Danielle

“Not playing around here, are they,” an older gentleman remarks as the flight attendant curtly requests all my belongings be placed in the holding bins. I smiled, they were not indeed. “First time in Iraq,” but it is more of a statement than a question. I nodded, and he welcomed me to Kurdistan.

Given his stature, combined with khakis and a polo shirt - tattoos protruding - the odds are favorable that he was a private military contractor in the area, one of many I would meet while over the next week. Most were former US military - it must have been the weather that got them back to the area.

About three hours after our takeoff from Qatar, we landed at Erbil International Airport. The clean and efficient airport processing matched nothing of the war-torn, poverty-stricken quagmire I have read about for the past fifteen years. Then again, I probably didn’t match the demographic of their worst visitors, and was given a cakewalk of a customs questioning.

Looking around in the visa line, I became acutely aware of my presence there. I pulled my loose strings of blonde hair into a tightened bun, as if that would miraculously detract from the fact that I was very visibly both different and American.

After locating my bags, I found friendly faces at the exit. A former US Army Colonel and a Vandy friend, Henry, were waiting for me at the doors. Henry had been in Erbil for a week interning for the oil company that would help me out during my time there. He and the Colonel flashed the kind of smirk you give someone when you sense their naivete.

Sunday is a work day in the Middle East, so we took off from the airport to the office. Not yet 5 minutes from the airport, a girl that could not have been older than 6 walked up to our car at a stop light. I gazed at the young girl, curious why she would wander so close to the vehicle. The windows on the car were slightly down, and she began speaking -- yelling -- in Kurdish at my driver. It became clear she wanted money, and when our driver denied her request and began rolling up the windows, she punched the window so hard I thought it would surely start cracking. “Welcome to Erbil,” the Colonel laughed.

That shocked me out of any residual good feelings from the airport - he was right. I was not in Kentucky anymore. Not in Paris, either. This was Kurdistan. Less than fifty miles from the Iranian border. Even closer to Mosul, where a battle between the Iraqi Security Forces and ISIS raged on, the city itself already leveled from the US invasion years ago. I flashed back to sitting in Dr. Carroll’s War in Iraq class two months earlier, a picture of the blighted city on her Powerpoint slides.

After getting acquainted with the office security staff, and the Colonel chastising the guards for requesting I wear a visitor badge, we headed out to drop my bags at my host’s place and then headed out to a meeting. Luckily, this ride was a placid one, with no children beating on our windows.

We arrived at Falcon Security headquarters around noon. The guards at the entrances smiled as they swiveled mirrors underneath our Ford Excursion, checking for explosives, or VBIEDS (vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices).

We were given the okay and passed on to the main building. After being escorted up the elevator, we had a “Welcome to Kurdistan” introduction from one of the Colonel’s friends, who now runs security at Falcon. An American himself before relocating to Kurdistan, he asked where I was from. After a few exchanges about Kentucky, he asked what my parents made of me being in Iraqi Kurdistan. Well, it was my dad’s birthday. I couldn’t think of a better birthday present than letting his 22 year old daughter trek alone through Iraq. We both laughed, and I remembered my attempts to reassure my parents before leaving. “Kurdistan is safe -- well, relatively safe,” I had insisted to them. To their credit, they did not protest.

The man that spoke with us would come to characterize the blithe nature of most Americans I met in the region. All were men, and all I met either worked for oil companies or PMCs in the area. In retrospect, maybe they were just excited to see an American girl.

He showed us this map of oil in the Kurdish region. He spent an hour explaining a history of oil production in the region. The politics of the oil industry would prove to be labyrinth. The intersection of oil and tribal politics was a fascinating one - one where robust oil companies, well-versed in dealing with the US world of law and regulations, legal counsel and black and white answers, faced a world that was a million shades of gray, one where the tribes and the people would prove just as difficult to deal with as the Saddam-era mortars still buried across the fields where they would eventually drill.

