Last week, this time last year I was in Iraq. I’d been thinking about that “one year ago, this time” but then end of January and now rolled around and somehow I forgot.
Messages were coming though – I listened to a recent podcast – the father of a 9 year old boy who was killed, as countless others, in the Nisour Square massacre in Iraq. His family was given $10,000 by the US Embassy as compensation, but the family turned around and gave $5000 back to the Embassy, so that it could be given to any family of a US soldier who had lost their life in Iraq.
I still follow Iraq from the not-so-afar, there are still people serving there who I met last year. The number of bombings seems to have decreased but the intensities have increased – that is, more primary targets, inside the Green Zone – Ministries are being hit.
Elections are coming up again in March, and I haven’t yet heard if the Ministry for Foreign Affairs here is asking for election observers to go. I
was advised not to. A few friends are keen, using the persuasion ‘but maybe this will be my only chance…” etc. Well, its not an Indiana Jones adventure. This is a bona fide war zone.
Reproduced below is my post from this day, a year ago:
This time last week I was sitting at the Turkish Embassy in Baghdad grateful that my duty as an international election observer was conducted safely.
The last time I went to Iraq was 21 years ago. It was towards the end of the Iraq-Iran war. I remember tall street lights on the highway from the airport to the city, the grey/silver ceiling of the airport, fantastic museums and murals. However as a child, I was more interested in playing with my newly met cousins and showing them how to dance to ‘Jive Bunny’ tunes.
This time, as a group of 24 observers, sent on behalf of the Turkish Foreign Ministry for the provincial elections (the first elections held since
2005), there was evident nervousness flying into Baghdad. Our flight had traced the path of the Tigris on the way down. Upon landing, we were separated into a few groups: Anbar, Baghdad, Babil. All but the Baghdad group then left for the military side of the airport – to be taken to their locations via Helicopter. We stepped into the Baghdad sun. I took a deep breathe – to consciously make note of my first breathe in the open, and as a reference point. A visibly nervous group (after all Iraq is still considered a war zone), I had never been so happy in my life to see the Turkish flag, as a convoy of armoured jeeps came to take us to the Embassy.
Baghdad is a city of concrete walls. Its a city of sadness and destruction.
There are three reasons why Iraq is significant from me
1. I spent a great deal of masters level research on various aspects of Iraq post 2003. Indeed my PhD proposal was on documenting ‘Voices from Iraq’
2. Having lived in Turkey for four years, I’ve met a good number of people who had left both after 1991 and the 2003 wars. Seeing their lives, those of their families shattered, hearing their stories is not something lightly forgotten
3. Family roots. Both my parents were born in Northern Iraq and my family can be traced back hundreds of years there. This was a homecoming, in a sense.
I realised the sharpness of disconnect between worlds and people, where macro, world issues were the order of dinner conversations and where, problems of times past affix themselves under the title of pettiness.
I asked myself, if I had the means, what would I do? First I would invigorate the municipal waste service, to stop every street corner turning into a mini-dump. Secondly I would reinvigorate, re-equip all the schools. I think those two actions would have immediate impacts. Taking the thoughts further though, this is a country with the capacity to educate, to prosper to thrive, so why isn’t it? This isn’t the fora for political debate but I was reminded of how so much in international relations, work task or indeed every philanthropic effort, its about connecting with the few who want to, and are able to make change possible.
Writing after the fact, ‘we’ have the ability to choose, to move on; to go to the theatre, walk the streets without fear of explosions or attacks. The freedom to sit in a cafe and read for leisure. Its not about sacrificing oneself to add to the world’s collective misery, but about using resources we have – intellectual, capital or otherwise even out the playing field. I’m reminded of an ad, that nicely encourages those question, where ‘words/writing’ could be replaced by ‘actions/doing’:
If I give you a clean sheet, what will you write?
Will your words be long and graceful or short and sweet?
Will it be poetry or brute instinct?
If you have something to say, best say it now.
For soon, always, too soon.
My sheet will be filled.
And this chapter will end.
As sure as the next will begin.
With a clean sheet, new authors, and a million possibilities