http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxa7eQ1JgPI&feature=player_embedded
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
On the Road
Flying into Kurdistan and out of Dubai highlights perfectly the extremes of the Middle East. I won’t really go into it here, but leaving one for the other is a wake-up call, a reminder of how neighbouring countries can change so much and grow apart in so many different ways and also how the region has become such a paradox. My story isn’t about Dubai however nor should it be; Dubai offers little in the way of self-expression and little adventure. I hope that what follows will.
Our adventure began just after transferring from one terminal in Dubai to the next. From the new, gilded Emirates hub to the provincial rundown building across the road, that services passengers travelling to those ‘other’ countries.
I was curious about something as we entered. Who else was travelling to Iraq? Who else was choosing this way. It looked to me like a motley group of contractors, soldiers, spies, budding filmmakers and intrepid explorers (ourselves). At first we all exchanged only the occasional polite smile or covert glance, but when a few hours later we were being thrown around in a cramped plane, united by a sense of trepidation and excitement we had become best of friends.
Two hours after leaving Dubai and soon after passing over Baghdad we began our descent into Erbil. The turbulence was atrocious; the plane was rickety, loud and old. The pilot kept dropping altitude rapidly every time we turned, and he thundered down at a hell of a pace. Whether or not this would confuse an insurgent I don't know, but it certainly had the passengers holding on for dear life.
From far above, the Iraqi landscape looked scorched. Black lines streaked across the brown earth and through the haze all we could make out were fires that peppered the landscape. We’re not sure what these were: rubbish dumps or oil wells. Suddenly in the distance two bright flashes erupted upwards, again we don’t know for sure what they were.
To be honest the whole scene from above was somewhat haunting: this was the land ravaged by Saddam, the land which had ignited some of the worst conflicts and atrocities of recent times, and a land also in which we were about to arrive.
Armed however with an invitation from the First Lady of Iraq, a bag of Imodium, and a bottle of whisky (which we smuggled across the continent on the advice of John Simpson) I was sure we were equipped to handle what lay ahead. As I sit here now at the end of our first 8 hours, in a room with a gaping hole where the balcony should be, having chased bats around, having narrowly avoided death on the roads, and having being ripped off - I believe we still are. This is on its way to becoming everything I had dreamed of, everything I hoped for. AK47s, check points, angry soldiers and a feeling of the unknown are proving me right. These are people who are warm, welcoming and proud. I cannot wait to continue. Benji.
Our adventure began just after transferring from one terminal in Dubai to the next. From the new, gilded Emirates hub to the provincial rundown building across the road, that services passengers travelling to those ‘other’ countries.
I was curious about something as we entered. Who else was travelling to Iraq? Who else was choosing this way. It looked to me like a motley group of contractors, soldiers, spies, budding filmmakers and intrepid explorers (ourselves). At first we all exchanged only the occasional polite smile or covert glance, but when a few hours later we were being thrown around in a cramped plane, united by a sense of trepidation and excitement we had become best of friends.
Two hours after leaving Dubai and soon after passing over Baghdad we began our descent into Erbil. The turbulence was atrocious; the plane was rickety, loud and old. The pilot kept dropping altitude rapidly every time we turned, and he thundered down at a hell of a pace. Whether or not this would confuse an insurgent I don't know, but it certainly had the passengers holding on for dear life.
From far above, the Iraqi landscape looked scorched. Black lines streaked across the brown earth and through the haze all we could make out were fires that peppered the landscape. We’re not sure what these were: rubbish dumps or oil wells. Suddenly in the distance two bright flashes erupted upwards, again we don’t know for sure what they were.
To be honest the whole scene from above was somewhat haunting: this was the land ravaged by Saddam, the land which had ignited some of the worst conflicts and atrocities of recent times, and a land also in which we were about to arrive.
Armed however with an invitation from the First Lady of Iraq, a bag of Imodium, and a bottle of whisky (which we smuggled across the continent on the advice of John Simpson) I was sure we were equipped to handle what lay ahead. As I sit here now at the end of our first 8 hours, in a room with a gaping hole where the balcony should be, having chased bats around, having narrowly avoided death on the roads, and having being ripped off - I believe we still are. This is on its way to becoming everything I had dreamed of, everything I hoped for. AK47s, check points, angry soldiers and a feeling of the unknown are proving me right. These are people who are warm, welcoming and proud. I cannot wait to continue. Benji.
Feetfty Cents, big idol
Children’s centre for incurable diseases, torture cells, rap palace and Bach recital. It has been quite a day, and one which again has shown me the resilience and kindness of the Kurds, but also the dark side of this country.
Despite our troubles yesterday, today ran smoothly. This morning, we were met as promised by Rizghar, our rather quiet translator, and our driver (who bizarrely has spent time in Banbury, Oxfordshire), they will both be with us all week. We are lucky because Rizghar has been subcontracted from outside the PUK, therefore does not mind talking openly about politics and issues that plague this country. When someone talks for a minute though he translates for 15 seconds. I will be keeping my eye on him.
(p.s - Looking back at this, Rizghar has turned out to be wonderful. A great person, who I hope to work with again)
The Children’s centre this morning was the first harrowing event of the day, and brought to focus many things that are missing here. I have been wary of disabled children ever since being attacked by one at a French monastery as a child, so this, I was nervous about.
It is the only centre in Iraq that helps spastic children (their terminology), autism, cerebral palsy, polio victims and many other horrors. I wish I could accurately describe how far behind they are in understanding these diseases but the list is too long. They have blacksmiths, carpenters and leather smiths making toilets, wheelchairs, casts and special shoes for the children, on site. They literally hammer metal into shape for the children to wear and sow shoes by hand using pieces they can scrounge. They get no support from the central government, or from the red cross who have ignored their letters. They can barely afford to stay open and at one point while talking to the director (who doubles up as a paediatrician a cleaner and a nurse) there was a power cut. He didn't even skip a beat and just kept talking until the lights came on again – a regular occurrence throughout the country.
The centre has 15 – 20 staff who take care of 7/8000 patients around the country. They have 19000 on record. The problem is that the wider community does not fully understand these diseases and they are considered taboos. The saddest thing is that these children laugh, they play, they want affection but are treated as outcasts. I cannot really say any more as I do not know where to begin. It was not easy being there.
Next we visited the Amnasuraka security building – Saddam’s regional torture facility. The building itself, a grim communist style square is in ruins; pot marked by bullets from the outside and blackened on the in. When it was finally overthrown and everyone inside had been kicked or stamped to death there was still such anger among the people that they took it out on the building. When in use nobody would walk near it for fear both of random cruelty and to avoid the screams. Next door the torture chambers survived and have been left as they were. Blood marks the floors everywhere; the weapons used for torture are still there. Glass bottles for insertion, nails for driving into skulls, metal rods, electricity – the list is limited only by imagination.
For every person found guilty of being a peshmerga the whole family was raped and killed, their house bulldozed, and anyone left alive forced to pay for the bullets. The centre has life-sized sculptures recreating the horrors. Usually recordings of genuine torture are played at full volume (courtesy of Saddam’s extensiv archives) but today, thank God, the system was broken.
Our driver, our translator and our guide had all lost family members there – they were in tears. While interviewing someone about the chemical atrocities my battery ran out. I didn’t have it in me to ask him to stop and just held the camera till he finished. In a weird way it felt like that scene from true lies. I have been to Auschwitz, I have been to Rwanda, I have been to S.E Asia, I have seen or heard little like this.
After more meat, rice and beans we drove outside the city to meet up with our budding rap artists. This centre is for any and all forms of music and dance. The diversity was amazing. From traditional Kurdish music (we met the classical finalist of Iraqi idol) to western stlye rappers, Persian rappers, flamenco guitarists, Bach pianists and break dancers. There was of course a varying degree of talent among them, but I thought it wise not to tell Iraqi gangsta rappers they didn’t have it in them. Some of them however are the funniest little people I have met; bandanas, bling and bass. “Feeefty sense big idol”
What I saw here was a microcosm of Iraq itself: the new against the old, the east against the west. There was a longing to express oneself and to be recognized. I was curious about the difference between the artists and their respective genres and was told that each group tolerated one another, but did not really interact.
The whole scene was both surreal and incredibly entertaining, yet had amazing undertones of the country as a whole. Like in domestic government there was a lack of leadership among the kids; everyone wanted control so nobody had it; everybody wanted to talk but they didn’t want to listen. At some points it descended into chaos; at others they got on with their own business. Once again we got mobbed, once again we survived. I could get used to this.
Despite our troubles yesterday, today ran smoothly. This morning, we were met as promised by Rizghar, our rather quiet translator, and our driver (who bizarrely has spent time in Banbury, Oxfordshire), they will both be with us all week. We are lucky because Rizghar has been subcontracted from outside the PUK, therefore does not mind talking openly about politics and issues that plague this country. When someone talks for a minute though he translates for 15 seconds. I will be keeping my eye on him.
