pointed at Tim. ‘Making beer is done in a jiffy!’ She licked her lips. ‘So that they grow fat, we feed our cattle some of our surplus barley. We also nursed many other grasses for food. RYE and OATS turned out to be popular; especially oats, eaten at breakfast. We grow all these cereals.’ Nana cackled like a hen laying an egg. ‘My grandmother told me that a long time ago a birdie told an ancestor that in a far away land we revere the grass CORN-MAIZE. And in other lands, where it rains a lot, communities grow the grass RICE.’ Nana paused. Then she announced: ‘Some other time . . . I’ll praise the miracle grass RICE.’

     All too soon, the newness of farming wore off with our family group. They told Adam that they preferred to be free like the birds. After enjoying a farewell party with plenty of beer and merry dancing, they left, promising to check up on us. With tears in his eyes, Joe waved at his cave playmates, who told him that they would miss him.

     Adam, Joe and I moved in with Ruby and Pearl and their families. When I became with child, everyone was excited. Adam asked Nana if I could stay with her at the clubhouse because he and Joe were away all day long looking after the animals. That’s when, observing the old women, I wondered about . . . how to improve daily life for us. I wondered about cooking the grains in water. But how? Then I recalled that when Joe was little, he made with earth and water small balls and, playfully, had thrown them in the fire. The following day these balls were like the pebbles he collected at the lake. I looked at the gourds:—Eureka! I went with a basket to the river and collected earth. Near the clubhouse was the wishing-well. I filled an empty gourd with water. I sat nearby on a log. I experimented with water and earth—making what I called clay. To make a long story short, with my little hands I made a clay gourd that I named pot. I put this pot in the sun to dry. Adam was excited when he saw my pot. But he didn’t like me sitting on the ground working hunched over the clay. So he put a small tree trunk in the ground reaching my waist; then he fixed a tree plank on top of this tree trunk; and then he put a ball of clay on the plank, saying this was my “stand”. I could work standing on my feet so I wouldn’t hurt my belly. I gave him a big hug and a kiss. I went to the kitchen and asked Tom to cook my pot in the fire; saying it was for cooking food. Grinning, he fanned the fire. The following day, Tom showed me the cooked clay pot that he had put on a large stone at the entrance to his kitchen. He turned around and pointed at the fire. ‘Imagine life without fire,’ he said. ‘Eva, I baked your pot!’ . . . . . . [2023 CE: imagine life without electricity!]

     One day, when Tom and I sat on the log near the wishing-well, I asked him what had motivated him to stay here. This is his story: ‘Once . . . we were three family groups. At one of our tribal meetings we decided to grow food; live a new way of life. Many of us, especially babies, had died of strange causes. So we settled on this spot. As you know, we now have ten families. The women can have babies more often. Nana, the other women, and Tim . . . well, Eva, our own families had perished from hunger. We decided to take care of the younger generation so we can have a larger group. We now have enough to eat. The men used to grumble because’—Tom softly chuckled—‘they are now stuck with routine. Eva, for me, living with my group means security. For Joe and the baby security is everything.’ I heartily agreed; and he was the best nanny of them all.

     Our new lifestyle, and being with child, had its advantages—it unleashed my creativity. Soon—Cave Cuisine—became the talk of the settlement. The families hugged me when they liked a dish best. I made barley porridge with sour cherries, or nuts. I cooked a dish I named minestrone: I plucked and singed several birds, depending on size. With my flint knife I cut up the birds and put the pieces in a pot. I added onions, garlic, and greens and five handfuls of barley. Then I added water to cover and slowly cooked the soup until the barley was soft. I learned that barley is a thirsty grain and needs a lot of water. When eggs were plentiful I cooked those in water. Then I peeled them, and mashed them with a flat stone, adding some goat milk. I served the creamy eggs with pita, topping with chives.

     One day, I went to the kitchen and Tom said, ‘Eva, I cooked something special for you. I named it Omelet Eva. Have a bite,’ and he offered me the omelet on a grass plate. ‘It’s yummy,’ I said after eating it. ‘Tell me about it.’ With a big grin, he said, ‘I made it with eggs and goat milk. And then I put some sesame seeds on the hot stone and cooked it like pita.’ I nodded, saying ‘The children will gobble it up. How about topping it with the sweet you call honey? By the way . . . Joe told me that when you looked at a bee-house that you got the picture of making cave-houses. Is that so?’ He nodded. ‘That’s why we are busy bees.’ Tom laughed. ‘Always working!”

