David Carr was a quarterback in the NFL and the first overall selection of the expansion Houston Texans in the 2002 NFL Draft. Though generally considered a mediocre player, his is the only NFL jersey I've seen in Iraq thus far.

Chapter 3: Memet the Hero-Swindler

3:15: Ibrahim Khalil Border Crossing

4:15 changes to 3:15 when you cross the border, which we are doing with the help of Hussein, his assistant Memet, and their driver. Hussein is a Turkish salesman who has spent the last 10 years in the confectionary business plying Turkish sweets across the Middle East. The driver is a young guy in a creamy brown-colored leather jacket (“it’s from England”) and seems to be enamored of his appearance and seeming importance (the Biff Loman wasta type, no doubt).

But the real hero of this story is Memet, the classic ‘guy who gets things done.’ Hussein is very proud of him: “I hired him three years ago when I started traveling” he tells us vainly, “and he’s the only assistant I’ve had. He’s very good at what he does.”

And what Memet does is get us places. “He hates waiting…he always tries to take permission,” Hussein tells us in broken English, “At places like this its will vs. skill.” At this point he notices I’m writing in my notebook, “Are you keeping a dairy of this trip?” he pries, “Write that down. Will vs. skill.” Thanks Hussein.

Memet the Hero-Swindler, in his element.

3:20: Memet grabs Chris and I go with the driver. What’s going on? It seems Memet wants us to convince the passport control office that we are late for a flight from Diyarbakir, a city in southeastern Turkey, and must be allowed to pass through immediately. With our foreigner wasta in full gear, the young border officer eagerly motions for our car to pull through to the front of the line. We pass through the gate. Are we in Turkey yet?

3:35: It seems like we’ve traded one gate for another. But lo! Memet takes me up to the security kiosk and I give this new gatekeeper the same airport shpiel. A young Turkish student asks me in excellent English what time this supposed flight leaves, and I bluster through an answer that makes almost no sense. It doesn’t matter: I’ll be asking the questions around here young man! Despite his well-meaning inquiry, we cut the entire line of about 30 cars and pass through the second gate. Before zooming off this student asks if we can give him a ride: it seems like he actually has a flight to catch. Ah, but we have no room my good man. Onward! The Turkish Republic waits for no one!

3:50: Still waiting at this new disaster of a border crossing. “Has there ever been a place like this in America?” our friend Hussein asks, taking his present perfect tense out for a walk. Um, I’m going to go with a big ‘no’ on that one, Hussein.

We are sitting in the car under a gate while about 15 men yell at the window, manned by one enormously overworked Turkish customs officer. One of the men waiting in a yellow taxi behind us curses until his voice gives out. We have been next to him for so long, and he has been yelling for so long, that we witness his voice actually give out. Does he do this every day?

Fed up with this nonsense, the cab driver gets into his car and drives it down the sidewalk until he gets near us at the front of the line. The taxi is a large yellow-painted van with extremely small tires that barely seem to handle the impact of his proclivity for curb hopping. Having successfully navigated himself forward about 6 cars in our ‘line,’ the driver switches his car off and proceeds to cough up an entire lung. He cracks open the driver side door and, in the smallest sliver of space between his car and ours, spits out a large, grotesquely shaped piece of yellow-green mucus.

4:10: Rules dictate that each car must declare its cargo and all passengers. I will enter Turkey with what is quite possibly the greatest name ever.

If you look closely at what Memet is writing here, you'll see the United States crossed into Turkey on December 16, 2010

4:15: We try the ‘we have a plane to catch’ line on anyone who will hear it in this third gate, but the customs officers seem to be wise to our trick. No foreigner wasta will help us here. It seems we’ve unofficially entered Turkey.

4:36: “Teach me American!” Hussein implores us impetuously, and Chris and I oblige by explaining the meaning of “cock block.” We’ll stop there with that one. Suffice to say we’ve had a little time on our hands.

Our driver, having a blast.

5:02: Ibrahim Khalil Duty Free Shop

Memet tells me he needs me and that I should follow him. Do I have another flight to catch? No. This time we run to the Ibrahim Khalil Duty Free Shop to buy cigarettes. I think of our old traveling buddy Murat as Memet uses our passports to buy cartons of Parliaments.

5:05: Ibrahim Khalil Customs Office

We have packed over 15 cartons of cigarettes in Hussein’s silver Renault station wagon. They go in the seats, behind the cushions, in secret places underneath the glove compartment. Everywhere. Hussein’s confectionary business seems less and less legitimate by the hour. I don’t care what his card says…

5:15: Turkey.

Free at last, free at last. Thank god almighty we’re free at last. We are on what seems like an abandoned highway, and for that we have our old friend Ibrahim Khalil to thank. Our brown leather-jacketed driver puts the pedal down and we hurtle toward Silopi, where we can get a bus or taxi to Mardin, tonight’s final destination.

5:33: Silopi

The Silopi taxi mafia has decreed that taxis do not leave at night, and we’ve missed the last bus from there to Mardin, so Memet agrees to take us to Cizre, the next town further north. We try asking for a ride all the way to Mardin, but it seems they aren’t taking that ‘way’ to Diyarbakir. Hussein actually has a flight to catch there – that part wasn’t a lie. It’s just that his flight is tomorrow.