(p.s - Looking back at this, Rizghar has turned out to be wonderful. A great person, who I hope to work with again)
The Children’s centre this morning was the first harrowing event of the day, and brought to focus many things that are missing here. I have been wary of disabled children ever since being attacked by one at a French monastery as a child, so this, I was nervous about.
It is the only centre in Iraq that helps spastic children (their terminology), autism, cerebral palsy, polio victims and many other horrors. I wish I could accurately describe how far behind they are in understanding these diseases but the list is too long. They have blacksmiths, carpenters and leather smiths making toilets, wheelchairs, casts and special shoes for the children, on site. They literally hammer metal into shape for the children to wear and sow shoes by hand using pieces they can scrounge. They get no support from the central government, or from the red cross who have ignored their letters. They can barely afford to stay open and at one point while talking to the director (who doubles up as a paediatrician a cleaner and a nurse) there was a power cut. He didn't even skip a beat and just kept talking until the lights came on again – a regular occurrence throughout the country.
The centre has 15 – 20 staff who take care of 7/8000 patients around the country. They have 19000 on record. The problem is that the wider community does not fully understand these diseases and they are considered taboos. The saddest thing is that these children laugh, they play, they want affection but are treated as outcasts. I cannot really say any more as I do not know where to begin. It was not easy being there.
Next we visited the Amnasuraka security building – Saddam’s regional torture facility. The building itself, a grim communist style square is in ruins; pot marked by bullets from the outside and blackened on the in. When it was finally overthrown and everyone inside had been kicked or stamped to death there was still such anger among the people that they took it out on the building. When in use nobody would walk near it for fear both of random cruelty and to avoid the screams. Next door the torture chambers survived and have been left as they were. Blood marks the floors everywhere; the weapons used for torture are still there. Glass bottles for insertion, nails for driving into skulls, metal rods, electricity – the list is limited only by imagination.
For every person found guilty of being a peshmerga the whole family was raped and killed, their house bulldozed, and anyone left alive forced to pay for the bullets. The centre has life-sized sculptures recreating the horrors. Usually recordings of genuine torture are played at full volume (courtesy of Saddam’s extensiv archives) but today, thank God, the system was broken.
Our driver, our translator and our guide had all lost family members there – they were in tears. While interviewing someone about the chemical atrocities my battery ran out. I didn’t have it in me to ask him to stop and just held the camera till he finished. In a weird way it felt like that scene from true lies. I have been to Auschwitz, I have been to Rwanda, I have been to S.E Asia, I have seen or heard little like this.
After more meat, rice and beans we drove outside the city to meet up with our budding rap artists. This centre is for any and all forms of music and dance. The diversity was amazing. From traditional Kurdish music (we met the classical finalist of Iraqi idol) to western stlye rappers, Persian rappers, flamenco guitarists, Bach pianists and break dancers. There was of course a varying degree of talent among them, but I thought it wise not to tell Iraqi gangsta rappers they didn’t have it in them. Some of them however are the funniest little people I have met; bandanas, bling and bass. “Feeefty sense big idol”
What I saw here was a microcosm of Iraq itself: the new against the old, the east against the west. There was a longing to express oneself and to be recognized. I was curious about the difference between the artists and their respective genres and was told that each group tolerated one another, but did not really interact.
The whole scene was both surreal and incredibly entertaining, yet had amazing undertones of the country as a whole. Like in domestic government there was a lack of leadership among the kids; everyone wanted control so nobody had it; everybody wanted to talk but they didn’t want to listen. At some points it descended into chaos; at others they got on with their own business. Once again we got mobbed, once again we survived. I could get used to this.
Contacting our Contacts
I can’t help but feel that today I became part of the propaganda machine. I had been warned before leaving England of a tendency here to show visitors only success stories, and today I became one of their tools. I had also been warned of the Kurdish affinity with making people wait, and putting obstacles (advertently or otherwise) in their way – this too was no fallacy.
After a sleepless night of thunderstorms and Adhan I spent the morning hunting down our contacts who as yet had not appeared. It seems almost a right of passage to go through 10 people before finally arriving where you want to go. I must say though that in general when you finally meet someone they are the epitome of politeness. This is inherent throughout the middle east.
We had one particularly uncomfortable meeting with the head of a government program. He sat in silence at one end of his room while we battled through half an hour of awkward silences and desperate monologues. Finally we were served tea by his decrepit mother and ushered away without a word of help. On we went.
Finally we worked our way up the ladder and now seem to have sorted out the rest of the trip. Refugee camps, settlement villages, battle zones and mass graves – with a mountain picnic thrown in. A very nice man helped us arrange everything, and having checked our credentials he sat us down in front of youtube to watch Susan Boyle – his favourite Britain’s got Talent entry. It doesn’t really get more surreal than talking about death camps and murder one minute, followed by a 60 year old iraqi giving a rendition of Les Miserables. He then insisted on taking us to lunch where again we were mobbed by children.
Amazingly it turns out that these were the young founders of the Sulemaniyah gangster rap palace and break dancing troupe. Tomorrow we are off to impart with some british hiphop in exchange for which we have been promised the best robot dance in the world. Certainly not what I had been expecting but perhaps somewhere in this is a great documentary.
We spent the rest of the day visiting schools. It's rather awkward being ushered from room to room, surrounded by people tugging you and then waiting for you to say something groundbreaking. Through translator - back again – nods of approval – back again and on and on. I found myself my repeating simple questions just for a lack of anything else to ask 8 year olds. One of the centres took young children off the streets to prevent them being molested by under sexed adults at the bazaar - a problem that is not as bad as it used to be.
This afternoon Rick and I set off alone through the bazaar, we needed our own impressions and we needed to be rid of official eyes. My first advice has to do with cameras and soldiers which do not go well together: you should expect some shouting and gun waving. Faining ignorence however has so far extricated us nicely from this, so we will continue to do so with caution.
Again, it can be claustrophobic when surrounded by so many people. Most of them have only seen westerners on television or in camoflage so we certainly attract a crowd. At one point we were trailed by an enormous and vicious looking soldier hiding his uniform under Kurdish robes. We did the old double back and then in exchange followed him. Our evening's entertainment.
Everyone wants to talk, everyone wants to shake hands everyone wants to glare. One old peshmerga got rather agitated, storming towards us, his hands flailing and shouting loudly. We’re not sure whether he was mad at the American invasion ("americanski, americanski") or as one man said “just donkey mad”. Either way we didn’t stick around to find out.
It is nice to have sanctuary at the hotel for a few hours in the evening, however every day is a new excitement.
Until tomorrow.
After a sleepless night of thunderstorms and Adhan I spent the morning hunting down our contacts who as yet had not appeared. It seems almost a right of passage to go through 10 people before finally arriving where you want to go. I must say though that in general when you finally meet someone they are the epitome of politeness. This is inherent throughout the middle east.
We had one particularly uncomfortable meeting with the head of a government program. He sat in silence at one end of his room while we battled through half an hour of awkward silences and desperate monologues. Finally we were served tea by his decrepit mother and ushered away without a word of help. On we went.
Finally we worked our way up the ladder and now seem to have sorted out the rest of the trip. Refugee camps, settlement villages, battle zones and mass graves – with a mountain picnic thrown in. A very nice man helped us arrange everything, and having checked our credentials he sat us down in front of youtube to watch Susan Boyle – his favourite Britain’s got Talent entry. It doesn’t really get more surreal than talking about death camps and murder one minute, followed by a 60 year old iraqi giving a rendition of Les Miserables. He then insisted on taking us to lunch where again we were mobbed by children.
Amazingly it turns out that these were the young founders of the Sulemaniyah gangster rap palace and break dancing troupe. Tomorrow we are off to impart with some british hiphop in exchange for which we have been promised the best robot dance in the world. Certainly not what I had been expecting but perhaps somewhere in this is a great documentary.
We spent the rest of the day visiting schools. It's rather awkward being ushered from room to room, surrounded by people tugging you and then waiting for you to say something groundbreaking. Through translator - back again – nods of approval – back again and on and on. I found myself my repeating simple questions just for a lack of anything else to ask 8 year olds. One of the centres took young children off the streets to prevent them being molested by under sexed adults at the bazaar - a problem that is not as bad as it used to be.
This afternoon Rick and I set off alone through the bazaar, we needed our own impressions and we needed to be rid of official eyes. My first advice has to do with cameras and soldiers which do not go well together: you should expect some shouting and gun waving. Faining ignorence however has so far extricated us nicely from this, so we will continue to do so with caution.
Again, it can be claustrophobic when surrounded by so many people. Most of them have only seen westerners on television or in camoflage so we certainly attract a crowd. At one point we were trailed by an enormous and vicious looking soldier hiding his uniform under Kurdish robes. We did the old double back and then in exchange followed him. Our evening's entertainment.
Everyone wants to talk, everyone wants to shake hands everyone wants to glare. One old peshmerga got rather agitated, storming towards us, his hands flailing and shouting loudly. We’re not sure whether he was mad at the American invasion ("americanski, americanski") or as one man said “just donkey mad”. Either way we didn’t stick around to find out.
