Notes from Erbil – Part 3 (The Country)

Tigris from Erbil to Sulaimaniya

The first time I was in Iraq I was 8 years old, between 1969 and 1970. My father led a group of PAF pilots to train the Iraqi Air Force. They flew from Habbaniya Air Force Base but we lived in Baghdad a few miles away. The Pakistani pilots’ squad commanded great respect in military and diplomatic circles. At the time, Saddam Hussein Tikriti was a young army officer whose devilish ambition had not yet been inflicted upon the nation.

I recall we lived in Al Mansoor Building on Al Yarmuk Street.  Our high-rise apartment building was fully air-conditioned, had high-speed elevators, and a brightly lit, immaculately clean, 24/7 grocery store on the ground floor. To an 8-year old Karachiite, it was Intercontinental, Bambino and Saddar morphed into a combined, exciting, modern fairyland.

Every morning, at the crack of dawn as the Air Force vehicle arrived to transport the pilots, another vehicle also arrived and dropped off a box full of freshly baked loaves of bread at the store entrance.  There the box lay, unlocked and unmonitored, as tenants stepped out in their PJs to pick one – or two – up until the stock was depleted. No payment, no stealing, no rush. I suppose the grocery store paid the bakery…I always wondered but never found out how the transaction was secured. Ammi was an early riser and one of the first to fetch the warmest, most delicious bread I have ever had. On weekends, my brother Haroon and I were tasked to bring a loaf up. It was Ammi’s smart tactic to get us out of bed early. Haroon and I also discovered “Mota” ice-cream at the grocery store. It proved a worthy replacement to our favorite “Polka” and Ammi generously treated us to it most evenings. There was a girls' college adjacent to our building and my favorite past time was to watch the girls get on their bikes to ride home just when I was getting off my school bus.

In 1969, Baghdad was a modern city, ahead of others in the region. It must be rubble now. Certainly some of the heritage sites my parents loved to take us to, like the ninth-century Samarra Minaret not far from the city, have been blown off the face of the earth. If bent upon evil, one generation is enough for destructive forces to prevail.

Samara Minaret

 I am in Iraq again, over 40 years later. "First time in Iraq Madam?" the immigration officer inquires. "No" I reply pensively, "I was here once before, when I was 8 years old". He doesn’t bat an eye. "Welcome Back, Madam!" as if the decades were a mere few days. He is too young to have experienced a stable, peaceful and happy Iraq. I am not and, subconsciously, have come seeking it in Erbil since my travel security refused to allow me to step into Baghdad.

Erbil Airport

Erbil, part of the federated Kurdish territory, is not rubble, quite the opposite in fact. I land at a small but spotless, modern airport where I am picked up by the hotel transport. I am driven to the Erbil Rotana located on a quiet suburban street. I am sure I am missing something, whatever remains hidden from a short term visitor, but this is a far cry from Fox News fare. I have two workshops with customers in Erbil, and a number of meetings in Sulaimaniya which is a four hours drive away. I am told we shall be driving along the border with ISIS controlled Kirkuk. “It’s quite safe, Madam” the driver assures me, “If we are careful”, whatever that means. I’m game, though, looking forward to crossing the Tigris on the way, meeting young Pakistani professionals who are helping to establish telecom operations in the city, breaking bread with Iraqi customers with hopes of experiencing a long lost but cherished taste. The night before, as we chat on Whatsapp, I say too much about my scheduled adventure. Happens every time! The kids and Ashi, my goodwill stalkers, panic and urge me not to venture too far from the hotel, to forget about Sulaimaniya, to steer clear of anything remotely associated with “those people”. “Log martey hain wahan…koi zaroorat nahin hai jaaney ki…tell them to come to the hotel to meet you!” Muns pleads and others concur.

I am acutely conscious that this is what travelers are told by their fretful families when they venture into Pakistan. So, in solidarity with ill-governed countries and their misunderstood people,  my own amongst them, I am not about to pay heed to warnings. 

The weather is cold, the hills are undulating and green, the landscape somewhat less fetching than the lush green Margallas but exhilarating nevertheless. We cross the winding Tigris at a narrow point, stopping along the way at several points for security checks which are unexpectedly cursory and superficial. It is inconvenient but not unpleasant. Sulaimaniya is a bustling town with several regional business headquarters. I am surprised to find several Pakistanis who live here with families and feel no fear or insecurity, unconcerned about the war raging a stone’s throw away. Either they are in denial, I think to myself, or they have unraveled the mysterious strategy of terrorism whereby safe havens are pre-defined and kept thus.

Either way, Iraq is in the eye of the storm and  it suddenly strikes me that people live here....it is home to them, these cities are part of a country. To destroy them, like Baghdad, their human face must be stricken from the conscious. Reality TV must present them as morally destructible - land, culture, heritage, people, dreams and aspirations all camouflaged in a cloud of dust rising from rubble - so that 24/7 viewership is able to dismiss them as sub-human, unworthy of consideration, respect or mercy, and not suffer any guilt over the collective sin of violation and destruction.

There is nothing I can contribute to change the fate of this country. After all, what have I been able to do to change the fate of my own? But while I am here I intend to appreciate and respect the land and the people. I will tell them they have a beautiful country and that they must be proud of it.

It is all I ask of people who visit mine.