We soon touched down on the airport’s tarmac in Erbil (Arbil, Irbil, and in Kurdish, Hewlêr), Kurdistan. The city of Mosul has long been a troubled part of Kurdistan; its value in oil and location close to Syria has made it an uneasy land. This was true long before I visited, while I was there, and would continue to be in subsequent years, even more so when the evil that is ISIS emerged. Mosul lies fifty miles west from Erbil, toward the Syrian border, which itself is a three-hour drive west of Erbil. The Iranian border is as long a drive in the other direction, to the east. Sixty miles south of Erbil is the oil capital, Kirkuk. Another hundred and fifty miles beyond that is Baghdad. North, sixty or so miles, is the Turkish border. I had landed at the crossroads of history, ambition, conflict, and enterprise—everything except ambivalence.
Kurdistan has been an independently administered region of Iraq since after the first Gulf War in 1991. The region of Kurdistan in Iraq is frequently called Southern Kurdistan, as the southern portion of an envisioned sovereign nation, hoping one day to be a member of the United Nations.
The only other western traveler on the plane had been a young man with a short-whiskered face. He stood in front of me as we latched onto the end of a queue headed for border control. He looked around, saw my face and the nationality of my passport, and spoke in English. “I am from the Netherlands. Here to see friends. Backpacking. You?”
“Do you have a travel visa? Or will you apply here?” I asked.
“Yes. Apply here. I was told maybe.” He added his name, Jan.
“Rick,” I said, and we shook hands.
To our left was a large sign that said Entry Visa. Jan pointed to it. “Maybe there …” We left the regular customs lineup and went through a hallway into a large room with the statement repeated on the sign above an office counter: “Entry Visa.” Relieved, we waited for the person ahead of us to finish his paperwork. When he was done, the female clerk motioned us away as soon as we approached. She pointed back to the customs lineup.
“Entry visa?” I asked, holding up my passport. Jan did likewise. The clerk spoke firmly, waving frantically while shaking her head. I pointed at the sign, and she sighed. “Commercial,” she said, tapping her counter. “Commercial.”
Jan and I retraced our steps and joined the remnants of arriving passengers, my new acquaintance ahead of me in the shortened lineup.
At the customs booth I tendered my passport and said, “Visa? Entry visa?” The official nodded once—up/down, and that was it. He flipped open my passport, stamped it, and said, “Seven days. Renew.”
Just like that, I was officially in Iraq.
I carried only my small backpack for these few days, having left my larger pack and other equipment back at the Van hotel, where I’d retrieve it upon my return. I was one of the last from my flight into Erbil International Airport’s baggage area, as most people had already cleared away from the carousel. Two friends had been waiting for Jan, and they accompanied him to claim his baggage. I sauntered out the airport’s exit doors in hopes of being greeted myself.
No one was there for me. The reception area was empty except for a man with a parcel he’d set on the ground, above which he stood motionless. Jan and his friends came out, and the security doors closed behind them.
“Rick?”
“No one,” I said.
“Maybe they are elsewhere,” deduced the taller of Jan’s friends.
“I have a number but no phone.” I reached in my pocket for Taha’s envelope.
“Phone? I have phone,” the other friend said. “What is number? What do I say?”
When his call was answered, he said what I took to be Arabic for “I am with Rick. Do you know him?”
He listened and smiled and handed me the phone.
“Hello?”
I heard a welcome voice. A man said in English, “We are waiting. You take longer than others. We thought maybe you didn’t come after all. We would understand. We are waiting for you at end of the bus ride.”
There was a shuttle from the arrival terminal through a second security gate to a parking lot. Jan, his friends, and I boarded the otherwise empty bus. Within minutes we passed through a perimeter check. Jan and his friends stepped off in front of me and headed for the car park while I stood on the lower step of the bus, looking into a crowd of Iraqi men dressed in various shades of black: open-collared shirts and buttonless jackets, long pants. One man stood out from the rest, wearing a flowing and calf-length top over his pants, distinct in his Buddha-like rotundness. This Muslim Buddha smiled. “Mr. Rick.”