It is nice to have sanctuary at the hotel for a few hours in the evening, however every day is a new excitement.
Until tomorrow.
Love and Honour Killings
I can think of no place where I feel more vulnerable, no place where I feel more at ease, no place where I would rather be. There is something about the unknown that is thrilling.
I have spent the afternoon with a young Iraqi soldier who speaks not a word of English and can barely write. Yet like myself and like so many other people here, he just wants to learn about that which is new and foreign to him. So this afternoon we sent away our entourage and set off with Soran Ali Raza to explore the city. Heading into the unknown we eventually wondered if perhaps he was taking us to sell (westerners are worth a lot of money here). Suddenly though we turned into a park and realised that all he wanted was to take pictures among the flowerbeds. Never before have I been more surprised, never before have I been so relieved.
On Soran’s left forearm was a large heart shaped tattoo bearing his initial and the initial of the girl he once loved – she has left him recently. In this culture that is punishable by death. Coming from the countryside both of them risk having their throats slit by protective fathers or brothers: honour killings are very much a way of life here, though barely talked about.
This highlights a theme that I have been watching closely. Earlier in the day I spoke to a young Iraqi from Kirkuk. We were sitting in a ruined 12th century fort overlooking Dukan lake, and I asked him what his dreams were and what his fears were. His answer to both questions was “love”. This is no exaggeration – it is for them a matter of life or death.
Yesterday we spoke to a local friend who we met a few days ago, Juuan. He also spoke to us about honour killings and the need to respect women; the extent to which couples must honour their families and above all how they must abide by strict Islamic law. He then went on to talk happily about tits, sex and alcohol.
Just 10 minutes ago we were speaking to a Swedish / Iranian mercenary who had come from Baghdad to see his very beautiful Kurdish wife. The commander of the local unit, an old peshmerga, drooled openly over her then gave some pelvic thrusts as she left. I guarantee he looks down on sex before marriage however has adopted such crass western behaviour. (Prison Break and 24 among others, are both big over here- Jack Bauer is spoken of as a real person)
All of these cases point to one of the many paradoxes within in the country. Society in many ways is at odds with itself. Many people we have met (excluding the old guard) lives one way, yet dreams another. I would say western influence is forcing a restoration on this country that it is not ready for. The cities are moving at a pace that the rural areas cannot, and do not want to keep up with.
I have been looking closely at western influences here and can see both positives and negatives – people struggling between the two to find their new identity. It is not a new story; in many ways it is like post war Japan and their struggle to cope with occupation.
Today was very laid back. We went to Dukan Lake to see how families spent their days together. We sat and talked to them surrounded by landscapes the likes of which I have rarely seen. It is stunning - this country is stunning. High on a mountaintop was Talabani’s new palace and this brought our conversation round to his accumulated wealth. Rumours of multi billion dollar corruption, of private oil wells and of a move away from the values that made him great, abound. Most think he is no longer in touch with the people and that their needs come second to his. I was told by one person that you can judge corruption here by the size of an entourage; I didn't see Talabani but I have heard his entourage is regal.
Corruption in the country is rife and most new buildings in the city remain unfinished. The government does not even have plans for many of them; they have simply been built and left empty as statements of modernization and westernisation. It seems to be a case of, if you build it, they will come.
Qua-hafis
I have spent the afternoon with a young Iraqi soldier who speaks not a word of English and can barely write. Yet like myself and like so many other people here, he just wants to learn about that which is new and foreign to him. So this afternoon we sent away our entourage and set off with Soran Ali Raza to explore the city. Heading into the unknown we eventually wondered if perhaps he was taking us to sell (westerners are worth a lot of money here). Suddenly though we turned into a park and realised that all he wanted was to take pictures among the flowerbeds. Never before have I been more surprised, never before have I been so relieved.
On Soran’s left forearm was a large heart shaped tattoo bearing his initial and the initial of the girl he once loved – she has left him recently. In this culture that is punishable by death. Coming from the countryside both of them risk having their throats slit by protective fathers or brothers: honour killings are very much a way of life here, though barely talked about.
This highlights a theme that I have been watching closely. Earlier in the day I spoke to a young Iraqi from Kirkuk. We were sitting in a ruined 12th century fort overlooking Dukan lake, and I asked him what his dreams were and what his fears were. His answer to both questions was “love”. This is no exaggeration – it is for them a matter of life or death.
Yesterday we spoke to a local friend who we met a few days ago, Juuan. He also spoke to us about honour killings and the need to respect women; the extent to which couples must honour their families and above all how they must abide by strict Islamic law. He then went on to talk happily about tits, sex and alcohol.
Just 10 minutes ago we were speaking to a Swedish / Iranian mercenary who had come from Baghdad to see his very beautiful Kurdish wife. The commander of the local unit, an old peshmerga, drooled openly over her then gave some pelvic thrusts as she left. I guarantee he looks down on sex before marriage however has adopted such crass western behaviour. (Prison Break and 24 among others, are both big over here- Jack Bauer is spoken of as a real person)
All of these cases point to one of the many paradoxes within in the country. Society in many ways is at odds with itself. Many people we have met (excluding the old guard) lives one way, yet dreams another. I would say western influence is forcing a restoration on this country that it is not ready for. The cities are moving at a pace that the rural areas cannot, and do not want to keep up with.
I have been looking closely at western influences here and can see both positives and negatives – people struggling between the two to find their new identity. It is not a new story; in many ways it is like post war Japan and their struggle to cope with occupation.
Today was very laid back. We went to Dukan Lake to see how families spent their days together. We sat and talked to them surrounded by landscapes the likes of which I have rarely seen. It is stunning - this country is stunning. High on a mountaintop was Talabani’s new palace and this brought our conversation round to his accumulated wealth. Rumours of multi billion dollar corruption, of private oil wells and of a move away from the values that made him great, abound. Most think he is no longer in touch with the people and that their needs come second to his. I was told by one person that you can judge corruption here by the size of an entourage; I didn't see Talabani but I have heard his entourage is regal.
Corruption in the country is rife and most new buildings in the city remain unfinished. The government does not even have plans for many of them; they have simply been built and left empty as statements of modernization and westernisation. It seems to be a case of, if you build it, they will come.
Qua-hafis
Ups and Downs
The lift in our hotel has a mind of its own. Arriving on the floor you want is more of a lottery than anything else. Just a few minutes ago I was about to get out when the doors opened half way then suddenly slammed closed. They then opened again, but only an inch and I was forced to pry them open myself. Yesterday I got in only for the whole thing to turn itself off. The funny thing is, bearing in mind what’s going on outside, I use it without concern.
The roads are equally treacherous. There really is no such thing as lanes, and drivers are forced to fight for their own space. We have had a few near misses and seen countless people driving the wrong way down motorways. And never overtake an American convoy, you are liable to be shot. Again though compared with what we saw today this just seems like an occupational hazard, and there’s not much we can do about it anyway.
We spent the day in Halabjah, the scene of Saddam’s chemical attacks. On the way we drove through Arbat which Rizgar told us proudly was famous for its scorpions. The road we took was the same followed by hundreds of thousands of Kurds during the exodus of ‘91, when they were forced to flee Saddam’s reprisals. To this day the town and the people are scarred.
First though we went to another community centre. To be honest I have now seen my fair share, and while they are all very impressive as examples of progression, they are also all alike. But how can you say no when the children have been practicing for months hoping that one day a westerner will visit. Once again we smiled and nodded our appreciation. “What’s your name? How old are you? how nice”
Next we were taken to the mass graves to see row upon row of tombstones. Everyone we spoke to recounted stories and broke down in tears, and as we arrived as if on cue, the imams began calling from the mosques. It was touching and it shows just how deeply these people are still affected. From there we went to the Halabjah chemical memorial. Looking at pictures of skin peeling from blackened faces, bloated babies and calves suckling from their dead mothers (which happened also in human cases) I couldn’t help but feel detached. I wanted to feel more, I wanted to understand what they had gone through; yet all I felt was numb. It’s strange.
You see the scars on people in the streets and you hear horrible stories. Many new babies are still born with horrible illnesses or just still born, and yet this town has been largely ignored by the Kurdish government. Everybody spoke of their anger: They wanted to know why more has not been done for them? Why they still live like before, and why no one listens. Last year in a desperate cry for attention they razed to the ground the very memorial that had been built in their name. Today, it is the only thing to have been rebuilt. Something here is wrong and again corruption is playing its part.
I’ve got a bloody big welt in my mouth and it hurts. But who cares, I’m alive.
The roads are equally treacherous. There really is no such thing as lanes, and drivers are forced to fight for their own space. We have had a few near misses and seen countless people driving the wrong way down motorways. And never overtake an American convoy, you are liable to be shot. Again though compared with what we saw today this just seems like an occupational hazard, and there’s not much we can do about it anyway.
We spent the day in Halabjah, the scene of Saddam’s chemical attacks. On the way we drove through Arbat which Rizgar told us proudly was famous for its scorpions. The road we took was the same followed by hundreds of thousands of Kurds during the exodus of ‘91, when they were forced to flee Saddam’s reprisals. To this day the town and the people are scarred.