5:57: Cizre

It turns out Memet’s father owns a transportation company. No surprise there. He books us two seats on the last bus leaving Cizre, a busier connecting city on the main highway north of Silopi. Hussein and Mr. Leather Jacket get out at their favorite restaurant in Cizre and Memet agrees to take us down the road to the bus station so we can catch the 6 o’clock to Mardin.

6:11: Cizre Bus Station

We have injured the hero Memet’s honor in Cizre. Waiting for the bus to take us to Mardin and the final destination for the day.

It seems like goodwill vanishes upon entering Turkey. We were under the impression that Hussein offered us a free ride to across the border at the Ibrahim Khalil passport office. It cost him nothing extra to do this, and in fact we spent valuable foreigner wasta karma points expediting the trip for him and his crew.

Yet at our journey’s end Memet the Hero-Swindler had expected to charge us for the trip all along. My refusal to pay hurt his honor; I had to call Hussein to verify that we actually owed Memet money for this favor/service. Apparently we did, and it seemed to upset Memet greatly that I would even consider checking with his boss about this. “The problem?” He snarled, ”There is no problem!” It was the same furious rage that snuck us past checkpoint after checkpoint in Ibrahim Khalil. “The problem is you, you Ali Baba!” He exclaimed, snatching my 50-lira note and storming straight to his car without looking back. And that would be the last we’d ever see of Memet the Hero-Swindler.

6:17: Cizre Bus Station

So much for Turkish efficiency. We’re still waiting outside for the 6 o’clock bus to Mardin and are absolutely surrounded by kids. But when we walk into the bus station office to sit down they only follow us to the door. It’s amazing: they stand there in the frame staring at us but refuse to come in like zombies scared of daylight. It’s as if their obnoxious little-kid powers melt away if they walk into the bus station office. I’ll take it though, because I need a respite from the final showdown with Memet the Hero Swindler.

6:40: Mar-tur Bus

We finally leave Cizre for Mardin. The ride is about two and a half hours and Chris and I settle in for a respite from the day’s ridiculous activity.

Chapter 4: “How much for this tablet of your bronchitis?”

9:11: Mardin

Mardin! We made it, miraculously, to our day’s destination. Luckily I had been to this city before in 2008 when I was traveling over land from Damascus to Istanbul, so I knew the bus station was close to the main street. Still, it was worth asking a local in order to get oriented. What follows is one of the most compelling reasons for NOT asking people for directions (I’d always been looking for one…)

9:20: We meet Nematullah, a seemingly harmless Mardinian just buying some late-night groceries. Surely he lives in the neighborhood and must know where our hotel is. Right?

9:21: He sure does. Offers to take us right there. Walks us all the way there, in fact.

9:30: We arrive at our hotel, the Artuklu Kervansarai, and are greeting by the tallest man in Turkey. This man was literally a giant.

9:31: We check in and it turns out they have one room left. There is a conference in town and we are lucky, we’re told, to have even this room free for the night. Seemingly making up for the lack of hospitality at the front desk, Nematullah wants to take us out for dinner. Lucky for him the hotel restaurant is closed and we set back out into town. He seems insistent on telling us something.

Artuklu Kervansarayi, our hotel for the night.

9:40: On the way to a restaurant that is open this late we just happen to stumble on an internet café. Nematullah insists that he needs help explaining something on Google translate, and naively we think it has to do with an email or something he’s read online. Little did we know he’s got a special little artifact to sell us. Below is a rough sketch of my first conversation on google translate.

– “This very old. What I found.” [he shows us a photo of a brown rectangle on his mobile phone]. “It is related to this” [he shows us a shabby-looking ring with Syriac inscriptions on his right ring finger].

– “Turkish Government offered me 3,000 lira ($2000) for it, but I said no. It is worth more.”

[Nematullah then looks at us seriously. A salesman about to deliver his closing line].

– “How much for this tablet of your bronchitis?”

What? I was exhausted and frustrated by this inconvenience. Chris, however, was deliberating the old man’s fine offer: “Well we should probably start with 8,000 Lira ($5,400),” he said, quite seriously and out loud.  It was hard to stay straight-looking and honest knowing our friend/amateur archeologist Nematullah was studying our faces intently for context clues. Could he squeeze a few thousand liras from these two exhausted foreigners for a tablet of their bronchitis?

No, he could not, because as it turns out it was not a tablet of our bronchitis he was selling, but instead just a boring tablet of bronze. Miffed more by the poor sell than the product, we say thank you, no, and proceed to walk out.

Nematullah follows us. ‘Ok no problem’ He pantomimes with a shoulder shrug and half-frown.  We expected to leave him but Nematullah at least wants us to pay for his dinner. His brief tenure as our guide in Mardin was a strange combination of self-aggrandizement heavily tinted with the hope of a sale. Worried that there was something more sinister in his interest in taking us around town after dark, I did a double take at a car of bored-looking policemen, who immediately sped over and demanded our papers.

10:45: Nematullah checked out without a record (after learning we were American they didn’t even bother checking us (foreigner wasta, and yes that’s a double-parenthesis)). As a way of saying goodnight, I asked where Nematullah lived so as to hint at our interest in his departure. “Ba’eed” he replied. Far. I wondered what he was doing in the center of town then, near the bus station, buying groceries. We bade goodnight and parted ways.