     We had shifted from preparing foods requiring little time, like kebabs, to food requiring much labor: planting, harvesting, storing, and then grinding the cereals for cooking so we had a meal and survive. Barley was being harvested and then our pita wheat. Everyone worked from sunrise to sunset. Then my daughter saw the light of day; she arrived before the families went up the mountains to collect fruits and nuts.

With fewer mouths to cook for, Tom and Tim had time to look after the settlement’s tools. When not feeding my baby, we named her Rose, I joined them outside at a shed; repairing the tools, getting them ready for the planting season. ‘Tom,’ I said, ‘can you tell me about tools?’ He said, ‘Honey, for every new tool made with our loving hands’—he grinned—‘we need a new word so we can talk about it. Like this.’ He held up an animal rib with teeth of flint attached. ‘We gave it the name sickle. And as you saw for yourself, we use it for cutting our food grasses. And for cutting down trees we use this large chopper we named axe. We make up names for everything so we can talk.’ Tim came to show me a tool that looked like my knife but was as dark as the night. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is also a sickle but from my ancestor who lived in a land where mountains have fires inside and the stones are like this one. I gave it the name obsidian. Feel it, Eva, it is very sharp, much sharper than Tom’s sickle.’ Tom, eager to show me something he was holding in his hands, said, ‘Eva, look at this, it’s a tool made from flakes of stones. It’s another kind of knife and we use it for skinning an animal and making leather.’ The pestles and mortars for grinding the cereals were made of sand-stone. Tim then showed me a basket with bone needles. ‘My grandmother,’ he said, showing me something, ‘made these from bones that she made shiny. She named them beads. And her daughter put these beads on a leather string and named it necklace. I’ll make a necklace for Rose.’ He looked at Tom. ‘Necklace,’ Tom said with a flutter of his eyelids, ‘that’s a catchy word.’

     After many seasons had passed, we were surprised by the arrival of some of our former family group who had departed for greener pastures of freedom. Boss Nana insisted giving a welcome party. Of course everyone clapped: the word party meant beer and dancing. Adam was curious to hear their story and asked them to gather at the wishing-well. Nana, Tom and Tim were also ‘all ears’ and joined us. A young man stood up and said, ‘My name is Darwin. The elders asked me to tell you about our adventures after we left you many moons past.’ Joe got up and face flushed with excitement sat next to Darwin. ‘My name is Joe,’ he said, ‘and I’m just dying to hear your story.’ All smiles Darwin said, ‘I remember you, Joe. You were crying when we left. But we came back.’ Tom and Tim clapped. Darwin continued: ‘We followed the deer and met families who had settled in valleys with plenty of water. Some spoke a tongue that was new to us, but we managed using our hands.’ Nana clapped. ‘The most impressive settlement,’ Darwin continued, ‘was in a region’—he pointed a finger at the sky—‘over there, where the stars guided us. This settlement was the largest we saw. The people spoke a tongue we understood. They told us that every family had their own plot of land and planted what they liked. Next to their dwellings they put their food in a shelter they dug in the ground called pit. The boss of this settlement told us that this was a village. In the center of this village was a large open space called market. Families came to exchange food stuffs, and things like this.’ He pointed at his necklace with a large shiny reddish-brown bead made of wood. ‘By word of mouth we learned that this exchange of goods was known as bartering.’

     Nana stood up, saying ‘We also barter. How about you give me your necklace and you can have mine?’ Tom and Tim laughed loudly. Darwin grinned and shook his head. ‘Nana, you busy-body, we know that you like parties. Well, after having bartered their goods, the villagers often stayed for a chat. The village boss told me that at special times he also gives parties that he calls festivals.’

Joe looked at Darwin when he said, ‘Has this village a name?’

Darwin took a pita offered to him by Nana and said, ‘The name of this village is FLOUR POWER.’

     Hearing about Flour Power I felt like—Eureka! I waved at Adam to follow me as I left. We had a heart-to-heart talk about going to this village. Joe and Rose would enjoy a better life, especially meeting more children their age. Amazingly, Adam liked it! He also wanted to improve his future. When we told Joe that we planned to move to this village he jumped for joy and asked if we could join Darwin: who suggested picking us up on their return to Flour Power. Of course Ruby, Pearl, and Nana were teary-eyed, but Tom and Tim clapped, saying migrating from our community to a village would improve their opportunities in every way, and perhaps some of their own new generation would join us later.

     When Darwin and his family group returned—at the same time as our fruit-and-nut pickers—we had a terrific party. The Darwin women and girls twirled holding clappers that made sounds similar to hand-clapping. These clappers were small and round and made of wood on which were attached strings that they winded around their fingers so that these clappers would not fall to the ground. The women told us that they got these from a family that specialized in making wood objects. The family made wood-sandals!

