An Iraqi Welcome

I had finally found what I was looking for. There were no busses of tourists speeding down the roads, nor were there any Americans in sight—well, besides the one carrying a rifle at the road checkpoint I had just passed through. The image of the Middle East built in my head was based upon a childhood of watching Indiana Jones and hearing romanticized stories of my Grandmother’s year living in Jordan, but everywhere I had been until this point was filled with people from the outside world. I wanted the Indiana Jones experience, the Wilfred Thesiger and Lawrence of Arabia experience, I wanted to wander through a labyrinth of streets and be the only foreigner in sight. Oman had come close, very close, but there was still something missing from the months I lived there. My yearning to experience the Middle East this way was rooted not only in the romanticized historical view I have of the region, but in my desire to do something crazy and go somewhere perceived as dangerous. What better place to go than Iraq? My mind was made up and nothing could change it—so it was that at 21 years old and completely on my own, I boarded a plane from Beirut to Erbil with absolutely no idea of what I was getting myself into.

What I would experience over the four days I spent in country would completely change the way I looked at Iraq. Eight years of perceptions and romanticism were washed away by the reality of Iraq. No longer was Iraq only what I saw on the news, but rather a living reality sprawled before me. It was what I had wanted to find since ever setting first foot in the Middle East—someplace few people outside of the region dared to come and, to me, as close to a culture unmolested by tourism as possible. Granted all of this was beginning to change, but in June of 2011 American troops were still manning the roads outside of Kirkuk and I was smack in the middle of it.

I arrived in Erbil late in the night on June 13. Erbil International Airport was a massive, abandoned stone tomb. Every footstep of my fellow travelers echoed through the hallways. It was quite different than what I had expected, but then again I wasn't sure what I was expecting. I was more nervous than anything arriving there, I mean, I was in Iraq. I have grown up with Iraq on the TV... and not for good reasons; Iraq is a war zone. Customs was the quickest I have ever been through. While other people in lines around me were grilled with questions, as soon as the customs official saw my blue passport with its embossed golden eagle he smiled, entered my information into the computer, took my picture, put two stamps on page 19, and I was on my way. I was in Iraq.

I was greeted with that now familiar blast of warm air which never fails to meet me upon arrival in any Middle Eastern country. Exiting the airport I was looking out upon a vast plain of dead grass. Not much of a welcome. That would change as I got into the city and I soon found myself the center of attention wherever I went. While I have been used to doing the sightseeing when I travel, in this moment I became the sight. The media exposure I have had to the country suggested to me it would be fraught with dangers, but what I discovered were a kind and welcoming people, ever glad to make me feel overwhelmingly accepted in their country. I was a sign of normalcy to them, a return to a time when seeing an American didn’t entail him carrying a rifle and riding in an armored car. Insomuch as I was a sight to the Iraqis, the city was a sight to me. It was typically Middle Eastern in fashion, but the one difference was the lack of outsiders. It was as purely Middle Eastern as I could hope to find—daily life at its best. It epitomized the romanticism of the Arab world I had long sought to find.

The Blind Beggar Woman of Sulaymaniyah

Welcome to Iraq

I haven't been good about writing in my blog, but I'm going to start with a post on my time in Iraq. Lebanon and Oman will follow eventually, but I think my visit to Iraq is the most interesting of the countries I've visited.

I arrived in Erbil late in the night on June 13. Erbil International Airport was a massive, abandoned stone tomb. Every footstep of my fellow travelers echoed through the hallways. It was quite different than what I had expected, but then again I wasn't sure what I was expecting. I was more nervous than anything arriving there, I mean, I was in Iraq. I've grown up with Iraq on the TV... and not for good reasons; Iraq is a war zone. Customs was the quickest I've ever been through. Other people in lines around me were grilled with questions, but as soon as the customs official saw my blue passport with it's embossed golden eagle he smiled, entered my information into the computer, took my picture, put two stamps on page 19, and I was on my way. I was in Iraq.

I was greeted with that now familiar blast of warm air which never fails to meet me upon arrival in any Middle Eastern country. Exiting the airport I was looking out upon a vast plain of dead grass. Not much of a welcome.

There's a free bus from the airport to the taxi station which I took advantage of. My taxi driver tried to take me to a few hotels he had brochures for, but a particular hotel near the Citadel had been recommended to me, so I just went there. I was given room 103 in the Kotri Salaam Hotel for $50 a night. The pillow was rock hard, but overall the hotel was clean and had free internet which was a big plus.
After unloading my bags I set off in search of food. Food would be scarce over my next few days in Iraq--finding something that looked appealing was rather difficult for me. I ended up with two chicken sandwiches that consisted of Lebanese bread filled with pieces of chicken and tomato, a small bucket of popcorn, and a glass bottle of Coke. Iraqis love their Coke; Pepsi not so much.

Needless to say, my first day in Iraq wasn't very exciting. The image of Iraq built in my head from nearly ten years of media exposure did not match the reality of the Iraq I was seeing--however that is not the case throughout all of Iraq. The Kurdistan Region is relatively safe

versus the rest of Iraq. Just because the Kurdistan Region is

statistically safer than London with regards to terrorist attacks is no reason to become complacent and let your guard down.

The first distinct feeling I got from being in Erbil was that I was a center of interest for everyone. Besides one US Soldier at a checkpoint in Kirkuk, I saw no other Westerners in the four days I was there.