First though we went to another community centre. To be honest I have now seen my fair share, and while they are all very impressive as examples of progression, they are also all alike. But how can you say no when the children have been practicing for months hoping that one day a westerner will visit. Once again we smiled and nodded our appreciation. “What’s your name? How old are you? how nice”
Next we were taken to the mass graves to see row upon row of tombstones. Everyone we spoke to recounted stories and broke down in tears, and as we arrived as if on cue, the imams began calling from the mosques. It was touching and it shows just how deeply these people are still affected. From there we went to the Halabjah chemical memorial. Looking at pictures of skin peeling from blackened faces, bloated babies and calves suckling from their dead mothers (which happened also in human cases) I couldn’t help but feel detached. I wanted to feel more, I wanted to understand what they had gone through; yet all I felt was numb. It’s strange.
You see the scars on people in the streets and you hear horrible stories. Many new babies are still born with horrible illnesses or just still born, and yet this town has been largely ignored by the Kurdish government. Everybody spoke of their anger: They wanted to know why more has not been done for them? Why they still live like before, and why no one listens. Last year in a desperate cry for attention they razed to the ground the very memorial that had been built in their name. Today, it is the only thing to have been rebuilt. Something here is wrong and again corruption is playing its part.
I’ve got a bloody big welt in my mouth and it hurts. But who cares, I’m alive.
"Welcome to Hell"
Kirkuk sits on one of the largest oil reserves in the Middle East. Because of this it is one of the most disputed cities in the country – it is also one of the most dangerous and sadly one of the poorest. This meant that today we had to increase our security and travelled in convoy with six new guards who fanned out around us. Kidnappings are common and so we had to keep moving. Yesterday a young Syrian suicide bomber was caught nearby and they were expecting another. Again we moved quickly.
We were there to visit the football stadium, which has been transformed into a refugee camp. I say refugee camp, but that implies they fled from somewhere worse. The truth is these people moved back after the liberation hoping to reclaim old homes. This has not happened and now 16,000 families have nowhere to live. They are encouraged to be here in an attempt to change the demography of the city, which would lead to an election victory for the Kurds and in turn win them control of the oil below. Every side is sending its people back in for the same reason and so the election has now been postponed indefinitely. This happened even under Saddam.
The city is split in three: the Arab part, the Kurdish part and the Turcamen part. All three lay claim to the area and all three are at each others throats. Nobody has anywhere else to go, nobody can afford to move or buy a house and everyone is getting angrier. It is a catch 22 – even if they wanted to leave now, they can’t. The worst off seem to be the Kurds but then I wasn't allowed to talk to people in the other sectors, merely drive through - quickly.
Like everywhere else in the country people here are not happy with their leaders, they blame them for many of the problems. However neighbouring countries are also to blame and the vast wealth within the city means that Saudi Arabia, Iran, Syria and Turkey are all sponsoring terrorism in the region. They want either to prevent others from gaining oil, prevent the creation of a larger Kurdish state or simply want to exact revenge. Until security can be improved (which for many reasons seems impossible) no investment will go in, no aid will arrive.
We made it to the Stadium. Never before have I seen such abject poverty and such sadness. The people here live in squalid dark hovels, with no running water and barely any electricity, they often survive off what scraps they can find. They are surrounded everywhere by putrid rubbish and their own waste covers the floor. Everyone here is dying and the stench is unbearable. Almost everyone we spoke to has a terminal disease, is blind or is disfigured. A retarded child huddled in the corner.
Most people wouldn’t talk to us: they are fed up of being promised help yet receiving none. Last week they pelted journalists with rocks because they were sick of people visiting them and nothing happening. It was not easy to film today – in so many ways it felt disrespectful. I felt like a voyeur poking my head in to other peoples misery. Knowing that I would run away and type it up on my shiny laptop only made it worse. However I believe some good can come from this so I continued and spoke to anyone willing to talk back.
One man had an open sewage trench running through his hut, he regularly cements it over, but about every month or so it burst through leaving the whole family knee high in shit. I am not exaggerating – as our translator said when we drew near “Welcome to Hell” - he was right. The city is surrounded by oil wells and black smoke drifts across from all directions. Even as I write this I can only shake my head.
How does one interview people in this situation, what does one ask them? “What needs to change? Is anything being done? How do you feel? Who is to blame? What do you need? Is there any hope?” Such obvious questions, such obvious answers but I asked them anyway. I have a lot to learn.
In another part of the city we were suddenly confronted by police. It’s not unusual for extremists to wear official uniforms and our own guards immediately jumped between us. In the end it turned to be only a matter of jurisdiction but the atmosphere was tense and we were ushered away. Soon after we were stopped at a checkpoint and Rick and I again taken inside for questioning. We were let go in due time but everyone here is nervous, everyone expects the worse.
Sticking with the day’s theme of depression, we moved on to the Shoraz collective town, one of many vast areas built by Saddam to house victims of his Anfall campaigns. In contrast to Kirkuk Stadium this was like paradise but still a long way from civilization, and still decrepid.
There is so much money in this country - you can see it in some of the cities – but in Kirkuk, the richest of them all no aid is arriving and no one is listening.
Days like today are tiring.
We were there to visit the football stadium, which has been transformed into a refugee camp. I say refugee camp, but that implies they fled from somewhere worse. The truth is these people moved back after the liberation hoping to reclaim old homes. This has not happened and now 16,000 families have nowhere to live. They are encouraged to be here in an attempt to change the demography of the city, which would lead to an election victory for the Kurds and in turn win them control of the oil below. Every side is sending its people back in for the same reason and so the election has now been postponed indefinitely. This happened even under Saddam.
The city is split in three: the Arab part, the Kurdish part and the Turcamen part. All three lay claim to the area and all three are at each others throats. Nobody has anywhere else to go, nobody can afford to move or buy a house and everyone is getting angrier. It is a catch 22 – even if they wanted to leave now, they can’t. The worst off seem to be the Kurds but then I wasn't allowed to talk to people in the other sectors, merely drive through - quickly.
Like everywhere else in the country people here are not happy with their leaders, they blame them for many of the problems. However neighbouring countries are also to blame and the vast wealth within the city means that Saudi Arabia, Iran, Syria and Turkey are all sponsoring terrorism in the region. They want either to prevent others from gaining oil, prevent the creation of a larger Kurdish state or simply want to exact revenge. Until security can be improved (which for many reasons seems impossible) no investment will go in, no aid will arrive.
We made it to the Stadium. Never before have I seen such abject poverty and such sadness. The people here live in squalid dark hovels, with no running water and barely any electricity, they often survive off what scraps they can find. They are surrounded everywhere by putrid rubbish and their own waste covers the floor. Everyone here is dying and the stench is unbearable. Almost everyone we spoke to has a terminal disease, is blind or is disfigured. A retarded child huddled in the corner.
Most people wouldn’t talk to us: they are fed up of being promised help yet receiving none. Last week they pelted journalists with rocks because they were sick of people visiting them and nothing happening. It was not easy to film today – in so many ways it felt disrespectful. I felt like a voyeur poking my head in to other peoples misery. Knowing that I would run away and type it up on my shiny laptop only made it worse. However I believe some good can come from this so I continued and spoke to anyone willing to talk back.
One man had an open sewage trench running through his hut, he regularly cements it over, but about every month or so it burst through leaving the whole family knee high in shit. I am not exaggerating – as our translator said when we drew near “Welcome to Hell” - he was right. The city is surrounded by oil wells and black smoke drifts across from all directions. Even as I write this I can only shake my head.
How does one interview people in this situation, what does one ask them? “What needs to change? Is anything being done? How do you feel? Who is to blame? What do you need? Is there any hope?” Such obvious questions, such obvious answers but I asked them anyway. I have a lot to learn.
In another part of the city we were suddenly confronted by police. It’s not unusual for extremists to wear official uniforms and our own guards immediately jumped between us. In the end it turned to be only a matter of jurisdiction but the atmosphere was tense and we were ushered away. Soon after we were stopped at a checkpoint and Rick and I again taken inside for questioning. We were let go in due time but everyone here is nervous, everyone expects the worse.
Sticking with the day’s theme of depression, we moved on to the Shoraz collective town, one of many vast areas built by Saddam to house victims of his Anfall campaigns. In contrast to Kirkuk Stadium this was like paradise but still a long way from civilization, and still decrepid.
There is so much money in this country - you can see it in some of the cities – but in Kirkuk, the richest of them all no aid is arriving and no one is listening.
Days like today are tiring.
Medieval
We spent the morning back with the autistic children again - as the director of the centre says "We are trying to de-spastify them". They were being forced to take part in music therapy which meant being shouted at and forced to bang drums. Most of them didn’t know what they were doing and looked rather scared, some just sat there drooling. The noise could not have been helping but they believed the vibrations would reverberate in the body.
