A Stroll in the Park

It is hard to believe that I am a hard day’s bike ride from total chaos. Mosul, which lies a mere 50 miles to the west, scarcely more than a drive from Waco to Hillsboro, is by all accounts a lost city. Several bombings and killings per day are commonplace. While American and Iraqi troops work to continue progress in Baghdad, a risky six hour drive south, networks of extremists thrive in Mosul, threatening the local population in ways that make the days of the Chicago mob tame by comparison. But here in Erbil one might hardly notice, thanks to the Peshmerga forces that protect the roads in and out of Kurdistan.

New buildings line the streets here, often several within a kilometer. The economy is booming and people are hard at work, even if that work is often on “Iraqi time” and would be called, by much of the West’s standards at least, inefficient. Still, one feels safe here, with no indication of threat, if not for the cement barricades and armed guards that stand at the entrance of most government buildings and ministries, such as the compound where we at American Voices are sharing the fruits of our trade. One could feel quite distant from trouble…that is, if the people here didn’t have stories. And everyone in Erbil has a story.

Since my arrival, the worst I have had to deal with are the constant power outages, rare internet connectivity, a new ipod that lasted only 4 days, and the relentless – yet gratifying – requests of students starving for attention. Oh yes, and an infected finger, likely from the hangnail I impulsively removed several days ago, a nuisance with the potential to derail my time at the keyboard…that is, if it were not for the appearance of our American Voices volunteer Dr. Omar, who gave me an antibiotic pack and an antiseptic cream, and at no charge.

Dr. Omar is from Mosul. Last evening, Omar offered to take me to dinner and show me the sights of Erbil, an offer that I couldn’t refuse, as another night of chicken, rice, and naan at the “Modern City Hotel” was more than I could bear. Besides, the chance to talk to another local away from the chaos of our makeshift music building offered me a welcome chance to see Iraq through the lens of those that call this home.

Indeed, Dr. Omar has a story.

Our dinner conversation was easy, like two old friends separated by distance for a time, but who picked up the conversation right where they left off. Even though I had heard the outline of Omar’s successes, it was quite another matter to hear the cost directly from Omar over our plate of delicious Saj.

Omar’s family is well-known in Mosul. His grandfather was the first professional physician of the city, and patriarch of what would become a long line of family doctors, including Omar’s mother, her brother who lives in Baghdad, and ultimately Omar himself.

In 2004, Omar’s grandfather passed away from natural causes and Omar’s mother wished to have her father’s funeral in Baghdad. So, Omar and his family (which includes a brother and two sister’s) made the drive to Baghdad to stay with his uncle during the period of the funeral.

After two weeks, Omar and his family returned to Mosul, except for his mother, who wished to stay longer in the city with her brother, and the city where she had raised Omar during her work in med school years earlier. For the whole family to stay in Baghdad would have been too risky, since at the time it was common place in Mosul – and indeed much of Iraq – to return to find vacant homes stripped of their furnishings by the desperate neighbors or criminals.

The phone call that brought Omar the news of his mother’s death was devastating. Apparently, US and Iraqi forces had engaged enemy combatants near his uncle’s home in Baghdad, and a stray missile caused a fire in the second story of the flat, critically injuring her.

Omar’s uncle was working at the hospital that day, and once he heard news of his sister’s situation he earnestly commandeered an ambulance. As the ambulance approached a bridge near the home, both Iraqi and American troops opened fire on the vehicle. “It was a blessing that my uncle wasn’t killed as well,” Omar explained, In a rather matter of fact manner. Nevertheless, the reason for his seemingly distant emotions became evident as the rest of the story unfolded.

“What should have been a quick ten minute trip from the hospital to the flat had taken two hours.”

Suddenly, Omar had to stop our conversation to gather himself. After a long pause and obvious effort, Omar raised his head explain that his mother died an hour after admission to the hospital due to lack of fluids that could have easily been dealt with had the ambulance arrived in time.

To say that this moment in our conversation made the conflict in Iraq “real” to me would be an understatement, but Omar mumbled that for him this was just the beginning.

Omar is a Christian. Typically, this means a family and a network of friends, as opposed to a “tribal” network, more common in Mosul. This often leaves Christians more vulnerable to the terror networks that thrive in Mosul, as they have fewer allies to protect them from outside threats.

“Assalam aleikum” (“Peace be upon you”), a voice spoke in Arabic, when Omar answered the phone one day. “I did not want to kill or kidnap you or a member of your family because we know that you are helpless and can’t defend yourselves, we just want to take your contribution in peace. This is why I have not killed you. Now listen, I have thirty injured soldiers who need passage to Syria for treatment, at a cost of $3000 US dollars each. Have the money by tomorrow after Friday prayers.”

Omar responded, “But we are orphans.”

The answer was, “Manage it with your family!”

Even if Omar and his family had had the ninety thousand dollars, in a cash only society, as Iraq is now, getting the money would have been impossible. Knowing he would surely die, Omar packed what he could and fled to Erbil, where he had a friend who offered him a space to live while strived to get back on his feet. Omar has only returned to Mosel once, and not since 2008. As of a few weeks ago, he is now a doctor.

After dinner, we walked — got lost, in fact — in Iraq’s largest municipal park. The park is spectacular, with a lake, large fountains, huge yellow trees that would look more suitable in the Appalachians in the fall than the 110 degree Iraqi summer, and a large memorial to the only terrorist attack in Erbil since 2003, an attack that killed 98 people including the newly elected Prime Minister of Kurdistan.

While we searched for our bearing, I asked Omar about his future plans. He expressed a desire to do post doc work in Europe or the US. More importantly, he expressed his desire to return to Erbil to be part of the rebirth – the birth, really – of a revitalized Kurdistan. Omar is not Kurdish, and when I reacted with some surprise at his desire to return, he expressed, “I believe the Kurdish people are the most generous people in the world.” On this point I have no reason to disagree with Omar.

As we wandered past the large green where hundreds of people were gathered in the dark to watch the World Cup soccer match on a super- sized screen, Omar said with pride, “two years ago you would not have seen a soul here. Now just look at them.”

Finally, we came upon what I hoped to see, the monument to those that died in the 2004 bombing. At the entrance to the walkway to the giant marble slab inscribed with the names of the dead are two large stones, standing like threshold guardians to the slab itself, as if demanding that those that pass be worthy to read the names of the dead. One is in Arabic, and one in English. The stones read : “Freedom is not Free”.

Just ask Omar.

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