After our meeting, we headed to a local restaurant, one of the few open during the day - it was the Ramadan holiday, so all Muslims who followed the practice were fasting from sun up to sun down. I had my first Kurdish kabobs and would order them dutifully at every meal thereafter - they were delicious. We were also served a white-looking drink in a plastic canteen that resembled a transparent Pringles container. Not familiar with the drink, but not wanting to accidentally show offense by missing some custom, I downed the liquid. I almost spit it across the table. This stuff tasted like expired milk and yogurt diluted with water. My fellow patrons were all anxiously looking at me, testing my response. I laughed as I sat it down and they all told me I thought I'd warm up to it eventually. I had a feeling my taste buds wouldn’t change in 5 days, but they offered me a warm “maybe.”

After lunch, we took off for the Erbil Citadel, or what was the old city there. Pulling up to the guard gate would give me my first taste of the Colonel’s status in the region. The exchange occurred in Kurdish, but the Colonel quickly pulled out his “get out of jail free card” (his words, not mine -- I never learned what was on that card), and we were waved through. Once to the top, we got out to explore the old textiles museum, gift shop, and walk around to see the old buildings.

After work, once the sun had set and the town regained life as people ate their first meal of the day during Ramadan, we ventured to the downtown area, under the Citadel.

This languid city had come alive with dawn, with the breaking of the fast. The now-bustling city buzzed with street vendors, tea drinkers, and children at play. I wandered through tea shops, again, acutely aware of my status as a woman. The men we encountered were affable enough, but I could not shake the feeling of eyes burning through me as I stood out walking through the streets. I understood the decorum was for women to stay in the home, as it had always been. Though slightly disturbing, I resigned to taking solace in the luck and right of my own freedom of movement at home. It would not be the first or the last time I would have such a thought -- a stark reminder of just how grateful I should be for something as fortuitous as where I was born.

--

Monday

Our drivers and others on the trip, who had visited the post before, swapped stories as we traversed our way through the uneven, rugged road into the Gwer Bridge post.

Finally around the human ant hills that were serving as safeguards for the post, we came to the base. This precarious post was guarded by sand bags piled about 5 feet high, and, ironically enough, a flower bed. Whoever had the humor to plant tulips in the middle of an Iraqi military post was someone worth searching to interview.

The Peshmerga soldiers escorted us up the rugs that covered the dirt of the base (I said this military post was bizarre) and to the front lines. I had to laugh at the thought of what my parents were imagining I was doing in Iraq at that moment. Hopefully anything but this, I was sure. The Iraqi sun beat down, illuminating the town in the distance.

The translator began explaining the significance of the post. The fighting at this post proved fateful in the fight against ISIS -- it had been so close to being taken over, but the Peshmerga, with the help of US air support, had fought them back. The post’s significance was derived from its strategic location just 15 miles from the city of Erbil; had ISIS taken the post, they likely would have easily invaded the city. Foreshadowing what I would continue to hear in the days ahead, the Peshmerga praised US air support - it was their panacea.

“They [ISIS] swam across the river,” one Pesh soldier explained, nodding to the river just 200 yards in front of our position. “They were right here,” he noted, taking pride in how close the battle had gotten before stopping them. After the bloody battle, the Pesh placed a Kurdish flag in the middle of the partially bombed bridge as a sort of bulwark to ISIS. This is our territory, it suggested.

“Have you been paid,” my translator asked the soldier, before I prompted the question. Though I found it jarring to ask someone at first, the Western norm clearly was unacknowledged in Kurdistan. The soldier answered in English that no, he had not. Through my translator, I asked him why he continued serving in the Pesh. I should note here that because it was Ramadan, many of these Pesh at the base were not eating or drinking all day, with guns and equipment strapped to their military uniforms under the 110 degree Iraqi heat. And -- not getting paid.

“I love my country,” the soldier replied, flatly. His response would prove prescient to what I would continue to hear throughout my trip. The “country” he was referring to was of course Kurdistan, not Iraq.

I asked two more Pesh at the base if they had gotten paid. No, they both shook their heads. Again, I repeated my question -- “why do you continue to serve?” One responded “for my people” and the other nodded, then added that “everyone is proud of us.”

We tottered back to our cars, having one last laugh at the flowers in the middle of a military base that had been the bloody backdrop for a fight against ISIS just a couple years prior. I made a mental note to tell my Grandma about this - she loved gardening.