11:05: Meanwhile, back at the Caravanserai, it seems like our giant found some company in the form of five Turkish academics in town for a conference. The theme of the conference was “Old and New Intellectuals,” with the idea being, explained one of the participants (presumably a ‘New’ intellectual) that they were discussing the future of Turkish academics. 

In the presence of these formidable minds (some new but mostly old), our giant had made a complete literal and figurative 180.  He substituted his austerity for hospitality bordering on the doting, and compromised his imposing size with a crouch that would make most big league catchers jealous. The academics sat around a wrought-iron brazier aflame in the center of the lobby, and the giant was quick to hop about in serving them coffee admirably prepared in the Bedouin style. Chris and I, shorn of Nematullah, stood in front of the group and chatted politely for a while. Soon, though, I had had enough of the small talk, and went to bed hoping to dull a toothache with some whiskey I had the foresight to buy at the duty free while Memet the Hero-Swindler was busy piling up cartons of cigarettes. Chris was out talking to a new intellectual while I dosed off to sleep, buried deep in one of the Caravanserai’s cave-like rooms.

In the main hall of the Caravanserai, our giant is on the right looking good in his old man hat.

Chapter 1: Into the Blue

ERBIL, December 16, 2010

8:45am: Morning comes and we leave our compound on the outskirts of Erbil, the capital of Iraqi Kurdistan, and greet a crisp morning pregnant with the promise of adventure. Before we left I had stashed all my conference gear in a drawer back at the villa, so as not to burden myself with silly things like collared shirts and computers. We set a good pace from these modern inventions, striding down a completely empty four-lane highway surrounded by the dust and rubble that forms a ubiquitous backdrop to Erbil’s dramatic construction boom.

9:00: We hail a cab after a brisk, 15-minute walk in the bracing cool air of the northern Iraqi winter morning. The sky is blue and guiltless. Destination? Zakho Garage, where our chariot waits, idling, to take us across the rugged landscape of Iraqi Kurdistan.

9:15: We’re on the next cab leaving Erbil for the border, and it only cost 15,000 Iraqi Dinar (about 12USD) each. We leave and there are three passengers in a car that seats four. Maybe the demand for border shuttles is down today.

10:00: After a 45-minute exploration of the outermost reaches of the Erbillian universe, we find the passenger #4. So much for a comfortable ride to the border in three-passenger luxury and style. We pick this fellow up at an unmarked compound on the side of the road. The company is unsurprisingly a Turkish one. Zozik, actually, which supplies the overpriced cafeteria food at our university. Having secured his ride to the border, passenger #4, whose name we learn is Murat, shuffles hurriedly back to the barracks to pick up his baggage: a tiny blue canvas bag in which you could barely fit more than a pillow. Chris offers him the middle seat and Murat’s wide body seems to take up more room than we ever thought possible.

10:02: A foul smell emanates from this new passenger. This is not the normal B.O. that Chris and I have come to know, love, and will cultivate in the coming days. This is something far more sinister: it smells like this man has worked and slept in the same clothes for months. Shit, sweat, blood, sleep. My record is 15 days without showering, but my nose tells me Murat has treated this mark like Usain Bolt.

He immediately proceeds to call someone on the phone and starts speaking loudly in Turkish.

10:17: We get on the highway – finally – and then immediately stop for gas. “We’ve enrolled in a free patience class!” Chris exclaims gleefully. I contemplate the fine line between genius and insanity.

10:34: When going on a long drive in the Middle East it is important to gauge the quality of the driver as soon as possible. Does he look like he could get you through checkpoints without any trouble? Does he look like he’ll try to double the agreed-upon price halfway down a middle-of-nowhere highway? It was hard to tell any of this about our driver as we u-turned our way around Erbil, but it seems like he is a consummate professional. Not the reckless, turn-the-roads-of-Iraqi-Kurdistan-into-a-three-hour-Space-Mountain-ride kind of driver, but that practical, I’ve-done-this-all-before type. Pleased with this reality, we settle in for the first leg of our journey.

One person who does not seem too happy about this is the elderly village woman in the front. She didn’t seem to mind the earlier detour in that war-weary, life-is-a-test-of-patience kind of way. But now that we’re on the open road, she is visibly agitated with our driver’s technique. She is constantly adjusting her threadbare black cloth head covering and appealing to God every time the driver does something particularly reckless. “Yah allah” she says with a sigh, as she wipes her nose with a pink dishcloth. Then, with a snort, she covers her face with it using short, calloused hands.

10:58: The driver cracks his window as if magically hearing me cry out for a breath of cold, fresh salvation from the ripe smell of Murat. His is a smell that one does not get used to. Our driver then lights a cigarette. Driver’s prerogative. Whatever.

We reach the first checkpoint and the driver tells the Kurdish patrolman we’re Europeans. We get through without trouble and soon reach a small village with a big sign over the main street.

Dohuk          Akre
Zakho           Qandil
<—–            —–>

Taking a right turn would be a first class ticket to the Qandil Mountains, or better known as the rugged lawless region governed by the Parti Karkerani Kurdistan (PKK or Kurdistan Workers’ Party). The PKK is a Turkish-Kurdish separatist group that fights the Turkish government for Kurdish rights in Turkey. More on this later, but if you’re interested in learning more now see their Wikipedia page. Tempting a suggestion as it may be, we bear left instead.

