The next morning I checked out of my hotel, had a last breakfast in the restaurant of the man I had never called, and then asked how to get to the taxi terminal. The guy in the hotel said, I should go to the Main Street, turn left and walk there. He balked at the idea of calling me a taxi. He said it was near, but the idea of dragging my suitcase down the street to some unknown destination did not appeal to me at all. Once again, unlike the gentlemanly Syrians, they did not offer to help. So I had them call me a taxi. A mistake as the taxi drove off with me in the opposite direction, seemed to go all the way around town, got stuck in a traffic jam, countless red lights, and finally, after a huge detour, or possibly, following a one way road , arrived at the taxi terminal. There were signs outside, listing Erbil, Baghdad, Sulaymaniye and a few other places as possible destinations. I walked inside, and asked the bullish surly man , once again mustached , and arms covered in thick curled black hair, to put me on the list for Sulaymaniye . Then I waited. Nothing happened. The room filled up with Kurds, one wearing brown Kurdish traditional clothes, all of them big, bullish and very very Macho looking. There were only one or two women, silent, in headscarves, accompanied by their husbands. I felt vulnerable and intimidated. The man at the desk was talking into his phone, his eyes looked fierce and unforgiving, the hair on his head was shaved very short. I decided not to talk to him. I waited. Finally I went outside, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, trying to look distant and unfazed. I waited. The clock ticked, nothing happened. A few people left by car, new ones came. It was now going on 13.30h, and I still had to go all the way to the border. Finally I stood up, went over to the desk and asked what was wrong. Why was there no car? He said, I was the only one who wanted to go to Sulaymaniye. I asked:"Ok, can I go to Erbil instead and change cars there? " he said, in that case, the taxi would be there soon.and indeed, two minutes later we were off. Me, and an older Iraqi who sat on the backseat. The car seemed to be brandnew. He did not drive past Mosul, he drove through small towns in the mountains instead. On the way he stopped at a butcher, bought half a kilo of meat and put it in his car. It could not be far from here, I figured. Then we stopped at a restaurant.
The Iraqi and I shared a silent meal of kebab and rice. Suddenly he looked up and said quietly:" I am from Baghdad. I am Christian." Utterly surprised, I asked incredulously:"You are Christian? Are there Christians living in Baghdad? " "Yes", he said , "there used to be 200000 of us, but now only 50000 are left, everybody else is gone. Al Qaida comes into the cafes and shoots us, because they serve wine." I looked at him sadly, letting his words sink in. Al Qaida was driving the Christians out Baghdad, I had not known. We finished our meal and went back to the car. I pondered the fact, how safe and quiet Kurdistan must seem to him, compared to Baghdad.
Some time after that we arrived in Erbil, and the taxi for Sulaymaniye was already waiting. A man took my suitcase immediately, walked off with it and put it into the trunk of a car. Again, like at Marivan crossing, I had trouble remembering which car in the row of cars that was, but I found it and we were off.
The Iraqi and I shared a silent meal of kebab and rice. Suddenly he looked up and said quietly:" I am from Baghdad. I am Christian." Utterly surprised, I asked incredulously:"You are Christian? Are there Christians living in Baghdad? " "Yes", he said , "there used to be 200000 of us, but now only 50000 are left, everybody else is gone. Al Qaida comes into the cafes and shoots us, because they serve wine." I looked at him sadly, letting his words sink in. Al Qaida was driving the Christians out Baghdad, I had not known. We finished our meal and went back to the car. I pondered the fact, how safe and quiet Kurdistan must seem to him, compared to Baghdad.
Some time after that we arrived in Erbil, and the taxi for Sulaymaniye was already waiting. A man took my suitcase immediately, walked off with it and put it into the trunk of a car. Again, like at Marivan crossing, I had trouble remembering which car in the row of cars that was, but I found it and we were off.