Next we watched some physiotherapy – this involved taking children who couldn’t move their limbs and forcibly bending and unbending them. The children wailed and screamed in agony– it was uncomfortable and in many way rather medieval. The centre is trying its best and I applaud it in many ways. But it lacks expertise and none is arriving.
We then drove to the mountains where I am now. Too tired to write more . See tomorrow.
Next we watched some physiotherapy – this involved taking children who couldn’t move their limbs and forcibly bending and unbending them. The children wailed and screamed in agony– it was uncomfortable and in many way rather medieval. The centre is trying its best and I applaud it in many ways. But it lacks expertise and none is arriving.
We then drove to the mountains where I am now. Too tired to write more . See tomorrow.
Tribal Regions
I thought that we were getting closer, and I thought we were getting beneath the surface here, but it’s going to take longer - there is no black or white, there is even no grey. For every truth there is a counter truth and then another and another; you have to fight through the layers and create your own larger picture. People switch sides, form alliances, spread rumours and exaggerate facts. There are improvements, but there is also deterioration.
We have come to the mountains for a few days. To the minefields and the battlefields of the Peshmerga fighters, and for the first time I believe the things I hear. These are humble, honest people and kind people. They are also battled hardened in a ferocious way – so it is amazing to see how warm they are. They are tight knit, and were I not here with someone they respect – well I couldn’t be here at all. We are staying with a Scottish friend who lives here part of each year working on an amazing community project. He is Ex French foreign legion, and a great war photographer. There are 5 of use in the bedroom sleeping basically on concrete floors; The shower is freezing and all the lights in the city turn off at midnight. The streets are mud and I love it every minute here. The sky, the peace, the people, the company, the solitude are all welcome.
We have been hearing more stories of cruelty; more stories of bravery and more stories of corruption but none of them really surprise me any more. They all fascinate me and they all shock me but they are part of daily life here. In the same way that at the beginning of the week we spoke about death camps one instant and tv the next, so now we regularly talk of torture followed by fun. It is not abnormal.
Around us are the hills in which Ansar Islam held out against the allied forces in 2003, where during the last stand they tied their legs to posts in the ground to prevent themselves from running away – they were there to die as Martyrs. These are the same people who beheaded dozens of people at a time for lack of support, or simply because they were in the wrong place. These are the people who wanted regression, people who wanted blood.
We went to the abandoned villages and to an old Islamic training camp surrounded on all sides by minefields. The landscape on the Iranian border is covered with trenches and foxholes, rusting bullets and helmets. Tank battles, mortars and RPGs have all left their mark. Yet it is beautiful – poppies cover the hills, long grass ripples in the wind and birds sing all day.
We were taken by a local peshmerga hero called Wusher – an incredible man. He has lost both his legs and now walks on prosthetics that he had made in Japan. He has been shot 4 times in battle but returned to the front within days. He is known as the mine man and has disarmed over 2 million himself. He goes up every week on horseback and continues his work methodically. As he said to us earlier, he has sacrificed half his body, and will sacrifice the other. We visited the graves of his parents, his brothers and his sister which all lie under a wide tree overlooking the valley.
On these hills he lost his legs and 3000 friends fighting first against Saddam then against the Islamists. His pride and joy is his 1980s R24 rifle from the Shah’s army. As with everyone else we meet, he was born to fight, he is a born soldier and he will fight again if he must.
This afternoon we spent a few hours playing football with about 30 children. They are peshmerga in the making and have beaten me well. I can barely walk and can think only of my blanket and my concrete floor.
We have come to the mountains for a few days. To the minefields and the battlefields of the Peshmerga fighters, and for the first time I believe the things I hear. These are humble, honest people and kind people. They are also battled hardened in a ferocious way – so it is amazing to see how warm they are. They are tight knit, and were I not here with someone they respect – well I couldn’t be here at all. We are staying with a Scottish friend who lives here part of each year working on an amazing community project. He is Ex French foreign legion, and a great war photographer. There are 5 of use in the bedroom sleeping basically on concrete floors; The shower is freezing and all the lights in the city turn off at midnight. The streets are mud and I love it every minute here. The sky, the peace, the people, the company, the solitude are all welcome.
We have been hearing more stories of cruelty; more stories of bravery and more stories of corruption but none of them really surprise me any more. They all fascinate me and they all shock me but they are part of daily life here. In the same way that at the beginning of the week we spoke about death camps one instant and tv the next, so now we regularly talk of torture followed by fun. It is not abnormal.
Around us are the hills in which Ansar Islam held out against the allied forces in 2003, where during the last stand they tied their legs to posts in the ground to prevent themselves from running away – they were there to die as Martyrs. These are the same people who beheaded dozens of people at a time for lack of support, or simply because they were in the wrong place. These are the people who wanted regression, people who wanted blood.
We went to the abandoned villages and to an old Islamic training camp surrounded on all sides by minefields. The landscape on the Iranian border is covered with trenches and foxholes, rusting bullets and helmets. Tank battles, mortars and RPGs have all left their mark. Yet it is beautiful – poppies cover the hills, long grass ripples in the wind and birds sing all day.
We were taken by a local peshmerga hero called Wusher – an incredible man. He has lost both his legs and now walks on prosthetics that he had made in Japan. He has been shot 4 times in battle but returned to the front within days. He is known as the mine man and has disarmed over 2 million himself. He goes up every week on horseback and continues his work methodically. As he said to us earlier, he has sacrificed half his body, and will sacrifice the other. We visited the graves of his parents, his brothers and his sister which all lie under a wide tree overlooking the valley.
On these hills he lost his legs and 3000 friends fighting first against Saddam then against the Islamists. His pride and joy is his 1980s R24 rifle from the Shah’s army. As with everyone else we meet, he was born to fight, he is a born soldier and he will fight again if he must.
This afternoon we spent a few hours playing football with about 30 children. They are peshmerga in the making and have beaten me well. I can barely walk and can think only of my blanket and my concrete floor.
Adorable Nippers
There is something unnerving about 10 year old supporters of Junde Islam, and their jokes about decapitation. The simulated tongue, lolling out from one side of the mouth suggests they have all watched these snuff videos and indeed the Bazaar is full of them.
The region we are in is strictly Islamic, and although the extremists were defeated in 2003 there is still much support for their ideals, though not always their methods. We have been helping at a centre that is building an adventure playground. Its aim, among others, is to offer the kids a glimpse of a childhood free of religious restrictions while also encouraging them to help themselves rather than relying on outside support. As such we have spent a lot of time with them over the last couple of days and have been observing their lives.
Among their favourite pastimes are taunting one another; playing leap frog; praying; throwing bricks at animals (ourselves included); chopping snakes and insects up; and of course football. They are happy children and we get on well with them. On arrival we are mobbed, jumped on and generally treated as punching bags but behind these playful antics lies evidence of horrors past and of disturbing potential. They will wind you up, push you to your limits, and test you. They fight at the drop of a hat, rolling around on the floor until too tired to continue punching, then they simply walk away.
It must be said that there is something natural in their behaviour. Compared with the mollycoddling in much of the West they are certainly not breeding a pampered generation. However it is the ease with which they rebound, the fun that they get from destruction and their haunting stares that have more worrisome undertones.
Some of the children question you repeatedly about religious affiliation and are not best pleased by the answers. More than once I have hid behind the language barrier to avoid answering such questions, though generally I just agree in the glory of God; without specifying which one. Tattoos are a huge taboo, as are chains around the neck and one little kid has tried repeatedly to tear Rick’s off. Here again though appears the paradox that seems to crop up again and again. Last time they saw a tattoo it was of a naked blond. Having stared at it in amazement they returned the next day with bandaged arms, covering up extensive cuts and their own shoddy attempts to recreate the tattoo. Here again we see their fascination and admiration for all things western, even in the face of religious retaliation and 'god’s vengeance'.
The most worrying children here are those who believe they have nothing left, those who think they have no hope and that life has dealt them a losing hand. We have met a few who talk like this and they are the ones who would have been corrupted by fundamentalists bearing money, gifts, sweets and explosives. A few hundred dollars and the attention of someone from abroad was often enough to persuade then to strap on bombs, pick up AK’s and join the fight.
Let us hope that one government or another; be it PUK, KDP, KRG, the central or even a western one, gives them some support and a chance to aspire, before they are again swayed by the promises of the afterlife.
I want to reiterate that these children mean well - they want to live and be left alone. On settling down at night, exhausted and to a cacophany of snores, one cannot help but feel happy, and I genuinley believe that that these children are also happy. On many levels the simplicity of life here is enviable - on others it comes with untold sadness.
The region we are in is strictly Islamic, and although the extremists were defeated in 2003 there is still much support for their ideals, though not always their methods. We have been helping at a centre that is building an adventure playground. Its aim, among others, is to offer the kids a glimpse of a childhood free of religious restrictions while also encouraging them to help themselves rather than relying on outside support. As such we have spent a lot of time with them over the last couple of days and have been observing their lives.