11:30: Call our driver Ismail. Seriously, that’s his name.

 

Chris and the Toshreeb

 

11:33: Ismail pulls off the road to stop at one of Iraqi Kurdistan’s famous roadside restaurants. One along the way that looks just like this but is closer to the Kurdish city Koysenjaq is famous for mastaw, which is a fresh yogurt drink served in a bowl which you try to ladle into your mouth with an oversized spoon. It’s pretty good, so I mention it, foolishly forgetting the custom here of passengers buying lunch for their drivers. At the mere mention of food, Ismail slips inside and reserves us a table to claim his free meal.

It turns out for the best anyway, not just because we were hungry but also this place is famous for something far more delicious: toshreeb. Toshreeb is a stew of slow-cooked lamb, whole onions, tomatoes and peppers on top of a pile of bread that has basically been pre-dipped in the soup. All of this is packed into an enormous bowl and is impossible to finish. You couldn’t do it. No way.

Ismail seems to be friends with the proprietor and calls him over. After conferring with him for a second, Ismail tells with a huge grin that we’re in for a very special treat. As he says these words, a waiter comes to the table with a small bowl of oily reddish-tinted liquid and proceeds to dump most of its contents in our toshreeb. Doesn’t Ismail want some of this mysterious liquid? No apparently not. Turns out it’s liquefied lamb fat. A special treat just for us!

Our special treat

12:17pm: We are stopped at a checkpoint outside of Dohuk when our Turkish friend Murat has to get out of the car for questioning. Murat’s company confiscated his passport as part of their work agreement and provided him with working papers that should, if the appropriate wheels are appropriately greased, get him across the border. Murat is from Kirshehir, which is a town in central Anatolia that would make Oklahomans feel right at home.

While waiting, Chris texts his girlfriend, Jhannar, in what is an amazing display of how far we’ve come in mobile phone technology: near the Turkish border, with an Iraqi phone, Chris can instantly communicate with his girlfriend, who is using a Mongolian cell phone, in China. Jhannar writes back “Have a great trip and don’t eat any crazy food!” You’re about 45 minutes late Jhannar. “Sure honey,” Chris responds, “no problem.” It seems like despite all these modern fixins there’s no substitute for proper timing (though would that have kept Chris from eating liquefied animal fat? I doubt it).

I’m assuming that someone in this peshmerga checkpoint can speak Turkish, because Murat knows no other language. But we get through after 10 minutes and it occurs to me that this has probably been the most tranquil moment all trip for the old village woman in front.

Chapter 2: Calling on Mr. 2-Star

IBRAHIM KHALIL, December 16, 2010

1:07pm: How do you know you’re getting close to the Turkish border while traveling through Iraq? People start buying cigarettes.

“Wait, stop here” Murat begs Ismail, who does not seem keen on unnecessary delays, “Five minutes.” Ismail keeps driving past the gas station Murat is pointing to incessantly. “Two minutes!” With hard, workingman hands, Murat leverages Chris and I from the middle seat to get as close to Ismail in the front. This of course, given the language barrier, is the closest thing he’s got to an effective argument.

Finally, when all seemed lost, Ismail stops. Ecstatic, Murat jumps out and runs as fast as his stubby legs will carry him into the store like an 8-year-old promised fun dip and pixie sticks. I wonder what Murat’s friends back home would think of him buying cartons of cigarettes at a gas station called “Nawroz Oil.”

1:23: Khabat Intersection, Zakho.

And then there were three. Our nice old Kurdish village woman gets out next to the Zakho garage and we’re off to Ibrahim Khalil, the name of the Iraqi side of the only Iraqi-Turkish border crossing (the Turkish side is called Silopi). Since 2003 official annual trade between Iraq and Turkey has skyrocketed from zero to $9 billion. As a result, Turkey’s foreign minister Ahmet Davutoglu (pronounced DAH-ve-toe-lu) promised to open two new border crossings. One would be devoted just for facilitating the hundreds of 18-wheelers waiting to cross from Turkey into Iraq because, for now, the trade is mostly one-way: trucks enter from Turkey filled to the brim with stuff. They return mostly empty (except for cigarettes of course). For now, however, Ibrahim Khalil is the only place to cross a border spanning the distance from New York to Baltimore. Should make things interesting.

1:51: Ibrahim Khalil Passport Control

Bring photocopies of your passport.

Taxi rates at the border:
- 50 Turkish Lira per seat in a car to Diyarbakir
- 15,000 Iraqi Dinar per seat to Silopi (Just across the border)
- 15 Turkish Lira for a bus from Silopi to Mardin
- 20 US Dollars per seat from Silopi to Mardin.

2:20: Ibrahim Khalil Passport Control – Manager’s Office

Our entire trip unexpectedly hinges on the mercy of a 2-star lieutenant who speaks no English. Apparently we are supposed to have some sort of exit visa to enter Turkey by land. But we don’t need one to get to Istanbul by plane. Does this make any sense?

Meanwhile, it is disarmingly hot in Mr. 2-Star’s office. It’s so hot that if he sentenced me to execution by blunt object right now I’d still feel sleepy.