Our guide grabbed a bag from our car, and pulled out a carton of cigarettes, the Iraqi version of a US thank you. He handed them to the Pesh who had walked to the cars with us and their faces lit up. The guide explained to me in the car that this was standard practice in Iraqi culture - not expected by the Pesh, but appreciated nonetheless.

We drove another 20 minutes to the Peshmerga’s Camp Black Tiger. As we pulled up and past the front gate, with our standard greeting by men armed with automatic weapons and a mirror plunged under our SUV to check for explosives, I noticed the camouflage garb covering the outside tents. It was the same camouflage garb we used on our deer hunting blinds in Kentucky. I never imagined Iraq would have a reminder of Kentucky, but I got a smile out of it.

A few soldiers escorted me out of the SUV to an outdoor tent to wait for the Peshmerga Colonel and Major General I was schedule to speak with. After an OK came from inside the building, the soldiers brought me in, and I happily welcomed the air conditioning. The Colonel, Major General, my translator and I walked to an end room to begin speaking. We told them of our time at Gwer and exchanged stories about the post. We were brought hot tea and I began asking them about the Pesh.

“The Pesh belong to the people,” the Colonel noted. We discussed the history of the Pesh and the evolving nature of the Pesh. He noted that understanding the roots of the Pesh were important to understanding their place in society. “In our first phase, fighting Saddam, the people sourced the Pesh. You could knock on any house and they would feed us, house us, protect us.” In this sense, the Pesh not only belonged to the people but depended on the people for survival. Likewise, the people depended on the Pesh.

I asked the two about the delayed Pesh salaries and how this was affecting the force. They explained to me that some Pesh actually had to work two jobs because they were not paid enough, excluding officers. “Payments were supposed to be worked out in the Iraqi Constitution, but they were not,” the Colonel stated, not seeming surprised by it.

The Major General told a story about when his father was a Pesh. When asked how this affected his family and their relationship with the Pesh, he replied, “My mother supported [my father] by telling us [the kids] not to ask him for money when he came home because she knew he didn’t have it.” The family had banded together to support their father as a soldier, even though this chosen profession made him struggle to provide for his family.

We began to discuss the role of the U.S. military in aiding the Pesh in the fight against ISIS. I asked about their relationship with the U.S. military and the Colonel responded that they were very thankful for US air support in the fight against ISIS. He told stories of the work between the Pesh and the U.S. forces in the air working together to find and give locations. As with every interview I'd had so far, I encountered the same problem: I never knew if interviewees were lying about their appreciation of the United States just because I was an American and they didn't want to say the "wrong thing," so I began to change the angle of the questions.

I asked what they would like from the U.S. or how they would like to see the relationship change. “We want U.S. weapons directly,” elaborating on the cumbersome process that is currently in place, in which all weapons that the US sends must go through Baghdad; most, in his explanation, never even making it to the Pesh.

I asked what each man wished the Pesh had to enhance their military - people, weapons, structure, international allies, anything. “Of course, I want many things -- better life, other things, but that is not reality,” the colonel noted after reflecting for a moment. He was pragmatic, as I could tell from his other responses throughout our meeting. He seemed exceptionally keen to reality of their situation, more so than many Pesh I spoke with, finding the luxury of theory and idealistic wishes obsolete when faced with the limits of practice.

About 90 minutes in, we had veered course from just discussing the Pesh. We spoke of their families and their lives, the PKK, and the region’s future, among others. When asked if they thought Iraqi rule under Saddam or de facto rule by ISIS was worse, the Major General didn’t hesitate: “I see no difference,” he said, as if this was almost too blatant to explain.

“When people in Iraq get power, they get control. ISIS did the same thing [repressed the Kurds] without formal power. The people in power either use ideology or formal power.” Clearly, the strings of power in Iraqi remained a tool of corruption and nepotism.

“If you’re a killer, it doesn’t matter how you kill,” the Major General elaborated on his comrade’s point. “When Arab people get power, this [referring to the abuse of power and violence] is what they do with it.”

Their cynicism was not the same as hopelessness, but it did contribute to the lack of trust of anyone in power. Anyone but Barzani will probably always be seen in this light to them. Their faith was placed in personality rather than protocol. That protocol, as they’d witnessed time and time again, seemed too fragile to stand up alone in the quagmire that was Iraq.

