The Other Iraq

As the remainder of the country continues to tear itself apart, Iraqi Kurdistan is a bastion of relative calm and security. Mark Stratton reports

‘Im only 23 but I look older, right?’ Oghanna Chaldo asks as we drive deeper into the cradle of snow-capped mountains. He is worried he may have aged during a recent business trip to Baghdad. ‘I was walking down Karada Street when I heard gunfire,’ he recalls. ‘I was terrified. I threw myself on to a tailor shop’s floor, but the shopkeeper just looked at me and said, “Why are you scared? It’s normal here”.’

But for Chaldo this was not normal. We were travelling together in northern Iraq without any personal security. There seemed to be no threat of kidnapping or roadside bombs. Since gaining autonomy within the framework of Iraq’s new federal constitution, Kurdistan has become a relative haven of peace.

Kurdish aspirations began to be realised during the enforcement of a no-fly zone (north of Iraq’s 36th parallel) after the first Gulf War. Not only did this stymie Saddam’s brutal campaigns against the Kurds, it also gave Iraqi Kurds a taste of de facto statehood. The new Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG) now has jurisdiction over three majority Kurdish governorates: Erbil, Dohuk and Sulaymaniyah. But it has also set its sights on insurgent-ravaged Kirkuk. The future of this oil-rich city, which Saddam tried to clear of Kurds, will be adjudicated upon under article 140 of the national constitution by late 2007.

The last major attack on current Iraqi-Kurdish soil came in May 2005 when 60 prospective police officers were killed in a car bombing by militant Islamist group Ansar al-Sunna in Erbil. Since then, the Peshmerga has maintained effective security. The Peshmerga (‘those who face death’) were separatist guerrillas who fought Saddam Hussein from their mountain hideaways. Their armed patrols have sealed Kurdistan’s borders from Arab-Iraqi areas while numerous checkpoints guard all roads. I hear stories of them dismantling vehicles belonging to Arabic speakers by the side of the road.

Never once during my stay do I feel unsafe. In this climate of security, a steady trickle of investment is flowing into Kurdistan. A recent media campaign in the US entitled ‘The Other Iraq’ extolled the virtues of investing here. Chaldo, my guide, was taking me to see one such project at Rawanduz.

Driving east from Erbil towards the Iranian border, the natural landscape is beautiful. High mountain passes creased with cardiogram-like geologic folds are dusted with icing-sugar sprinkles of snow. We cross foaming rivers and pass regimental lines of cypress trees. The fresh, cool air is a world away from the searing summer heat of Baghdad and Babylon.

Yet Chaldo tells me the countryside is suffering. Many Kurds have abandoned their traditional villages for the cities or emigrated. ‘Life’s been hard since 2003,’ he says. ‘There is much unemployment, incomes are low and Kurdistan is expensive.

If you don’t have $1,000 per month, it’s a struggle to survive.’ Kurdistan is still paying for the poverty inflicted by UN economic sanctions aimed at punishing Saddam. Tourism sustains the first town we come to, Shaqlawa, close to the Safin Mountains. It is off-season, and deserted, but in summer Baghdadi and southern Iraqi tourists still flock here to escape the heat. Confectioners’ shops filled with fig rings, baklava and honey-coated walnuts await their arrival.

I discover that Shaqlawa, however, is not solely a Kurdish town. Since the 1st century AD minorities of Assyrians (3 per cent of Iraq’s population), Turkmen and so-called ‘devil-worshipping’ Yazidis have inhabited these lands alongside the Kurds. Chaldo, an Assyrian-Christian, takes me to the small Church of St John: its sermons are still delivered in biblical Syriac. Inside, a rock protrudes through the chapel’s floor and is venerated as a cure for madness. Nobody can remember why.

Several other Christians join us and are soon telling me life is so much better for them than others sharing their faith in Baghdad and Mosul. I had also heard disturbing reports of Kurdish attacks on Christians and other ethnic minorities within Kurdistan. ‘Not here,’ says a man called Loqa. ‘Life is peaceful with the Muslims in Shaqlawa.’

It does not take long before a discussion about independence arises. An older Kurdish man rants: ‘I want us to be free from the southern Arabs and the Iranian terrorists.’ Loqa disagrees. ‘This would be dangerous, the Turks and Iranians would not allow this, we should stay within Iraq,’ he says.

It’s a common argument. Despite decades of striving for independence, many Kurds recognise the short-term expediency of staying within federal Iraq’s sovereignty. As recently as August 2006 Iran and Turkey launched forays inside Kurdistan’s borders against Kurdish separatist groups. Both countries fear wider Kurdish aspirations within their territory. It’s merely ironic that Turkish companies have benefited from 70 per cent of Kurdistan’s reconstruction contracts.

‘Iraq will not stay together,’ adds Chaldo. ‘It may struggle on for a number of years like Lebanon with a coalition of faiths, then it will fall apart.’

Beyond Shaqlawa, we follow the Hamilton Road, a winding rock-cut route built by a young New Zealand engineer in the 1930s. It transits a vast gorge towards Rawanduz; water cascades through the canyon walls. Bridges bearing logos of the Kurdistan Democratic Party (PDK), which is headed by Massoud Barzani, the KRG’s current president, span the gorge.