The snow-capped mountains of Turkey, just outside Zakho

2:33: Ibrahim Khalil Passport Control – Manager’s Office

Our fun little magical mystery tour bubble is burst when we are told to go back to the residency office in Sulaimaniyyah. Go back to Sulaimaniyyah? Simply out of the question good man! Time to call on our wasta.

Wasta. In a region filled with incomprehensible dialects, wasta is one of the few words that cuts across all ethnicities, tribes and religious sects. Everyone knows what wasta is, whether they have it or not. Wasta is connections, relations, moxie, mojo, the ‘in’ and the ‘hook up.’  Wasta is this nebulous combination of knowledge, money, power and connections. Do you know an Iraqi politician? You have wasta. Is your brother’s wife the daughter of the chief of police? Forget paying parking tickets (if they were ever issued here). Are you a shepherd living in a village with no running water? You definitely do not have wasta. And if you are that shepherd’s wife, like the old agitated village woman in the front seat? You are resigned to a fate of absolutely zero wasta at birth. There is no daylight between your wasta ceiling and your wasta floor.

There are also different styles of employing your wasta. There’s the spoiled rich kid who flaunts his wasta like a bad rap video: his whole life is defined by his wasta. There are also those who brag about wasta they don’t have. But these false wasta types always seem to put themselves in a position to not have to use it. They are the Biff Lomans of wasta: somewhere along the way their wasta disappeared and now their life is one, big wasta-less lie. Be careful for the Biff Loman-types.

And then there’s the foreigner wasta. Yes, foreigner wasta is its own special brand of wasta, and it has an almost perfectly inverted relationship to societal development: it is most powerful in the least developed regions, and becomes next to irrelevant in bustling urban centers. In fact, sometimes it can be negative wasta, as in Midnight Express.

Dulled by the oppressive heat and the intense irony of watching scenes from the Beatles tribute movie Across the Universe, Chris and I slowly deploy our foreigner wasta in a two-pronged approach. The first step involved Chris immediately calling our university’s wasta connect. What’s that you ask? AUI-S has wasta? Of course it does. Some might say this is corruption. To those accusations I say… maybe. But wasta is simultaneously the lifeblood and currency of our local economy: it is essential for survival. AUI-S has to have wasta, without it we would drown in a sea of government paperwork and starve from a lack of student applicants. Yes all of this can be attributed to wasta, which takes on the same air of impenetrable mystery as Jobu’s influence on hitting curveballs.

The second step was for me to play the role of the indignant foreigner with a limited ability to express his frustration. That’s a cornerstone of foreigner wasta. My ‘conversation’ with Mr. 2-Star went something like this:

‘What is this visa business?! We have heard of no such thing. Of course we’ve been to the residency office. You can see the stamp in our passport right here. What? That’s not the right stamp? How were we supposed to know what stamp we would need? No one tells us these things; we’re so busy being extremely important outsiders that even if we knew this information beforehand we simply wouldn’t have had the time to acquire the necessary paperwork. Surely you must understand.’

3:27: Ibrahim Khalil Passport Control – Stamping Center

The double-pronged approach works beautifully, and after a time we get the magic seal of approval to continue on our journey. It was a combination of Mr. 2-Star being sick of our presence in his office (my job) and realizing we’re important enough to have people calling on our behalf (well done Chris) that did it. Foreigner wasta, executed to perfection (although we probably could’ve gotten by much faster with a bribe).

Now that we’re legit, all we have to do is cross the border. Simple, right?

The Iraqi Airways Office in the Sarchnar Neighborhood, As-Sulaimaniyyah, Iraq

…And a Happy New Year!

I came upon that city
And saw it being built
I too was built with it
Amidst stone and earth

- Hajji Bayram Veli (d. 1429-30)

Chris and I live in As-Sulaimaniyyah, Iraq, and we decided to take a trip. The goal? Get to Istanbul by Christmas Eve. We made it, but our adventure was hardly about the destination. It was about the people that helped us along the way, and it was about losing ourselves in the simple pleasure of observation. It was about backgammon games in smoky village teahouses, drinking sixteen cups of tea in a day, and giants that turned to dwarves overnight on misty mountaintops. It was about the ups and the downs: sleeping in cars, old man hats and old-time hobbies. It was about the swindlers and those with good hearts, and mistakes for better or worse. We were being built with the city, one that would serve as the end point of a journey traveled by thousands before us.

What follows is the first installment of our trip westward over land from Iraq to Istanbul, that city ‘in between two worlds.’

All photos unless otherwise noted are courtesy of Chris DeBruyn (www.chrisdebruyn.com).

—–

AS-SULAIMANIYYAH, December 14, 2010

“If not now, when?” I’m sure you’ve heard that saying before.

Did you know it comes from a famous Iraqi Jewish scholar (so what if it was called Babylon then)? Rabbi Hillel recorded these famous words in the Pirkei Avot, which means ‘Chapters of the Fundamental Principles’ or, more loosely, ‘Ethics of the Fathers.’ However translated, Pirkei Avot is widely regarded as one of the most important treatises on ethics and morality in Judaism. Some other words of wisdom that might sound familiar: “Do not judge your fellow until you have stood in his place,” (2:5) and, “Say little and do much.” (1:15) Despite exhortations to action, no one accused Theodore Roosevelt of giving his words short shrift.

But here’s my favorite: “He saw a skull floating on the water, and said to it, ‘Because you drowned others, they drowned you. And they will also eventually be drowned because they drowned you.’” (2:7) Makes me almost want to read more than what’s cited in Wikipedia.