Among their favourite pastimes are taunting one another; playing leap frog; praying; throwing bricks at animals (ourselves included); chopping snakes and insects up; and of course football. They are happy children and we get on well with them. On arrival we are mobbed, jumped on and generally treated as punching bags but behind these playful antics lies evidence of horrors past and of disturbing potential. They will wind you up, push you to your limits, and test you. They fight at the drop of a hat, rolling around on the floor until too tired to continue punching, then they simply walk away.
It must be said that there is something natural in their behaviour. Compared with the mollycoddling in much of the West they are certainly not breeding a pampered generation. However it is the ease with which they rebound, the fun that they get from destruction and their haunting stares that have more worrisome undertones.
Some of the children question you repeatedly about religious affiliation and are not best pleased by the answers. More than once I have hid behind the language barrier to avoid answering such questions, though generally I just agree in the glory of God; without specifying which one. Tattoos are a huge taboo, as are chains around the neck and one little kid has tried repeatedly to tear Rick’s off. Here again though appears the paradox that seems to crop up again and again. Last time they saw a tattoo it was of a naked blond. Having stared at it in amazement they returned the next day with bandaged arms, covering up extensive cuts and their own shoddy attempts to recreate the tattoo. Here again we see their fascination and admiration for all things western, even in the face of religious retaliation and 'god’s vengeance'.
The most worrying children here are those who believe they have nothing left, those who think they have no hope and that life has dealt them a losing hand. We have met a few who talk like this and they are the ones who would have been corrupted by fundamentalists bearing money, gifts, sweets and explosives. A few hundred dollars and the attention of someone from abroad was often enough to persuade then to strap on bombs, pick up AK’s and join the fight.
Let us hope that one government or another; be it PUK, KDP, KRG, the central or even a western one, gives them some support and a chance to aspire, before they are again swayed by the promises of the afterlife.
I want to reiterate that these children mean well - they want to live and be left alone. On settling down at night, exhausted and to a cacophany of snores, one cannot help but feel happy, and I genuinley believe that that these children are also happy. On many levels the simplicity of life here is enviable - on others it comes with untold sadness.
Ice Cold in Sule
We stumbled out of the mountains, into the city and past the guards at hotel security. Unshaved, unwashed, with straggly hair and covered in animal waste we marched straight to the bar and ordered a cold beer. I had been thinking about this moment for the last few days and had been dying to relive that scene from the classic film, Ice Cold in Alex; as John Mills staggers out of the desert to his long awaited reward.
However something wasn’t the same and I was finding it hard to put the last week out of my mind. Something inside felt different that not even a cold beer could fix. Perhaps the realisation that I would soon have to reconcile what I had seen with what I would be returning to was bothering me.
This was our last day and a large part of me didn’t want to leave. I will be returning to Iraq soon, but not until I have faced the cocktail parties and dinners of London. “How was it darling” they will all chime, as if an adjective or two could describe the poverty and the knot in your stomach. I have been saying for the last couple of weeks that people in Iraq seem to be emotionally underdeveloped, but in retrospect perhaps it is the other way round. So many people in the West are unable to grasp lives so different from their own – and perhaps that’s precisely what our large armies protect us against having to do. Feelings are all relative.
Let me return though to the previous day and to other awakenings - even on the eve of departure I am still learning. It began with a furious phone call from a fixer, angry that we had hired a different translator for the day. “He is spy, he will ruin us, and I will then beat him” he cried in his rather silly high pitched voice. It took some time to calm him down when we met later that day and even then his podgy fists remained clenched tightly. Ironically it is he who has connections to the powers that be, so perhaps what he really meant was “Only I can be the spy here”. If this is true then he has much work to do and many other people to beat.
For spies here are everywhere: following you in cars, working in hotels, even teaching at schools - this is simply an accepted part of life in recent history. Under Saddam many Kurds worked for the regime, often turning in their neighbours, even helping with the slaughters. They are called Jash and like in so many other parts of the country they have still not been brought to justice – tragically many of them are still in positions of power and are flexing their muscles.* We spoke to one family waiting to receive their ‘displaced family allowance’ ($10,000) and were told they had been sidelined while families of the Jash got their payoffs first. In recent months people have become vigilantes in order to right these wrongs, and the murder rate is growing yet again.
Fighting for both sides like this however was not always about preservation of the individual, but about preservation of the family and hedging ones bets. In many cases (just as in Scotland during its wars against England) families fought on both sides of conflicts thus guaranteeing the survival of at least half the family. This led to people switching sides at the final moments and to stories of soldiers turning their guns on each other when defeat was imminent. It has also led to a sense of kinship that is rare to see.
Today we popped into the gun shop – sandwiched between the baker and the butcher in the bazaar’s main street. It is really just a concrete room with guns lying in piles and covering all available wall space. It is here that you come to have your trusty friend repaired or to pick up your sons first weapon. Everything from immense sawn off shotguns to 1920’s British rifles are on offer, and they do a lot of business. It is illegal here to carry weapons but nobody pays attention. Everyone has lived so long with one by their side that they have become like extended members of the family – and family here is everything. Family protects, family punishes and family guides. In the West it is just one more value that has begun to disintegrate.
We have been fortunate enough to eat many a dinner with local families, indeed so hospitable a people are they that it is hard to eat alone. What I have discovered is a respect and a bond between them that is enviable. They all have opinions and are usually only too happy to share them, questions they would rather not answer are replaced by a simple shrug of the shoulders and a polite hand to the heart.
So how do I feel sitting here, with my western beer and my own home just a flight away? Having seen both good and bad in both East and West? Well I feel privileged in every way and grateful everyday for what I have. If only everyone could understand how fortunate we are and what we lack.
See you all in England.
*There are other high profile Baathists who have not been brought to justice including Ali Hassan al-Majid’s (chemical ali’s) second in command and other senior intelligence chiefs. They were given immunity by America in exchange for testimony in the top few token cases.
Saturday, 1 August 2009
Americans vanish - then reappear
The news that 3 Americans had been kidnapped reached us yesterday, long before it filtered down to the rest of the world. It happened just 30 mins from here in an area I have been to recently. At first we heard they had been kidnapped, possibly by ansar al islam who once held the area as a stronghold. This remains a possibility despite the fact they are now in the hands of the Iranians. Iran has many agents in the region, indeed in this very city, and westerners are worth a lot of money, so it is still conceivable they were taken and sold on. We don’t know at the moment and probably never will.
A lot is happening here and I am upset to be leaving soon.
In fact we do not really know who they are. Journalists, tourists, or military? I have heard all three and have evidence for a couple.
I spent the day on their trail – from here anyway. Have been to their hotel and spoken to people who’s paths they crossed, or people who saw them. I have been from bureau to bureau, paper to paper and on. It is amazing how this network of sources works. All the villages in the mountains have spies of some sort or other and everything works its way back to us.
I played football today and really must get in shape. I was also guest of the week on a political talk show. Don't they know I only came for the weather?
I spent the day on their trail – from here anyway. Have been to their hotel and spoken to people who’s paths they crossed, or people who saw them. I have been from bureau to bureau, paper to paper and on. It is amazing how this network of sources works. All the villages in the mountains have spies of some sort or other and everything works its way back to us.
I played football today and really must get in shape. I was also guest of the week on a political talk show. Don't they know I only came for the weather?
A lot is happening here and I am upset to be leaving soon.
Friday, 31 July 2009
"Back like cooked crack" !?
There is something about being Western here than flings doors open for you. Quite literally. Yesterday evening as we returned home we past a large heavily guarded party for about 1000 people. There were as many guards, soldiers, range rovers and mercedes around which we know immediately means government. Having decided to run the gauntlet we marched straight to the entrance, through the amassed forces waving our cameras ahead; sure enough we were let in. We had entered Presidents party.
Straight onto the dance floor with cameras rolling, we then jigged and jived with the cream of Kurdish society. It took only 15 minutes for security to bundle us out though and we were roughly turfed back onto the street. Rick was forced (again) to delete his pictures though this time I remembered to swap out my tape and give nothing.
Later in the night we joined the far more inclusive street party as people here continued their election celebrations. Once again we found ourselves surrounded by soldiers, accused of various things, and man handled by a crowd of both angry and jubilant iraqis. Once again though we made it out. There were of course continual scuffles as opposition supporters clashed with kurdistanis, and certainly there were some tense moments throughout the evening but although there were fireworks, they were not of the violent kind. Some idiot lit a box of rockets upside down and they veered towards us. No sooner had we scattered and hit the ground, than people ran back to do it again.
It seems now as if the squabbles here are among the leaders and their milita rather than the supporters, who are content with to have watched the democratic party. At one point we hopped into the back of a pickup truck for a ride elsewhere and were amazed to see flags from both parties trailing from the windows. The car was full of friends supporting different parties: but no one cared, the only wanted to celebrate
We also saw the American special forces again, patrolling the streets and moping in dark corners - this time we were given nods though we can still not ascertain if they talk. At the end of the night when everyone had shouted themselves to sleep we befriended some local soldiers and got driven home in military convoy. Browning 50 cal machine guns on the roof, sirens blaring and 100 miles an hour down the wrong side of the road. I could get used to this.
