It’s been 29 days and 3 hours since I landed in Sulaimaniya. It’s official. This is the longest time I have ever been away from the UK. A time during which I learnt to be an editor, a journalist, a communicator, in both Arabic and English (the Arabic part is debatable), mud puddles survivor, a taxi fare haggler and a Barclays bank plc hater. Home sweet home(s).
My favourite part of the day, and sometimes not, is getting in the taxi to go down town Sulaimaniya. It is my only chance to have a direct genuine conversation with people. ‘I am Iraqi speak no Arabi,’ mocked one of the drivers. ‘I am Iraqi speak no Kurdi,’ I replied. We both laughed.
I learnt that it is considered inappropriate to strike a conversation with people you do not know and that smiling would be an invitation to flirt. But the adorable way Kurds try to communicate in Arabic is irresistible, especially if they are old men who like to reminisce about Iraq’s good days and Baghdad. Could they be talking about the early 70s? The only time Iraq has ever seen some kind of prosperity and not many had to suffer, although peace never prevailed. Not the Monarchy or the British occupation surely. Neither could it be Saddam’s reign. Perhaps they are just ordinary people who just enjoyed being them and living their lives despite the hardships they were subjected to. What I heard and read in newspapers on Kurds and Arabs have almost been non-existent in Sulaimaniya during the past 4 weeks. True, there are more Kurds than Arabs here, but not one so far seemed to consider themselves anything but Iraqi, and sometimes the word Kurdish preceded the word Iraqi. Were they being nice to me because I am a customer? Or perhaps when they realize I had no hand in the gassing of Kurds, and instead talked to them in a civil manner, they react accordingly. Perhaps I am making progress already. Perhaps through me, they believe we are one. Perhaps they will regain their patriotism to Iraq as a whole. Perhaps it’s the politician’s game that makes things look ugly. Or perhaps I am being unrealistic and naive. Who knows!
Sulaimaniya is a modern, up and coming city that has a limited choice of entertainment but a vast history and a beautiful nature. The mountains surrounding it are breathtaking, while trekking the way up to the tips of them is surreal. What attracts me to it mainly is the endless long road it was built around. Salem Street is prefect for people like me who easily get lost. Modern cafes dotted along the street have become my home for the past 4 weeks. I eat, write, make phone calls, shop, edit the magazine and work till dawn while drinking tons of lemon and pomegranate juices. My day is made when Kathem Alsaher, my favourite Iraqi singer, comes on one of the plasma screen TVs in the cafe. Only then I feel I am in Iraq.
I often drift into thoughts about my life in the UK when I see the pen I received as a gift for graduating from university, now the pen I use during interviews. A key ring that became the one for my first home in Iraq. A notebook; my travels’ official diary. My lucky charm necklaces that I alternate everyday. My business card holder that will be effective from tomorrow. My watch, of course, to keep track of time, and yet another one sitting on my desk amongst lots and lots of cards scattered on my messy desk; a reminder that I am loved.
It is quite common to be sitting with a client discussing the latest issues in Iraq, or be having dinner with a friend in the evening, when a power cut occurs. Everyone pauses their activities for a few minutes till power resumes, and they carry on going about their business as normal. Like someone has paused a movie for a few minutes, or seconds sometimes. This happens several times a day.
I noticed that I yawn much more often and my hair needs more regular washing. My chocolate Ugg boots have now become yellowy cream. It never stopped raining since I arrived and the days get much colder at night. Mud puddles became my worst enemy as the city is going under wide construction and development and workmen are everywhere. The only problem is that in Iraq, workmen take eternity to finish a job.
I moved into a block of apartments in a secluded village just outside of Sulaimaniya. Thankfully, Sulaimaniya isn’t a large city so I am able to reach Salem Street in just under half an hour, if a taxi passes by that is. Leaving me stranded on top of the hill for the dust to settle right behind my contact lenses. Taxi drivers often think I am crying.
I will be in Baghdad soon to interview people regarding the magazine cover story as well as a few other stories. I will once again, after many years, visit places in Baghdad I had not been to for almost two decades. Once Zainab the quiet struggling school girl carrying her books to school while adjusting her glasses, now Zainab the editor, the writer, with her dictaphone, pen and notebook, and of course a laptop bag that doesn’t fit my laptop in it properly which often makes me look clumsy.
So here I am, grumbling about mud, dust, rain and Uggs. Having just been scared the devil out of as all lights in my apartment went out whilst in the shower. To crawl my way out and hope someone would call me so my mobile would light the way. Nothing like a power cut during a shower in a secluded home in the mountains of Iraq.
I apologize for the long absence as settling in has not been easy. With no internet at home, I am truly lost.
I am here. I live here. I work here. I am pursuing my dreams here. This is where I want to be and these are only the beginnings of what I want to do.