So where was I? Right the saying about getting to it already. Actually, I think the old adage is taken a bit out of context. The whole verse actually says: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And when I am for myself, what am ‘I’? And if not now, when?” In that light it seems to be less about acting quickly, and more a general lesson on self-respect and self-awareness: you should act on your behalf because no one else will, but at the same time you should be aware of what your actions say about you. What, or who, am ‘I’? This philosophic question has dominated our discourse all the way from Talmudic scholars to Derek Zoolander. But the call to action that we all know and remember is at the end of the teaching, almost as if it were afterthought. What Rabbi Hillel is really talking about here is self-improvement.

I digress, but the thought came to mind when I was told on my last day at work that I would be leaving for a conference in Erbil, capital of the KRG. I’d be exaggerating if I said I had no idea about the conference before the noontime announcement of my mid-afternoon departure. How would I be able to account for the 16-slide power point presentation on the research centers I stayed up making the night before? Impossible. Wullah.

Of course I knew about the conference. Called the “International Conference on Revitilizing Research in Kurdistan,” it was organized by the Kurdistan Regional Government’s Ministry of Higher Education and Scientific Research. Conference organizers invited thousands of academics from Europe and the US to Iraqi Kurdistan to meet the deans, presidents and professors of its public universities. The goal was to sign Memorandums of Understanding (MOUs), which are basically academia’s version of facebook friend requests. In a region that has had little contact with the outside world in the past thirty years, academic or otherwise, the conference agenda was a bit ambitious. But then, this won’t be the last time we broach the subject of ambitious agendas (or facebook for that matter).

Even more ambitious is the $100 million the KRG has pledged to support Iraqi Kurdish students for graduate study abroad. Most of these students have never left the KRG and are unaware of the rigors of graduate study in a foreign country and a foreign language. These students, on the whole, have neither the training nor the wherewithal to complete an advanced degree. The Ministry of Higher Education has pledged this much money despite these obvious barriers. As the Minister himself admitted in a Q&A session: “The first few years of the scholarship there will be difficulties, to be sure, but we believe we can work through these problems for the good of learning in all of the KRG.” As one of the few foreign academics in attendance with prior experience in the KRG explained: “AUI-S is really the only university at this time with students that could actually take advantage of this scholarship.” Of course, I would have to agree.

AUI-S was invited to the conference at the last minute. The day before, my colleague Jonathan Loopstra, professor at AUI-S and chair of our Center for the Study of Ancient Mesopotamia (CSAM) arrived to attend the opening ceremony. I furnished him with the aforementioned PowerPoint and would join him the next day (the 14th).  My plan was to leave after work that day and pick up my pack and briefcase and make the three-hour drive from As-Sulaimaniyyah to Erbil, catching up on sleep during the ride so I could edit and prepare material in the university villa there the night before.

It would not be so: as it turns out our Rector was traveling there earlier in the afternoon to attend the evening gala. I was to join him for the trip, but not the party. I spent the trip engaging him in a pleasant conversation, and arrived exhausted to Erbil that evening.

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ERBIL, December 15, 2010

Jon and I woke up early to orient ourselves on the first day of breakout sessions and for the promise of good coffee (only the former was successful). The conference was interesting and useful and will be discussed more thoroughly later. Suffice to say it was a useful event for the good and welfare of AUI-S.

Chris arrived in Erbil late that night. After a disastrous time navigating the KRG capital’s unidentifiable streets, I met him, Jon and Jon’s wife Carol for dinner at PJ’s Pizza (a Papa John’s knockoff), which is next to Burger Queen (a Dairy Queen knockoff), which is next to Costa Rica Coffee (a Costa Coffee knockoff). It is a perfect picture of Erbil today: fast, phony and developed to attract foreigners. We talked about the long day at the conference and planned our travels over pepperoni pizza. Jon and his wife were going back to the US soon. “How are you going to get to the border?” Jon asked us. Chris and I shrugged. We’d figure it out.

1. “Richard Holbrooke: A diplomat who saw America as a force for good in the world.” -Fouad Ajami, Wall Street Journal (http://online.wsj.com/)

My advisor pens a short but sweet op-ed in today’s WSJ on the tragic passing of one of America’s great diplomats. My favorite part is the end, where Ajami describes Holbrooke as a man”eager to be loved, eager to share what he knew, and who he was. He was drawn to power, to be sure. But he was ready, at the drop of a hat, to journey into lands of grief and slaughter, to refugee camps the world over. His sympathy for people in desperate places suffused his life.”

2. “Weimar Istanbul: Dread and exhilaration in a city on the verge of political catastrophe” -Claire Berlinski, City Journal (http://www.city-journal.org/2010/20_4_weimar-city.html)

Berlinski, a freelance author and journalist living in Istanbul, pens a thought-provoking and well-written account of the conflicts in the Sublime Porte. She describes a city, like Berlin in the 1920s, blessed and cursed by its conflicting identities: blessed in its irrepressible artistic creativity and cursed in its inevitable downfall. Like a party bound to end in catastrophe.

