There are moments that surprise me with their surreal and inexplicable beauty.
Such as when, on the mountains, there is a black sky that is heavy with rain and hail.
Cold feet try not to slip on the insidious mud.
The houses all around are built with a mixture of rammed earth and leftovers of weapons: the curled tip of a Katyusha rocket not too far from my left ear.
The panorama opens up in a succession of snow-capped mountain tops and minefields.
Strong wind gusts make me lose balance.
And an ex peshmerga proudly looks at me and starts singing a passage from a Verdi opera.