The Major General, translator, a couple of soldiers and I wrapped up our meeting by heading to a conference room in the building and having lunch. Those of us who were not fasting enjoyed the rice and lamb they had generously cooked for us -- and of course, a third or fourth glass of tea.

We drove back across Erbil and to the office of Karim Sinjari, Minister of the Peshmerga and Minister of the Interior.

He welcomed me into his office. I noticed his mannerisms were starkly different from the other Kurds I met with. Many talked at length, and I only commented at the end of their verbose stories. Sinjari was reserved, certainly the most laconic at face value, much less compared to the social nature of the other Kurds I had spoken with. I would meet with one other Kurd who reminded me of him - political leader of the Gorran party, Mohammed Tofiq.

We discussed the Pesh’s relationship with the people, in which he echoed that the relationship was strong. When asked about the strengths of the Pesh, “The pesh are doing something they believe in,” he said unequivocally. He noted that one of his priorities with regard to enhancing the Peshmerga would be more comprehensive and lengthy training for the force.

I asked about the Pesh’s relationship with the U.S. military, and he pointed out what I continued to hear: “Everyone here is pro-America.” It wasn’t the first or the last time I thought to myself that the Kurds I was meeting were more patriotic about America than some of the Americans I knew. We play a powerful role in the world.

We discussed the relationship of the Pesh and the Kurds with international allies. Many Kurds had spoken to me about the need for international allies, but most seemed resigned to the fact that they probably wouldn’t ever have many long-lasting ones.

“To build more international allies,” Sinjari began, “We need to do a couple of things. Our first problem is that the parties [PUK and KDP] are not together. It is hard for them to get along because they both want control of the KRG, and the KDP will probably always want a Barzani in charge.” I agree with his assessment. Until the parties can unite, it will be difficult if not impossible to call on stable allies. International allies understandably want to work with a united KRG.

Tuesday rolled around, and I headed to the Peshmerga headquarters for a meeting with a Brigadier General. Not 15 minutes into our meeting, the power went out in his office. This was not surprising - the power went out about 10 times each day, but this particular time, it stayed off for about 30 minutes. Uninterrupted, he switched up his window blinds, and we continued as if nothing happened.

“What makes the Peshmerga so successful,” he began, “is how proud the people are of them. The relationship is great.” He continued as a later point, “This [relationship] is different from the ISF [Iraqi Security Forces], where the people don’t trust them. The bad relationship of people and the Iraqi Army is what led some people to join Daesh. The good relationship of the Pesh and the people provides the Peshmerga with good intelligence… The people act as intelligence because their trust of the Peshmerga. The Pesh isn’t worried about the security of their families at home,” he explained, implying a contrast with the situation of the ISF, where leaving your family home alone is as much of a risk as heading to the front lines.

When asked about any public displays of respect for the Pesh, he echoed what I had heard before:
Yes, the Pesh and their families are helped with hospital bills, private school tuition, and college payment plans.

Further elaborating on the Peshmerga’s force capability, he explained the meaning of the word Peshmerga. “Those who face death” was the literal translation, and he noted, “The Peshmerga are ready to face their death because their brothers are on the front lines.”

I asked the General about the future of the force and his wishes for it. He wants the Peshmerga to consider joining U.N. peacekeeping missions. He also spoke of the reform program recently considered, in which more of the Pesh would become reserves and some would change missions because “the budget right now is just too small to maintain the force. We never had a budget outside of the salaries from the KRG for weapons and other stuff. This is wrong. We blame the Iraqi government; they should give us a budget. Baghdad keeps delaying equipment coming from the U.S.” To elaborate, he explained that the Pesh protect the Iraqi Parliament - not their own Iraqi Security Forces.

“We are thankful for the U.S.’s support, but wish they would do more,” the General noted - the first time I heard the US not painted as infallible. “We wish everything didn’t have to go through Baghdad.” He spoke of the challenges with the Pesh weapons systems -- because they take whatever weapons supplies they are given by a slew of different nations, they do not have one universal weapons system. I think the problem here is easy to see. What happens if one soldier runs of out bullets mid-fight but can’t use the bullets of the guys around him because they don’t have the same gun?