My favorite part of this much longer article is where I think she captures this energy best: “in the case of both Weimar Germany and modern Turkey,” she writes, “there were serious and perhaps fatal flaws in the very way that the democratic experiment was conceived, flaws embodied in both nations’ weak, disputed constitutions. Simultaneously, these cultures were and are magnificently expressive and creative precisely because the process of liberalization and democratization unleashes vibrant energies, hitherto suppressed. Powerful emotions inspire powerful art. To live in these political circumstances is to experience emotions beyond the normal range, to perceive life in more dramatic terms.”

While I don’t really agree with Berlinski’s somewhat overdramatized representation of Istanbul (I don’t think it’s on the verge of a dramatic collapse – its economy is too strong and resilient for that), it does make for a great holiday read.

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And speaking of holidays, I’m about to take one myself: the plan is to get to Istanbul from Iraq over land and see all the sights on the way. I won’t be around for a couple of weeks, but you will get a chronicle of that journey on my triumphant return. Happy holidays!

This week we will get to know Iyad Allawi: leader of the Iraqiya party, ex-Ba’ath party member, UK-trained neurosurgeon and survivor of an axe-wielding assassination attempt in 1978. Allawi comes from a prominent Shi’a merchant family, has close ties to the West and Saudi Arabia, and also was unanimously nominated by the CPA-appointed Iraqi Governing Council to be Iraq’s first Prime Minister. He was succeeded by then-unknown Nouri al-Maliki in the first national election in 2005, and since has formed a political party of secular nationalists that promises to “open its heart to all political forces and all those who want to build Iraq.”

Last week Allawi gave an interview to Saudi paper Asharq Alawsat. Let’s see what he had to say about three key issues.

Iranian Interference in Iraqi Politics:
Allawi: “This is not fighting Iran but the Iranian influence in the country, rebuilding the Iraqi institutions, restoring the Arab identity of Iraq, and returning it to the Arab fold, ensuring that Iraq has a clear identity, together with performing institutions…
“…We are not talking about a military battle. We are talking about a battle that, as far as we are concerned, is a political one, but to others it is not political. I do not believe that Iran will be victorious, because the willpower of the Iraqi people is strong, determined, and decisive. We have informed Iran directly and through state leaders in the region that we are not against Iran, that we do not call for war against Iran, and that we will not permit Iraq to be a base and a launch pad for an aggression against Iran.”

My Take: Allawi’s main political support outside Iraq comes from interests diametrically opposed to Iran. Crazy as it might sound stateside, Iraq’s politicians spend just as much time campaigning outside the country as they do nationally. As a result, Allawi blames most of Iraq’s problems on the pernicious influence of the Islamic theocratic government in Iran. Still, it’s interesting to note that he draws the line for Western powers when he says he “will not permit Iraq to be a base and a launch pad for an aggression against Iran.”

"The problems facing Iraq's next government are vastly hugely big!"

A possible split in the Kurdistan Alliance?
Allawi: “I want to recall the clear statements made by brother Barzani [of the Kurdistan Democratic Party (KDP)] to the effect that the Al-Iraqiya List should form the next government as an electoral entitlement. He made such statements on more than one occasion, but brother Jalal Talabani, president of the Republic of Iraq and leader of the Kurdistan Patriotic Union [PUK], has had a different position from the beginning…
“…In terms of the conception of political ideology, if this is the correct way to put it, the closest to us [Al-Iraqiya] is the Kurdistan Alliance with all its elements. This means that it is a non-sectarian, liberal, and democratic alliance. However, the formula has now changed with part of the Kurdistan Alliance believing in the democratic process and another part not doing so.”

My Take: The KDP/PUK fissure runs deep in Kurdish politics.  Allawi, however, insinuates that the Kurdistan Regional Government divide extends to the national political arena as well. Traditionally, Jalal Talabani and the PUK has had close ties to Iran. This should surprise no one that has looked at a map of Iraq: Talabani’s political stronghold, the Sulaimaniyyah province, shares a border with the Islamic republic. What’s interesting is in the second paragraph where Allawi implies that “brother Barzani’s” party (the KDP) is the one that believes in the democratic process while Talabani and his Iranian ties constitute the other “part not doing so.” Does a political alignment – real or otherwise – with Iran by definition imply some authoritarian trend? I think Allawi crosses the line with that critique.

The biggest challenge facing the next government:
Allawi: “We have realized that the number of ministers is not important, but what really matters is that we become genuine partners on an equal footing, not marginalized with regard to political decision-making. With the current government, we have seen many ministers without any power…
“…After the formation of a government, it will be difficult for it to make decisions, because it will be a flawed, divided, fragmented, unclear government. It will be a government of contradictions, not built on clear bases…things are not clear at this moment, which is why when a government emerges in this unclear atmosphere it will be weak, because it will be based on an unclear mandate, on arm twisting, and on regional interventions.”

My Take: I posted this excerpt from the interview because I wholeheartedly agree with Allawi’s position. It is not necessarily the sectarian identity of the government that will prevent it from functioning effectively, but two important factors. First, the government begins with an “unclear mandate.” When every voice will demand to be heard in the new government it becomes more likely that no voice is heard at all. Second, Iraq is in the midst of an unsustainable expansion of its government ministries.  This is because political parties are attempting to make everyone happy by giving them shiny new positions that have no tradition of ethnosectarian control. This cannot continue, obviously, but seems to be the conflict resolution tool du jour. My concern with this tactic is that it will undercut the efficiency of the current government and provides no precedent for future governments. Allawi is right on there.