Buddha’s name was Karim, and he had brought quite a number of friends along with him. Everyone reached out a hand in greeting, and I was introduced. Despite my best efforts, many of their names became jumbled in my mind, but their circle of smiles was unforgettable.
We split up and got into three waiting cars. Karim was in the back seat and motioned me to the front. Hemin (the “i” silent) got behind the steering wheel of his car. “Freshly washed for your arrival,” he told me, adding, “I am Taha’s younger brother.”
Huner, sharing the Jabbar family name with Taha and Hemin, sat in the back beside Karim and was quiet, nodding when Karim said, “Huner is Taha’s nephew.”
“Taha has been very helpful to me,” I said. “And Andam. I met Andam before the rest of his family. And Gulie.” I turned toward Karim and gave him the envelope. “Taha wrote this letter.” Karim opened it and unfolded a letter in beautiful Arabic script. He chuckled as he read.
“Of course you read Farsi,” I said to Karim, relieved.
“No, none of us read Farsi. But this letter is in Kurdish. Taha writes to us in Kurdish.”
“But I thought …” I trailed off, alone in the realization of my ignorance over the letter.
“Taha writes that we should help you in Iraq. He says you are good to know.”
Gratified, I said, “He told me you would help me find a hotel to stay in. Can you?”
“Hotel, no. Mr. Rick, you will stay with Taha’s oldest brother. Auntie insists. Auntie is Gulie’s sister. Her name is Khasyeh Khader, though I would refer to her only as Auntie, as should you, Mr. Rick. She is married to Ali Jabbar, Taha’s ‘big brother,’ as you say in America. You will meet him now. At his home. It is arranged. We are taking you there.” The names, all thankfully pronounceable with my Anglo tongue, transfixed me with their originality to my ears.
The airport in Erbil is northwest of the city, and as we drove we passed a suburb. Karim said, “That is Ainkawa, the Christian part of Erbil. Here, different religions are understood. Muslim—Sunni, Sh’ia. Also many Christians fled here from other parts of Iraq under Saddam’s persecution. All are welcome in Erbil.”
As we passed the Citadel of Erbil, Hemin called it “Castle of Erbil,” telling me it goes under either name. One can do that with ancient places. He called Erbil “The oldest city. In world.” Karim picked up on this and explained that technically this is true: Erbil is the oldest continuously lived-in community known to archeologists.
Hemin offered, “Later in afternoon. We’ll bring you back here.”
As we turned off the main thoroughfare, the other two cars, including those who had come to greet me, continued on their way home. Our car alone arched around the city, passing by the promenade of shops and a bazaar laden with rugs, tapestries, and ornate household goods—to my relief there were no trinkets visible outside any of them, no T-shirt shacks. No two storefronts were anything alike—not in height of displays or width. It could not be further from the uniformity of American shopping centers, with their predictable brands, controlled signage, ubiquitous similarity—and across the continent, city-to-city commonality; state-to-state sameness. The generic city shopping experience common in Paris or London or Frankfurt has no place in Erbil; here, each store you stare at is unique (with all that word’s wonderful implication: “one of a kind”).
The traffic was an untenable snarl. “Is always,” said Hemin. But it was important to show
me their shopping district, so they bore the inconvenience. As we drove by signs designating the Hotel Seever and Tawar Hotel, I gaped at them, increasingly happy to be staying in someone’s home.
Cities laid out by engineers and visionaries thousands of years before anyone contemplated the need to accommodate automobiles—as had been Erbil—frequently have grand parkland in the center. If developers have not overridden an old park, such spaces are a heartbeat of civility for residents and visitors. Erbil’s blocks-long greenery is mown short, filled with people and activity. Cars surround it, all heading in one way. Aside from the modern intrusions around it, the citadel on the hillside looked how I imagined it had looked centuries earlier. None of the buildings were taller than was the citadel; today did not overshadow the past. Taha had told me, “Erbil is old, but alive.” Here, in the oldest settlement on the planet, I sensed that antiquity was the soul of the city.