This morning we had trouble getting to Erbil so stayed in Sule. I have been asked to appear on the panel for a political show so will try to make it tomorrow instead. Today though we drove up into the surrounding hills for a better view of the city. So much sand has been picked up in the surrounding deserts that all we could see was a blanket of yellowy grey. We passed couples kissing in cars (taboo), saw Talabani’s city compound (a city in its own), played football with some bottles and then smashed some glass (which seems to entertain people here for hours).
We also received some breaking news about party politics. Goran radio announced that the KDP will be offering only 12 of its 56 seats to the PUK. This may have serious repercussions here. They had entered the election as a 50/50 coalition, but the KDP place all blame of their poor results firmly in the hands of the PUK. This may well result in a split within the coalition and if this happens and if Goran joins forces with the Socialist / reform party, majority leadership will change hands. In a matter of 10 days the political arena here has been turned upside down and the Kuridstani coalition may be imploding. Although they won't let that happen.
It is rumoured also that the PUK has been sacking some of its people and blaming them for the loss. We have heard about editors of their papers and other people in charge of propaganda being the first to go.
But once again there was no sign of political disruption today in the bazaar and almost no military presence. The usual gaudy pointed bras were on sale, along with the awful designer knock offs, the football paraphernalia, the nuts and the toys. Labourers with their own pneumatic drills lined the streets waiting for work and people were as welcoming as ever. On the surface at least normality seems to have returned. Parties are expected again tonight so we shall see if PUK / KDP tensions flare.
Rick found a t-shirt in the Bazaar that said “I’m back like cooked crack”. Bizarre bazaar.
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Tired but content
The last few days have been hectic to say the least. Yesterday we travelled to the disputed city of Kirkuk to interview the Governor. It was 50 degrees and smoke from surrounding oil wells made it unbearable. Entering the governors compound was equally challenging, and took a good half hour to get through all the security checks. Soldiers here wear balaclavas such is the risk to their own lives when working for the government. We were not allowed to stop for pictures, or even put our lenses out of the window. We did anyway.
When my interview finally began one would not have believed that we were in one of the most dangerous cities in Iraq, because as with every other interview we have had the governor painted a picture of absolute bliss. I questioned him repeatedly on the tensions between arabs, kurds and turcomans but all I could get was a pass the parcel like blame game. When I asked about infiltration of the armed forces he merely said that it was the same everywhere in the world. When I asked him about inter faction violence he blamed it on foreign elements and claimed that all sides got on well together. When I asked about the rise in bombings that coincided with the Americans departure he denied it. It was frustrating to say the least, but then I have come to expect it. In truth I can now answer 90% of interviews myself and sometimes wonder why I bother.
However sometimes you get choice snippets. For example the leader of the socialist party and the Islamic league leader both blew up (they got next to no votes) and shouted loudly for a while flailing arms (poor translator tried to keep up). Today we met the second in command of the gorran party (the leader’s brother) and got an admission that he had dealt with the Americans during campaigning. He denied it out right during the formal interview so we stayed and had coffee with him during which he accidently let slip that despite regular contact with the US they had not sent observers to monitor the elections.
Last night got a little worrying. Official results were released and supporters of both parties took to the streets. At first the mood was jubilant. We were in the middle of a Kurdistani street party and 100s of soldiers danced around guns in the air, wooping and shouting. Hundreds of cars drove past with flags flying and horns hooting. I jumped in a passing tut tut and sped off down the road filming.
Then I came to the PUK headquaters and the mood began to change. Gorran supporters started appearing, then just in front of me one got out of his car to taunt hundreds of loyalists soldiers. As would be expected they jumped on him threw him to the ground beat him with their rifles and then started dragging him down a dark side street kicking and screaming. I filmed it all. My camera was pushed down, but I ran ahead and continued filming. As the mood got worse and others began to be attacked I knew I had to get out of the throng. Suddenly someone grabbed me. I was pushed to a corner, surrounded by soldiers and police and held up against the wall. Everyone was shouting. They tried to take my camera which wasn't going to be pried from my hands. I waved my passport and shouted journalist over and over. Before things got worse someone appeared who spoke English and he demanded I follow him inside the police headquarters. I absolutely refused. If they were going to talk to me or shake me down I wanted it to be done in public where I felt safer.
After stubbornly refusing to give over my tape for a good 20 minutes they started to get physical and I had no choice but to agree and record over it. By this time though I had secretly rewound the tape to an earlier shot so recorded over something else instead. They figured this out too though and in the end most of it was deleted. I may have saved some at the end but have not yet checked the footage.
Later that night down the road, we stood with the riot police between both sides. I must say that despite the earlier episode nothing happened. They shouted, but that was it. A few stones landed around us and many water bottles, but perhaps they realised how bloody thirsty we were, the night was heavy. Then we noticed a group of enormous western men kitted out to the hilt. They were American special forces and another four of five of them hung around in civilian clothes. They were on high alert and would not speak to me. One of the civi’s came up and told us not to talk to ‘his boys’ but we hung around them anyway. They are of course supposed to be pulling out, but there is a base nearby and they were expecting trouble.
Despite the earlier episode which makes the evening sound very dangerous, for most people it continued to be joyous. Women took evening strolls around the crowds with the babies, people sat at cafes talking and looking on and even the cd stall remained ope. It was strange indeed to see how normal this was for everyone.
I have now interviewed the leadership of all parties. The mayors of various cities and villages. Political leaders, government heads, ambassadors and supporters on all sides of this election. I am impressed greatly by the response to what was no doubt a fraudulent election and the methods with which the opposition are fighting for justice. Only a few years ago things would have resorted to serious violence, but now people merely come out and hoot their horns. Democracy is slowly taking place here and it is wonderful to watch. Had the supporters of two opposing football teams in England faced off like this yesterday many more would have been injured, many more dead.
Also visited a new autism centre, the emergency department of the city hospital and tonight we go to the park. I think tomorrow we head to the capital, Erbil.
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
What is this life if full of care...........
Yesterday had been very very long and I was getting ready for bed. Out of the silence their came suddenly a series of loud sharp cracks which jolted me back to life. I sprinted to the balcony and stood there, my heart racing, waiting for more. I ran back in grabbed the phone and called down to Rick. “Mate, did you hear that, did you hear that? I’m sure it was a machine gun”. But Rick had been listening to music; the police outside had not rushed away and my failed air-con unit was still making strange sounds. “Must have been something else” I huffed regretfully, “see you in the morning”.
We had spent three and a half hours earlier in the night having dinner on the central strip (Soholaca) waiting for some clashes. The mood had been joyous but not many people were out and we assumed the worst would come a few days from now when results are official. It was only this morning when we met our fixer that we found out the news. One dead, numerous wounded and clashes between police and soldiers just 500m from the hotel! Yet the 15 soldiers at the roadblock outside who we had spoken to just an hour previously had not rushed off; I had heard only one siren all night and the local tv was not reporting nothing. We had missed it by 15 minutes!
We spoke to some other journalists this morning who had been equally unaware. As they told us though, this is a game of luck and a waiting game. Right place, right time sort of thing.
This morning we delivered leaflets to the Children’s rehabilitation Center. We had spent a good amount of money making them and my sister had put in some hard work designing them. We were expecting a heroes welcome but instead the sour faced director looked at them silently then told us that one of the labels should have been bigger. A subdued handshake later and we were off, no gratitude at all. It’s the last time I do anything for them! So moving on…
We moved across the Ctiy to interview the head of the Islamic league party and a deputy director of the Socialist party. These two have been working as a coalition trying to get together more votes, but have lost out this time in a big way. In the past anyone upset with the government had few other options to choose from so they picked any alternatives they could. As such the Islamic party had done well in the last election but this year with the arrival of a serious alternative they received barely any votes.
They were not in the best of moods when we arrived, and with me asking pointed questions about their future the meeting became rather heated. Their voices got louder, their movements became erratic and suddenly they began to shout. To be honest it was really quite exciting, I have been trying to get a response from normally stone faced politicians all week and here it finally was: “Fraud fraud fraud”, they cried at one point as my softly spoken translator did his best to keep up. By the end I was unable to get a word in edgewise. They left in a huff to meet with Goran – presumably to decide how their parties might help each other in the future. There were many things I still wanted to know; such as how their close partnership with the Iranians would play a part in Kurdish politics, and how they would recover from such a horrible defeat. I am seeing them again in a few days and will not let them out.
What I did learn from them however were some interesting statistics. Of course these must all be taken with a pinch of salt but they told me that they had heard reports from kurdistani members that 693,000 illegal votes had been cast. Either by people voting twice or by people voting using the names of those who hadn’t reached the poles.
We had lunch with some friends from the Save the Children fund and along tagged and NGO worker from Texas. He cornered me immediately and talked all meal long. When I asked who he worked for he gave me his spiel in a rather high pitched strange sounding voice - he was weird. “We don’t like to believe that the way to rescue our communities at home is through pre-emptive strikes. We believe it is through pre-emptive love”. I wanted to burst out with laughter. Despite my outwardly calm face, I was finding it very hard to contain myself. Pre-emptive love??????? My next question was who funds you, but I already knew the answer was some Christian evangelical group. Sure enough I was right. The amazing thing to me is that all his congregation are the same people who backed Bush to the bitter end, yet they now feel bad about what his policies did. This is a world of contradictions.