We wrapped up our interview and I was escorted back to our vehicle in front of the Headquarters. I got in and began the 3 hour trek to Northern Iraq.

As we navigated up past Duhok, I couldn’t help but think that the painting the roads with lanes had to be the biggest waste of money ever spent by the Iraqi government. There seemed to be few driving laws and even fewer suggestions about road etiquette. As far as I could tell, speed bumps were launch pads and speed limits were nonexistent.

I was in Iraq, I reminded myself. They had bigger problems than speed limits.

We made a pit stop at a restaurant off the side of the road. Despite how appetizing the Kurdish rooster meat looked -- depicted on the menu with a picture of a live rooster -- I passed and ordered some tea.

I was thankful for the skills learned while hunting and fishing around our Kentucky farm - using the restroom via the holes in the ground was not all that different, and as a plus, this time I didn’t feel guilty because it would spook the deer.

Almost up to the oil fields, our driver pulled over to the side of the road and jumped out. I wondered if that Kurdish rooster meat had gotten to him or if he decided he was just as delirious from the hours of Iraqi dirt we’d seen on our drive as I was. He opened my door and began tying a strip around the handle.

My friend in the SUV laughed as I surveyed the scene, clearly unaware of this standard protocol. The PKK in the vicinity, a US-deemed terrorist group, dominated the area, and the Turks had a habit of arbitrarily bombing their posts. Not to worry, though, because we had just tied a flag on the top of our SUV, letting the Turks know we were friendlies and not the subjects of their fury. I understand technology is sophisticated, but I still have my doubts about how well you are able to spot a 3feet wide flag from 10,000 feet in the air. Alas the attempted illusion of safety was enough to ease my fears.

I squirmed a little every time I saw a plane, but we eventually made it to the drilling sites, up mountains lined by gravel roads. Not the most leisurely ride by any standard, it is nothing short of a feat of engineering that these mountains had roads miles-long to the top.

I switched cars to the one with the man who ran private security for the sites, and throughout our drives to the other sites, he explained the politics of the region, the interplay of tribes and the oil companies, and the sometimes fragile relationship of the oil companies and the government.

The day before I arrived to the site, the company’s sites had “a few hiccups” with the local tribes, as it was explained to me. One local tribe protested on the site in hopes of gaining employment, as was given to other tribes for menial tasks at the site. The protest was curtailed with the mayor’s interference, but it underscored what I would hear many times over: the intersection of tribal politics and oil was complex and often absurd.

I dined at a local restaurant in Duhok, then headed to a hotel for a meeting with another Peshmerga General.

I was told by my translator that he was retired, but he cleared the air over this confusion early in the conversation. He was not retired, he explained, but he had been in a building that was blown up by an ISIS VBIED just a few months earlier, and due to his medical situation, was not actively serving. He shared pictures of the building during the bombing, I presumed to be captured by either drone or a security camera in another building. Looking at the pictures, the guy must have had nine lives. The picture was a cloud of smoke and fire - there was no evidence of any standing structure at all.

He echoed what I had heard from other generals regarding the roots of the Peshmerga. “In 1987, I was shot with three bullets,” he began, “I stayed in a village for three months while I recovered, and the people took care of me. I knew none of them.”

“I have had six injuries. I am able to go on medical leave,” he stated. As if anticipating my question of why he chose not to, he spoke explicitly, “I love my country.”

We talked more about the relationship with the people and the morale of the Pesh. “I didn’t want to join the Pesh or shoot guns or hide in the mountains,” he stated. This struck me as slightly ironic for someone who just spent half an hour discussing his various exploits as a Pesh, including multiple injuries that would have allowed him to leave the service. “I joined anyways because of what Saddam was doing. I had to join, because I knew with what was happening, I could be next,” referencing the common practice Saddam had employed of torturing and assassinating Kurds at random.

I asked if this relationship with the people remained constant with time, and he tempered a bit, looking disappointed. He pointed out that now, many Pesh want to be in office, and align themselves with political parties, changing the nature of the force.