Eventually we turned east onto Daratu Road and an open expanse. Within ten minutes we’d passed hundreds of partially built homes, many with people living in them. They might have one floor completed but only a strong indication of a second story or appendage to the side. The unfinished walls of ubiquitous gray plaster gave everything a ghostly appearance.
A dirt road led into a sparsely populated community. Long dirt streets spread out before us, some with only four or five homes on them. We stopped in front of a handsome home with a gate open in its cement front wall. A woman wearing a long black dress and purple scarf stood on the second-story balcony.
“That is Auntie,” said Karim. I noticed a man standing in the doorway. “That is Ali.” The eldest Jabbar son. Three children came out and swarmed us. A few young men stood at the ready in front, waiting. I got out of the car, and they gave me a respectful once-over. Their smiles made me feel at ease.
Protocol demanded that I first meet Ali. He wore tidy, solid green fatigues with an open collar and billowed leggings. In his breast pocket was a silver pen the color of his hair and moustache. His feet were bare. He stepped aside and into their home as I approached the doorway, thereby inviting me to enter. Shaking my hand, he talked to me in Kurdish. He was welcoming, despite the fact that he didn’t smile. He motioned me upstairs to a living room. More children and young mothers sat on a long red couch. There were more young men, watching the midday news on the television. I made my way around the room, saying hello and shaking hands, stopping to squat and make eye contact with the children. They all laughed, strangers without shyness.
Ali sat, working beads with his fingers, a nimbleness to which he put his mind while also observing the room.
Auntie arrived from the balcony and I was told, through Karim, about the arrangements. “You will sleep in their big bedroom. It is off this room, right there.”
“Karim …”
“Mr. Rick, call me Kaka. It is what they call me.”
“Kaka, I’m fine with a bed in a corner, or a couch. No need for a big room.”
“It is their best room. They say you are to have it. Do not disagree, Mr. Rick. It will not work.” He grinned.
Auntie wanted to show me the room. Air conditioning, which I imagined a luxury in Erbil, was on high for my perceived comfort. As Auntie talked, Kaka interpreted. “You are in here, as you have private bathroom and shower.”
I looked around the room with its double bed, a baby’s bed and pictures of a young husband and wife. Their kindness had me displacing a family of three. As I began to voice my hesitation, Kaka hushed me again. “Do not bother, Mr. Rick. Things are set.”
Sons of the family brought tea and biscuits into the living area. One of the servers spoke to Kaka and addressed him as Dubba.
“Dubba?” I asked. “Why did he call you Dubba?”
Karim, who had just become Kaka to me, laughed like only someone with a large belly could. “It is my name, my nickname. Dubba means barrel.” He began to explain the notion of his barrel shaped body and saw the look of understanding on my face. We both found it pretty funny.
Before I could ask, he said, “You too. You can call me Dubba. I would be flattered.”
And with that, he changed the subject. “Later you will have dinner. First, now, afternoon tea. OK?”
“Very OK,” I sat down where he indicated, belatedly realizing I’d be the only one eating. “Kaka, your …” I caught myself. “Dubba, your English is very good.”
“It should be. I lived for seven years in Halifax, Canada, then Vancouver. But this is home. I want to be here. Kurdistan is an important country …” he corrected his intentional accented misstatement, “… state. We have our own parliament. Also have our own flag. Kurdish people see a good future. Saddam is gone. It is very positive here. You will learn that.”
I accepted a cup of tea and watched the family interactions in the room. Dubba pointed out who was who, and their inter-relationships. It was a mix of uncles and nieces and brothers and nephews and grandchildren and sisters and sons. As the fifteen of us relaxed, Dubba told me, “Hemin will drive you to Erbil so you can see the Citadel. When you return it will be time for dinner. I will not be here but that is OK. They have English words.”
“This is so nice of everyone,” was all I could say. I was overwhelmed by their hospitality.