After dinner tonight we broke back onto the roof as we have done every other night. This time there were 20 heavily armed special forces soldiers with sniper rifles. As we reached the top of the long ladder and poked our heads through they crowded round us wanting answers. Again, our student ids paid off. We arranged them in row, told them to smile, made them part of our footage and left quickly just as they began to cotton on.
Tomorrow we head to Kirkuk. xx
Sunday, 26 July 2009
A view from the Hill
Voting is over, and much sooner than expected results are coming in. Varying reports have reached us but it seems as if ‘Change’ has indeed become a serious political player. In this city, now their stronghold, they have taken the lead from the incumbents. Car horns blared throughout the night and will continue to do so for some time. Throughout the rest of Kuridstan the party have come second, and this also is a great victory. Today we met some beaten and bloodied supporters who claim to have been attacked by Kurdistani forces. We have seen some stand offs between factions and we have tracked down stories of election fraud.
Kak Nashirwan, leader of ‘Change’ was also a founder of the opposing PUK. While still a member of PUK, President Talabani gifted him an imposing hill in the centre of town and $10 million. It can be seen from everywhere and on it he was supposed to build the headquarters of his large media empire. Instead he announced his split with the party, fortified the hill and began campaigning under a new manifesto - that of transparency and an end to corruption. To do so was indeed brave and there is no doubt he is a clever man to have pulled together an opposition here without arousing suspicion, and while converting high ranking colleagues.
Today we visited his 'fortress' and at the gate told them our translator’s brother was a party member (he isn’t). Having persuaded them we had an appointment we were allowed in. The road snakes up and up to the very top; lined with guards and offices it is an imposing place. The feeling inside was electric – hundreds of people were milling around, security was intense but the joy could not be contained. We succeeded in getting an interview with the party’s head of foreign relations, who coincidentally had held the same job in the PUK some years earlier. We had to force our way through the throng to reach his office.
He was delighted by the results but he also had many issues with the election. He told us that 1000 people had been ‘purged’ for switching parties and that many people had been threatened with losing their state pensions. Most worrying, he said that the PUK has moved its militia into the city and it is they who will cause any trouble that lies ahead. He also told us that voting hours had been increased to force people in, and that many people who hadn’t voted had their ballots filled in for them.
During the interview some other officials joined us. We had managed to find ourselves in a room with the ex Kurdish Prime minister and the ex interior minister. Both of them are hugely wealthy and had partly bankrolled the campaign. I asked what safeguards were in place to avoid them becoming another corrupt party, and to be honest I didn’t get a great answer, something about following the constitution. The only problem is that so many people are ex PUK with corrupt backgrounds, that there is no way of telling yet whether this movement too will falter.
I also asked about American support for the Party. I was told that while America had not said anything publicly yet they had been in regular contact and that now they had won a serious voice they would be given backing and advice. I was told also that the Prime Minister of Iraq; Al Maliki would soon be voicing his support - we will wait for that. The central government thought does not want a unified Kurdistan, neither do surrounding countries, so perhaps this is their way of splintering the region’s political power. America however does want to show democratic changes so they can pat themselves on the back and push for troop withdrawals in the South.
As we left we came across a man covered in blood and bandages. He had been in prison all night having been beaten with rifle butts for celebrating. Tonight we will eat by the café where it happened and where more demonstrations are expected.
This morning we interviewed a local head of the PUK. He was the first person in a position of power who has acknowledged to me that there are problems with his party – when pushed though he would not elaborate. Part of me thinks that he also supported Change, and indeed as I sat there he was brought the preliminary results straight from Baghdad. His only response was a shrug of resignation.
A Furious Vitality
It has been suggested to me that intricate political rivalries within Kurdistan (such as described in yesterdays blog) are interesting only to those who care about this small part of the world. In response to this I offer a change. Firstly I will explain just how these details affect comfortable middle America, secondly I will tell you more about breaking past Iraqi soldiers, 10 year old gun owners, opium smuggling and the secret habits of war correspondents.
It is widely accepted among those travelling to war torn parts of the world that the horniest lot are cameramen and photographers. I can offer a variety of reasons for this, some of which I have experienced first hand. Firstly the first person running into any inhospitable situation is a photographer. While reporters can observe from behind a car, or step gingerly out once the blood has settled, photographers need it fresh, they need to capture the agony. For them, close ups of death and destruction are their bread and butter / their Pulitzers. It is this sense of adventure that separates them from others –it is a far more adrenaline-based sensation than that felt by an eccentric writer. I have seen them run into a building without knowing what’s inside; I have seen them ignore the cries of armed and angry guards; I have seen them live on the very edge. This then means that the danger posed by sleeping with a crazy girl or of incurring her wrath (most women in war zones are unhinged) is no deterrent to them and they seem all to act as if each night may be their last.
I saw this very case today. I arrived with Rick at a rural polling station, dust and sand everywhere, heat unbearable, and surrounded by 1000 excited Iraqis of all parties waiting to vote. 150 of them were soldiers loyal to the current corrupt government. We had no pass to cover this little known rural district and our translator was unwilling to help in the melee. So a few establishing shots later, taken from the top of a water tanker and off we were heading. Suddenly, of course we realise that Rick has gone. Bored of the photos outside, he had marched straight through the crowd of guns waving an old id card. Faced with a crazed red head waving a university of Westminster card, they had given in and let him pass. Having allowed Rick to dip his toe in first, I followed suit. With only a passport and expired BBC visitors card raised high above me, in I went. Pushing a bemused Iraqi ahead me as if to interview him I continued past the guns and with repeated convictions insisted I belonged. Amazingly enough it worked – we were in!
Talking about it later, Rick and I concluded that the 70% illiteracy rate may have helped. Never before have I revelled in someone’s lack of education but over here people here would rather fain understanding than appear ignorant. Any documents in English can be passed off as official. It is in these rural, poor and generally uneducated regions of Kurdsistan that the new Goran party (using Obama’s own slogan of change) has its support. These are the people who have seen no progress or any of the oil wealth prevalent in cities. They are the ones who want change and transparency in government. They are the ones who want the oil fields in Kirkuk back from the central government and the ones who will decide the future stability of this country. Many of them today had to ask officials to help them with the ballot sheets so poor was their reading. This of course has led to more election discrepancies.
At a time when America is trying to pull troops out of Iraq the Obama administration are desperate for smooth elections here. Knowing full well that Americans cannot differentiate between north and south Iraq, they intend to use what has been (so far) a peaceful election, as an example of their success in the wider conflict. In reality however the two areas have nothing in common. The situation South of here is worse than ever, and will only continue to fall apart further should America leave. People are begging them not to go but this has little effect on domestic US rhetoric.
One important government member who we interviewed yesterday told us that he dreamt of a system like that of US involvement in post war Germany. It is everyone’s hope that America will have long-term bases here, and that they should act as peacekeepers while continuing to fix the situation. Another person we spoke to used the analogy of a china plate help up by a lone matchstick. Were the matchstick to be pulled away the plate would smash into a thousand pieces.
While I understand America’s desire to focus on domestic issues in the current financial climate, there are many other serious issues here which affect them too. Take the drugs trade for example and the smuggling route from Afghanistan through northern Iraq and onto Turkey, Europe then America. Allow this to flourish (as may well happen in a splintered Iraq) and the opium trade grows fat on Western demand. On my last visit here I met smugglers on the Iraq / Iran border. While you may imagine them all to be vicious, angry and aggressive they are merely plying the one trade they can. Most of them would rather sell wheat and I was even told by one that he dreamed of being an electrician. They are forced to smuggle because they have nothing else to do, because their families have been traders for generations and because America and Europe is fuelling the trade.
What else happened today? The streets were empty due to the curfew allowing us to drive around alone at 100mph. Restaurants list 100’s of items on their menus but only ever have 2 – chicken or meat. Our hotel does have taste; despite the faux gold frieze throughout the foyer they play Faure’s requiem every morning. Old men think that playing the piano means pounding the same 2 notes for 30 minutes straight (one of them is doing it now). The Swedish ambassador is a nice but rather boring man (we met him in the middle of the countryside as he observed elections). It can take only 3 days to drive from London to Sulemaniyah. They breed squid in a swimming pool here for visitors to eat. Most staff at the hotel are from Nepal.
We ended the day by breaking onto the roof with beers and re-enacting scenes from Live from Baghdad. Rolling around on the roof, peeking off the top floor of this high-rise we imagined ourselves watching B52s overhead. Then I made a tourist video for the country – just doing my bit to help. I have borrowed a firewire cable off the BBC team so will upload these soon. Welcome to the wide variety of Iraqi entertainment.
I know I promised something about 10 year olds and their guns so attached is a photo.
Until tomorrow.
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