Syrian President Bashar al-Assad with US diplomat William J. Burns (courtesy of the New York Times)

The Wikileaks are amongst us! In another amazing publication of formerly classified documents, Wikileaks dropped some pretty juicy diplomatic correspondences. Go read the NY Times report on the latest and greatest. My favorite:

Speaking to another Iraqi official about Nuri Kamal al-Maliki, the Iraqi prime minister, King Abdullah [of Saudi Arabia] said, ‘You and Iraq are in my heart, but that man is not.’

I hope to explore the Iraq-related stuff in greater detail, so check back here in a week or so for some more interesting nuggets.

First we start with Iraq’s 77 year-old president: the gregarious and well-liked Jalal Talabani. Talabani, who once met Mao Zedong and shook hands with an Israeli Defense Minister, was recently described in a Washington Post profile as having “a remarkable ability to rise above the ethnic and religious divisions defining the country’s political scene.” Last weekend, Talabani agreed to an extensive interview with the Saudi-sponsored paper, Asharq Alawsat. Here are some of the highlights:

On the political process since the elections in March:

Talabani: “We expect the government to see the light within one month, God willing. In fact, we did not wait for eight months but for five months. The first three months were spent on the court’s ratification of the legislative elections and on other legal measures. But the reason why it took so long is because we are determined to form a national partnership government. We could have formed a majority government but we insisted on a national unity government and the Kurdistan Alliance insisted that the Al-Iraqiya List should be present in the government.”

My Take: This is classic spin: In what world does the three month wrangling over election results not constitute part of the government formation process? I don’t know if you can separate the two, but it is useful to understand three points from this statement. First, although the election process took three whole months to verify, the court did find the Iraq’s national elections to be relatively free and fair. And that is significant. They certainly passed the test of this skeptic. Second, it is interesting to note that the Kurdistan Alliance is committed to a national unity government. This seems counterintuitive for a couple reasons: first that including everyone in the government dilutes the Kurdish influence and second that a Maliki-Allawi alliance would leave them out in the cold. Third, we learned that summer in Baghdad is hot: there was no way people were working to form a government from May-September. So people got to work forming a government at the end of September after the votes were verified and the summer/Ramadan/Eid #1 were over. That’s not eight months, that’s like, one month (counting holidays).

On the Iraq-Iran Relationship:

Talabani:  “Our relations with Iran are normal but they are not a follower-leader relationship. This is a point that I wish everyone would understand. We are proud of our independence and the Shias in Iraq are proud of their independence. They believe that Al-Najaf is independent and that the Shias of Iraq are the original Shias of the world and that they are purebred Arabs. They believe that the differences with the Shias of Iran are due to the concept of Welayet-e faqih, which is an official principle in Iran. However, the wise religious authority in holy Al-Najaf rejects the Welayet-e faqih principle. Moreover, we consider Al-Najaf to be the Vatican of the Shias of the world…”

My take: What’s interesting about these comments is that Talabani clearly meant them for a Western and Saudi (Sunni Muslim) audience. If his goal was to improve Iraq-Iran relations, he certainly would never have taken the position that “the Shias of Iraq are the original Shias of the world.” Still, I want to underscore his point here: that despite what many in the western world think (and what some in this region lead them to believe), Iraqi Shi’a are, on the whole, distinctly independent from the long, devious tentacles of the Iranian government.

On the departure of the American troops:

Talabani: “I believe that the departure of the Americans will make our mission easier in two aspects: First, the Iraqis will feel that they need to defend themselves by themselves and the sympathy with the opposition and the terrorists – that claim that they are fighting the Americans who would have left Iraq – will drop. Second, I wish to stress that the efficiency of the Iraqi forces in armament, training, and qualifications is rising.”

My take: Why aren’t the Democrats picking up on this quote to support their push for withdrawing American troops by the end of next year? Oh wait, that’s right, no one is paying attention to what people are saying here. To them, like all Americans, this sucky, savage little war is already over.

In any event, there’s been an important story that has gained momentum over the past week and was swept up last weekend by the New York Times.

Titled “A Killing Set Honor Above Love,” the piece details the story of one of many women in the Iraqi Kurdistan region that have been a victim of Honor-based violence, which, explains last year’s UNHCR report on Iraq, threatens “Many women and girls, and, to a lesser extent, men and boys, [who] are at risk of death if they are accused of behaviour believed to have brought shame on the family, such as loss of virginity (even by rape), infidelity, a demand for divorce or a refusal of marriage. Women can be killed based solely on suspicions or rumours without the opportunity to defend themselves.”

The report goes on to describe how “The Iraqi Penal Code (Law No. 111 of 1969) contains provisions that allow lenient punishments for ‘honour killings’ on the grounds of provocation or if the accused had ‘honourable motives.’”

“Article 409 further provides that if a person surprises his wife or a female relative committing adultery and kills/injures one or both immediately, the punishment will not exceed three years. The law does not provide any guidance as to what ‘honourable motives’ are and therefore leaves the door open for wide interpretation and abuse.”

The New York Times article tells the story of a young girl and boy who fell in love, one that was not sanctioned by either family. The couple ran off and was married, but eventually the woman’s brothers tracked them down. The rest you have to read.