“Tonight others will come to visit and look at you.” Dubba laughed from deep in his belly—or was it from deep in his heart? “I’ll be back for that. News is out that a visitor is here. They know that you know Taha. Everybody loves Taha. You could trust him with your life.”
“I have,” I had to admit.
With that, Dubba’s phone rang. He spoke in Kurdish and then handed it to me. “It is Taha. He asks if you are here safely.”
“Taha!” I said. “You have a wonderful family. They asked me to stay in their home. I am here now.” I swallowed. “Thank you, Taha.”
“I hear they are taking you for a drive tomorrow,” he said. “They are showing you the mountains. You will see where we fought Saddam Hussein. You will learn of Kurdistan. Do not rush to leave them. You are welcome to stay.”
He asked to speak with his oldest brother and I passed the phone over to Ali. I listened to this side of the conversation in Kurdish and saw a smile light up the brother’s face.
“Citadel of Erbil,” said Hemin. We were back in the chaotic traffic beside the bazaar, below where the walls of the citadel rose. As the traffic broke, Hemin took to a side street and drove up to a closed gate at the perimeter. He knocked on the large door. Let into an open area, we walked around the World Heritage Site, once the center of town. A road rings the citadel mound. Within this settlement, artifacts have been found that date from roughly 5000 BCE, though written mention of the site did not occur until much later. Occupied in some fashion or another since then, despite switching hands and loyalties due to wars, commercial rivalries, and strategic needs over the centuries, there must have been a thousand reasons to abandon Erbil—yet it has never happened, over the course of seven thousand years.
In a shop at the site, I saw a Kurdistan flag displayed on the wall. After explaining to Hemin that my son Sean collects flags and I’d like to buy this one for him, Hemin approached the custodian. The man smiled but shook his head, explaining through Hemin that the flag was not for sale, but was on display as a show of pride. I spoke directly to the man, asking if I could look at it more closely—my English was irrelevant, my tone genuine. He stood on a stool and brought it down for me to see. When I folded the flag respectfully and held it to my heart, he nodded in understanding, spoke to Hemin, and they both grinned. I walked around his place, found a book in English about Kurdish history and offered what I hoped was enough to pay for the book.
The man shook his head. He would not take my money. Thinking I had overstepped my push for the flag, I was surprised when he handed it to me, with the book, and pointed to Hemin, who said, “My gift.”
Dusk brought dinner. The day of fasting had been long for my hosts and their families. The moment it was technically p
roper—sundown—we made for the food. The dining area was on the home’s main floor, by the kitchen and front door. As we moved there from the second-floor living room, I saw where the women were cooking. Little girls giggled and pointed at me. For our meal, the men sprawled on a carpet with cushions for their backs. Ali handed me a soft pillow to sit on more comfortably, but with none of them using one, I politely declined.
I wondered about their eating customs. Might I stub my social toe through ignorance? The youngest sons came in as attendants, one with tea and the other with flatbread hot from the oven. A delicious dinner, visually fascinating for its array of colors in everything from assorted serving dishes to the vegetables to the spicy sauces thick with onions, began. The tableau was punctuated with large bottles of soda popping up in tints of orange, green, and brown. The setting disassembled at once in a circular passing of platters. With the gregarious dining experience, my concern about offending them with my eating habits was unnecessary.
A neighboring family joined us in the living room after we had eaten. It was a mother and father and their three children, although only the parents moved to sit down. But before they could seat themselves, even more visitors arrived at the front door. Without Dubba there, my linguistic bridge was my camera, so I asked if it was permitted to take pictures of everyone to show to Taha. I did so hesitantly, as in some cultures or settings a camera builds a blunt pier instead of a bridge; here there were immediate nods of permission and curiosity. One of them brought out a camera to reciprocate. Panning the room, I noticed one shy four-year-old tucked in his father’s arms. He looked away, even while other kids gently ribbed me and kidded with my camera, posing, and pleased to watch as I played back each video clip for them and their families.
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