     After having recovered from drinking too much beer we got ready—deciding what we could not do without and take along whatever we could carry. Then, after breakfast and a long, last talkfest, our community waved us off, shouting . . . ‘Have a safe trip to FLOUR POWER!’

THE VILLAGE OF FLOUR POWER

Zagros Mountains: Luristan, circa 4500 BCE

It was just wonderful to walk again as in the olden days. I carried toddler Rose when she was tired. For Joe this trip was a unique event; I was able to teach him the knowledge my ancestors had imparted to me about edible and non-edible plants on which we survived. We traversed sensational canyon scenery, following a river called Simareh. Along the way, we got to know many settlements and their peoples where the men herded their sheep and goats as pasture was abundant; small rivers cascaded down the steep mountain walls. I saw plants I had never seen before and was told that peoples from the south had brought the seeds along when they came up north: tribes were traveling a great deal.

     Kinsmen of our tribal family told me that they had gone up north to a lake called Van to visit a settlement where they made obsidian tools. They said that the waters of this lake were bright blue. They bartered sea-shells and beads for obsidian tools, so necessary to obtain goodwill and safe passage on their journeys.

     In our settlement I had invented the pot, so I was, naturally, interested in the pottery of other settlements. I noticed the varieties of shapes and color. At one smallish “village” they baked the pots in an oven called kiln. I had never seen an oven before and was excited. Two elderly women offered to show me the know-how of making their pots. So I asked our family to stay one more day.

     In exchange for food and care, the two women made pots for all the families. They said that all clay is not the same. Baked in the oven—they called this process firing—the different clays gave earthenware a special color. That’s how one can tell where the pottery was made. Their kiln had two rooms called chambers. The vessels to be fired were put in the top one that had large holes at the bottom—the lower chamber burned the pile of wood; good ventilation was necessary so the upper chamber was piping-hot! The pots were baked! I recalled Tom and my first pot. The two women were proud of their invention making pots in a jiffy. They showed me the wood plank on the ground with the stand on top. One of them sat on a stool in front and used her feet to turn the plank around and around. How nifty! When we parted my two friends gave me a bowl with a wavy design--their mark, they said. This was the beginning of my passion: collecting pottery—“Made in Mesopotamia.”

     Continuing our journey south, the days were dry and warm and crisp at night. We collected berries, pears, apples and nuts. Some women were experts at netting smaller animals. The men hunted. We camped at places known to our group. At one of their favorite ‘watering-holes’ the men decided to stay for a while. There were boars in this area. They were excited because when chased the boar becomes ferocious and they were planning to kill one. The doggies came in handy for distracting them. Before sunset the men gathered, and then left to perform some magic; necessary for a victorious hunt. Adam never told me about this because women weren’t allowed to know about these secret rites.

     I was looking at plants I had not seen before and pondered if any could be edible, when a loud snort startled me. I faced a mother boar and her young. We stared at each other: terrified! I recalled how my knees were shaking. Then a chorus of yapping doggies approached. This distracted the mother enough to turn around. Silently begging for help, I clutched my necklace. Then mama-boar turned her attention to me again. That was all I could take . . . and I ran screaming toward a pistachio tree with low hanging branches. With my heart in my mouth I climbed as fast as I could . . . all the while mama-boar snorting, letting me know she was not tolerating me. All shook up, I gave thanks to the tree spirit that boars could NOT climb. Then the doggies came. Until today I can’t recall exactly what happened while the doggies were yapping, mama-boar was a-squeaking and the men were shouting. Really, a fantastic commotion took place. But I vividly recall that it ended so loud! The squeaking peals of mama-boar paralyzed me. Don’t forget, it all happened underneath my pistachio tree. Suddenly there was silence . . . like magic! I finally dared open my eyes. The doggies were wagging their tails while sniffing at the little boars and the hero stood next to dead mama-boar. Holding their spears high up in the air, the men silently danced around them. When we returned to our camp, I told our group my horror story. And overnight I became a heroine!

     With two friends helping me, I prepared a dish commemorating this event and named it Paté de Boar. To honor the tree that saved my life, I added pistachios. Here is the recipe: Ask the hero to skin the head and singe the ears. Cut up the tongue, ears, and cheeks and soak these in water with sour-green in season. Save brains and eyes. Boil water in pot with onions, garlic and leeks. Add the meat pieces and cook until soft. Add brains and cook. Take meat out of pot and chop until meat is mashed. Add wheat flour. Add chopped pistachios. Make cakes. Cover the cakes with boar fat. Cook on hot stones. P.S.: The eyes, cooked in the broth separately to ward off the evil eye, are a delicacy and reserved for the hero hunter.