Stares followed my footsteps, but not in a menacing way. Everyone was curious about me and why I was here. When I told them I was an American they always beamed with pride and replied "America good!" The Kurds suffered a lot under Saddam and while the US mission in Iraq was not to liberate the Kurds, they certainly are happy for what did happen. Regardless of your stance on the motives for the Iraq War, you cannot deny the good it has done for the people of Iraqi Kurdistan. Their eyes reflect how truly grateful they are to the United States for their incidental freedom.

The Peace Pigeon Hotel

Well, I have left Lebanon and am now in Iraq. Very interesting, I must say. Even the flight over was very interesting. I'll be working on blog posts about Lebanon shortly. I probably won't have time for this until I'm in Oman, though, so don't really expect much for a few days.

I'm staying in the Kotri Salaam Hotel, translated Peace Pigeon Hotel. I guess pigeons can be peaceful, I usually find them somewhat annoying though.

By the way, Lebanese internet is TERRIBLE. Slowest internet I have ever used. The Iraqis have already scored a +1 over the Lebanese for providing good speed wifi.

More to come...

Once More Unto the Breach--or Desert

Destination: Lebanon, Iraq, Oman

I'm leaving next week for another foray into the Middle East. This time I'm doing further research for my honors thesis in Oman, but will also be compiling photos in Lebanon and Iraq for an exhibition sometime during the next year. The photos will be in the same vein as my work in Oman: daily life.

Lebanon and Iraq should be interesting, to say the least.

More to come.

Basim

My entrance into the qawha brotherhood began with a short conversation in the failing light of a spring night in Nizwa Souq. On my third day of observing the happenings of the souq I struck up a short conversation with an ancient looking man named Basim. His worn face somewhat resembled the mummy of Tutankhamun; dark and wrinkled, with a white tuft of beard on his chin. His dress was similar to the rest of the men in the souq, a white dishdasha and mussar. His mussar was white with a simple green vine design running through it. I had noticed him over the past few days as a regular and was determined to start a conversation with him. A few other old men had just walked away, leaving him alone on the stone bench. He stared out at the scene in front of him: fruit trucks to his left and fish to his right. The fish souq produced a strong odor and thousands of flies. They seemed to descend on most every living thing, myself included, though Basim seemed not to mind them. I stood up and walked from my observation point to his bench.

“Salaam aleykum,” I said, taking a seat beside him.

“Wa aleykum salaam,” he said in a hard to understand, deep growl of a voice. He seemed friendly enough, though.

“Kaif halleck? Shay ackbar? Shay alum?” I returned.

A crooked smile lit up his face as I continued speaking in Arabic. With a slight chuckle he responded in the usual manner, “Ma shay ackbar, ma shay alum,” before repeating the question to me.

As I was replying another man sauntered by, stopping to talk with Basim. He held a cucumber in his hand, flicking some chunks of it into the street as they engaged in an incomprehensible conversation. The conversation ceases and still cucumber chunks flew into the street. This short old man holds the cucumber close to his face, examining it. Finally satisfied with it, he bites off a chunk with a sharp crack and walks on leaving Basim and I alone on the bench. We sit quietly, with nothing to say. People pass us and Basim speaks to them, though they rarely acknowledge him. Finally I had enough of the awkward silence.

“Messmook?”

“Mmmm?” he replies in confusion. I repeat my question and he points to himself.

“Aowa, enta,” I say.

“Esme Basim. Messmook?”

“Esme Batrik,” I said, using the Arabicized version of my name to make it easier to pronounce. It didn’t help.

“Babblit?” he said confused.

“Batrick,” I said clearly.

“Babbik?”

“Batrick,” I say once again, laughing. He begins to chuckle as well. He takes another try at my name.

“Babrik?”

“Ehhh, nefsashay,” I say, not knowing the Arabic for “close enough” I tell him it’s the same thing. He’s probably never had to pronounce a name like mine. The laughter from this situation seemed to diffuse any tension between us and I pushed on with more conversation. I told him about myself, where I was from, where I studied, what I studied, and what I was doing in the souq. I decided to try my luck with more of the local dialect.

“Kaif al housch wa bousch?”

His reply was a chuckle and shrug of the shoulders. Shortly thereafter he rises and without a word walks off, across the street, stopping to chat with other various groups of men before disappearing from sight.

New Journal For New Explorations

I've never been very good with blogs, but I'm hoping to be somewhat semi-serious about keeping this one during my time in the Middle East. As many of you know, I lived in the Sultanate of Oman from January-May 2010. This summer I'll be back in the Middle East wandering and doing research for my thesis. The Fairbanks Foundation at Butler University has deemed by project worthy of funding and has awarded me a scholarship to pay for the costs of this research. I'm still in the planning phases of this trip, but I do know I'll be in Oman for several weeks. Where else I go, who knows...

Hopefully I will use this blog to post stories from my fieldwork, keep you updated on my whereabouts, and to confirm I've not permanently disappeared into the sands. Until I head overseas again, though, I intend to post pictures and stories from the narrative ethnography I wrote during my previous stay in Oman.

I hope you find yourself in the stories I write. The Middle East may look different on the surface, however under perceived images of this part of the world is a people and culture not so different from our own.