At a renowned beauty spot, Bekhal, 140km east of Erbil, we pause by a tumbling waterfall. A flash flood has damaged small souvenir shacks nearby. Sarbas is cleaning up.

‘Security is good, but not for business as this makes it harder for Arabs to visit,’ he says. Now 18, Sarbas explains he left school early to work in the struggling family business. Estimates suggest that at least 2 million Iraqis have fled overseas since 2003 and Sarbas wants to join them. ‘I’ve tried emigrating to Sweden and Canada, but I don’t have the money,’ he says.

‘Living here is difficult… everything is so expensive, and the situation with Iran and Turkey is so uncertain,’ he adds. ‘I feel as though I am on a boat but do not know where it’s floating. I feel useless to Kurdistan’s future.’

Brighter economic prospects were in store for Rawanduz. On a snowy alpine plateau we reach Pank Resort, the sort of new investment the KRG hopes will showcase Kurdistan tourism and provide local jobs. Scheduled to open this year, this holiday camp development will charge $150 per night for one of its 120 log chalets. The project, like many of Kurdistan’s current investments, is being bankrolled by exiles; in this case a Swedish-Kurd businessman.

A contractor showing us around explains that he is an Arab from Mosul who cannot tell his neighbours he works for the Kurds or he may be killed. Against a backdrop of such hate-filled sectarianism, Pank is quite surreal. Chaldo and I are shown its $2m automated toboggan run constructed by German firm Wiegand. Like born-again children we are soon howling our way down the steel track, the shrill wind biting our faces. The sense of release on fellow riders’ faces is clearly visible.

Back in Erbil, Kurdistan’s new capital, it feels as if the struggle for independence has been won. Nowhere does Iraq’s national flag fly. I see only the Kurdish tricolour with its emblazoned golden sun motif.

‘We sell Manchester United flags but not Iraqi ones,’ says a trader near Erbil’s old bazaar. ‘That flag is haram around here,’ he adds, expressing the Arabic term for something unlawful or forbidden under Islam. A newspaper booth, meanwhile, offers maps depicting ‘Greater Kurdistan’ – its border overlapping far into Iranian and Turkish-Kurdish areas. Possessing a map like that in Turkey could lead to arrest.

Security feels assured as I stroll Erbil’s busy streets. US military deployments are negligible. I see a few armoured Humvees nearby and meet two youthful American troopers browsing Erbil’s covered bazaar. Neither seems to be carrying a weapon. ‘Things are pretty hectic in Mosul right now,’ says one. ‘We’ve come here for a break.’ It’s hard to believe their comrades have been dying alongside Kurds, Assyrians and Iraqi Arabs, in war-ravaged Mosul, just 80km away.

Starved of investment, Erbil’s grey, low-rise centre looks jaded, but is showing signs of rising from the ashes. Work has begun restoring the city’s most important landmark, the citadel. Its imposing 28m-high walls have witnessed 8,000 years of continuous occupation and outlasted many transient empires. Its last modifications are the least welcomed – Saddam rebuilt the main gate into a huge archway to reflect Arabic Babylonian influences.

Inside the citadel, the muddy lanes are eerily derelict. A rehabilitation project has recently spent $12m relocating more than 600 families. It is ironic that ending millennia of occupancy is seen as the only way to safeguard the citadel’s future.

‘It’s unfortunate, but the dwellings leaked water and sewerage and were damaging layers of ancient history and archaeology below,’ says Khanan Mufti, chairman of the renovation committee. He is awaiting help from Unesco and predicts that a restored citadel would be Kurdistan’s jewel in the crown. Elsewhere, the citadel’s ghosts would be dumbstruck by Erbil’s rapidly transforming skyline. New developments include glass-fronted shopping malls, five-star hotels such as the Hawler Plaza, glittering Toyota Land Cruiser showrooms and the colossal Jalil Khayat Mosque. Out near the airport, luxury residential apartments built by a Dubai-based property developer fetch $240,000 each. Most ambitious is the new $300m Erbil International Airport, due to open fully in early 2008. Its passenger terminal is anticipated to handle thousands of people at any time and the 4.8km runway is one of the Middle East’s longest.

‘With the situation as it is in Baghdad, Erbil is gearing itself up to become the gateway into Iraq,’ explains Sa’ad Al-Khafaji, who runs London-based IKB Travel. He has taken the bold step to start selling package holidays for the region. ‘The security is good and many exiles want to visit, though there are many problems to resolve – travel insurance is difficult to obtain and huge investment is needed in Kurdistan’s infrastructure.’

Tempting tourists may challenge even the most creative PR agency, but any fleeting anxieties I held myself over travelling here had been quickly assuaged by Kurdish hospitality. Eating masgouf (grilled freshwater carp) at a local restaurant on my last night in Erbil, I listen to the famous Iranian-Kurdish singer Hussein Sharifi, who sings melodious ballads in Farsi and Kurdish. ‘My songs welcome you,’ says Sharifi. ‘I beg you to go home and tell people how life in Kurdistan really is. I sing this message from my heart.’