It had been a full three days. I headed to sleep, exhausted by the long days but energized by the adventure so far.

---

Breakfast the next day was with a local mayor - one who needed to discuss the tribal issues with the oil company. Though a translator was used the whole breakfast, at the end, I asked him a question and he responded in English. I think he sensed my confusion when he explained, “I am taking English classes at the American University here.”

After wrapping up breakfast with this mayor, we began the hour drive to another mayor, entering his compound of an office for lunch. I was pleasantly surprised at the offer of coffee instead of tea - a first in Kurdistan. I did recognize that I should probably limit my caffeine intake each day, but then reasoned that it would be rude not to take the tea and coffee offered at each meeting. This was the best coffee I had in all of Kurdistan. I liked this politician, I thought.

We loaded up the vehicle, made a pit stop 2.5 later in Erbil to eat, then got back on the road. Slowed down by a few traffic jams due to lamb crossings on the road, we arrived in Sulaymaniyah about 6 hours after leaving Duhok.

Though I appreciated our legion during the trip to the oil fields, it was refreshing to just be with a local and a friend in Suli. The city was riddled with signs of mainstream Western culture: Gucci shirts, Nike shoes, gyms, storefronts advertising burgers and fries. I noticed very few women covered in a hijab and many civilians dining outside during the day (it was still Ramadan so those practicing were not eating or drinking). This mirrored the culture of Suli, generally -- much more lax and liberal than Erbil.

Our local host insisted we try the shisha after our dinner -- our informal initiation into Kurdistan.  

--

We spent the next morning at the former Iraqi Security Prison in Suli, now converted to a museum. The museum lie directly behind our hosts’s house - evidenced by the bullet holes that riddled his home. He explained that these were from when the battle that ensued when the Kurds overtook the prison.

Though the prison was closed for the day, our host, who I jokingly referred to as “the governor” because of his network of friends everywhere we visited, must have done some Kurdish sweet talking (or cigarette bargaining) because the museum curator grudgingly agreed to let us walk around.

The utter depravity present at the place is enough to sober you. The prison was split into sections -- one building where the primary purpose was interrogation through torture, one where most prisoners were held, and one that had been turned into a quasi-Kurdish culture museum.

I cannot pretend to comprehend the gravity of the oppression and grief that the Kurds experienced under Saddam, but that gave me a window into it. It is no wonder the Kurds abhorred Saddam so much; it became even more astounding the forgiveness and empathy shown to Iraqis who attempted to escape places like Baghdad and Mosul to Kurdistan when the war began. The Kurds, as my host in Erbil explained, “did not blame the Iraqis for carrying out what Saddam had said. They probably didn’t agree with it, but if they didn’t carry out his orders, their families would have been killed. We forgave them.”

After our tour of the Iraqi Security Prison, we walked to the local bazaar, one of the largest in Kurdistan. My gracious host walked me around the winding streets to ensure I saw all it had to offer. The “meat” section must have been filled with noxious gas but I nonetheless appreciated the cultural experience I was getting by seeing it. It was a bit harder to stomach turkey the next day.

My host also brought me into the infamous ornate tea shop in the middle. I wondered aloud to him if I should end my visit, noticing I was the only woman of at least 100 men in the shop, not wanting to intrude on cultural practice. He assured me I was fine and our visit would be quick - he knew the owner. Like I said, the governor.

The “tea” would have been more appropriately titled sugar with a side of tea, but I drank it anyways, not wanting to offend the owner, who sat to drink tea with us.

We spent lunch and dinner with my host’s family enjoying a local Eid meal. I think my host had the only domestic dog in all of Iraq, which was perfectly fine with me. As I said earlier, Iraq was full of irony - a golden retriever in the middle of it was another one that made me laugh.

A lesson about Iraq: everyone has a network of cousins large enough to form a small city. I joined my host’s family, complete with 9 of his cousins, for lunch. Though the meal was a traditional Kurdish Eid meal, the Middle Eastern influence on the family stopped there. Many of the cousins had spent stints in the United States until their visas mandated they return to Iraq, and spoke perfect English; for most, that was just one of their multiple languages.  

We talked about the lights of New York City, the homelessness in D.C. -- this was startling to them, and the flat plains of the Midwest. The youngest cousin had considered relocating to the U.S. for college, but ultimately decided against it because his pre-medical route would be less cumbersome in Kurdistan. They spoke candidly about the Pesh, politics, and the democratic system proving to fail them.

They warned that the Pesh of the KDP may feel that the decisions made for them are irreproachable. Though initially wary to speak of US intervention in the area, 3 hours in, we had covered the myriad of decisions they both agreed and disagreed with with regard to the US invasion.

They resigned to the fact that though the election results were irrevocable now, there should be infrastructure in place to stop the same corruption next time. It wasn’t a cheerful takeaway, but a takeaway nonetheless.

From our meal, we traveled to the residence of Mohammed Tofiq, who was once a politician in the PUK but left to co-found the Gorran Party. We discussed his tension with the PUK and the inspirations for the Gorran Party, as well as the future of free elections in Iraq. At one point, he admitted that even he had not voted in the recent election. Confused by this, I pressed. Mohammed was a shrewd, reserved man, and I didn’t take him as one to leave his actions to instinct alone. “In Iraq,” he began, “it is not who you vote for, but who counts the vote that matters.”

He reflected a story I heard from one of my host’s cousins earlier that day. The cousins laughed as they told the stories of corruption from the election. “One of my friends volunteered at the election center, and personally went through to look at the results when the day was almost over,” one of the cousins revealed. “When the election results from that center were announced, they were almost the exact opposite of what he had seen to be true.” From the rest of their stories, this scenario wasn’t an exception.

After dinner, we got another dose of Iraqi culture, spending hours into the night socializing over shisha. The vivacity of Sulimaniyah at 1 AM was incredible. Young kids danced around the shop as the older generation sat, smiling, swapping the stones on their shisha.

---

(Friday, the holiday of EID)

A happy Eid it was.

At breakfast, 12 of us squeezed around the table and the surrounding couches to celebrate Eid. We debated the best of the local foods, and after hearing about my love of kanafeh, one of the men slipped away from the table. His reappearance was coupled with a hot kanafeh - one he noted was from an authentic kanafeh restaurant in Jordan, where he always stopped to stock up before he left for home.

Our drive back to Erbil was reminiscent of the one there, bumpy and hot. We turned off onto a nondescript road about an hour in and the body of water in front of us was the most pristine lake I had ever laid eyes on. My host laughed, “You like boats?” It wasn’t quite a question, and I had learned his quirky personality well enough at this point to know he had something up his sleeve. We enjoyed a tea with his friends in the town, whose family dressed in the conventional Kurdish clothes - a tradition that was all but extinct in Suli.

The boat ride on Lake Dokan was something spectacular. I was teetering between giddiness and awe the entire time. I don’t know how many times I returned to the thought “I can’t believe I’m in Iraq right now.” Later that afternoon, in Erbil, I found myself at a German beer garden, watching a World Cup game, surrounded by 8 Americans. Again - I can’t believe I’m in Iraq right now.

The Last Day

As I sat at the airport waiting to take off, I couldn’t help but reflect on the news headlines that flashed the day I landed in Erbil. The prior Sunday, ballots from the most recent election were burned in Baghdad. It belied the failure of a central pillar of the American and Coalition Forces campaign in the country, and a fundamental piece of democracy: free and fair elections.

"Solving Iraq" was an oversimplified way to view the issues present. The ethnic and religious tensions run deep; oil exacerbates those challenges. The country’s connective tissue seemed to be its ever present forms of conflict, violence, and betrayal. Beginning with Alexander the Great, the outsiders who controlled the region frequently failed to grasp the powerful religious and tribal entities at work in the area. Saddam is gone, but corruption is still widespread, reaching into all parts of life, funneling money away from vital government services. The Kurds are earnest in their ideals of a sovereign Kurdistan, but they must solve deep internal disputes before emerging as a legitimate and credible force.

I remembered my Kurdish friends explaining that at one point, just a few years ago, the regional belief was that Erbil would be the next Dubai. Looking around at the half-constructed buildings that had been abandoned due to the collapse of an economy and the threat of ISIS, I tried to imagine such a time..