When we got to Sulaymaniye it was getting dark. The driver offered to drive me alone to the terminal for Panjwin, for a charge that was half the price from Erbil to here. I was surprised but agreed, there was nothing else I could do. At the next place they arranged a car for me, made me wait quite a while, and then a Kurd again dressed in salwar suit , started driving. He said it was late, it was dark now, and I should just take the car alone. It was a bit more expensive but not much. But after about 15 minutes his mobile phone rang and he was asked to come back. He made a u-turn and took me back to where I came from. Then he stopped, lifted his big heavy body out of the car, and started a screaming row with the other driver and almost got into a fist fight with him on the street. I had no idea what was going on. Then the other driver, a young man, in normal street clothes, no salwar baggy pants and kummerbund, got into the car and we were off in the same direction again. He did not explain. One checkpoint. I was asked for my passport, this time, then we drove on . He said, he would take me all the ay to the border instead of Panjwin because it was so late now. After 11pm passed, some lights appeared in the distance on the right side of the road. He pointed at them. "This is Halabja", he said. Tjhe place where Chemical Ali had gassed and killed thousands of Kurds, I knew that . The friend of my Iranian friend who I had met in Sulaymaniye had shown me the pictures. the long rows of dead, wrapped in white body bags. The famous photo of a little boy jumping over the bodies and running away which had been mistakenly shown in the news about Houleh once, and been attributed to Syria, before the real photos came out. This was the place where the tragedy had happened. The driver explained that Halabja had two parts, old and new, the bad and the good part. Then we came upon another checkpoint and were stopped again by the Peshmerge. Again, I had to show my passport. The soldier asked the driver where I was going. He said, to the Iranian border. The soldier turned to me, gave me a sharp long look from his black eyes and said, I sould come out of the car. I had to follow him in to the police station. He gestured that I should sit down on a couch, while he sat at the desk, leafing through my passport. "Do you speak Kurdish?" he said, "Kurdi?" "La", I said, no . "Arabi?" "Qalilan"- a little. He looked at me from under his dark brows. "Ism?" - What is your name? I told him . "What is your profession?" "Are you married? Where is your husband? Do you have children? What is the name of your child?" "Where are you going?" "To Panjwin, and then to Iran." "Why do you want to go to Iran?" "I have friends there. And I have a flight ticket from Tehran." "Tell me the names of your friends. Where do they live in Iran?" I told him. I told him the name of my Kurdish friend. The other officer seemed to say:"What kind of a name is that?" and the soldier explained that it was a form of some other name they knew which seemed to appease him somewhat. Then I told him the name of my friends in Tehran. How I knew them. He asked, if the man was a doctor, I said, no, an engineer. He seemed satisfied. Then he leafed through my passport again, shook his head and muttered:"Look at all these Turkish visas she got, she has been there so many times..." Then he got up from behind his desk, my passport in hand, walked around it and came towards me and sat down next to me on the couch. He stared me deeply into the eyes and snarled:"Shughl!"-Tell me your profession. I clenched my jaw, ruffled my brows, and resolutely took my passport from his hands. Leafed through it, opened the page with my Syrian visa. "See this visa?" I said. "This is from the embassy of Syria. Here it states my profession, in Arabic!" and held the open passport under his nose. He read it and after a few minutes decided to let me go.
We got into the car again. Drove for 15 minutes, another checkpoint. The driver stopped. "Where are you going?" the soldiers wanted to know, kalashnikovs strung over their shoulders. They looked at me with curiosity, in the semi dark of the car. "To the Iranian border." "Where did she come from?" "Duhok." "Why didn't she take the airplane from Erbil?" Exasperated , I rolled my eyes. Is this so f...g unusual to be a woman in a car in the night, driving towards the Iranian border? Was this place of such ill repute that people chose to fly across it? Was this nothing but a smugglers route, used by the odd Kurdish tourist? The driver explained something, they tipped their hats, and we were off again.
Then we approached the border. By now it was 1.30am, and I wonder if the border guards would be there at all . They were not in the building where I had received my visa for Kurdistan before, but instead in the back of the building. The driver and I walked down a long hallway to find them. Again I had to explain that I wanted to go to Iran, and after some checking they gave me an exit stamp. But then the officer came out with my driver to our car and said:"You cannot go there without hijab. You have to change your clothes, can you do that?" I opened my suitcase, took out a sscarf, put it on. They looked at me quizzically. "You can't go like that, you have to cover yourself completely!" Appafrently my long blouse was still too tight, the sleeves only reached below the elbows. I took out a loose long orange Indian shirt, pulled it over my blouse, and I was covered in two layers now, down to my wrists and half way down to my knees. They said, this was ok now, and I should take my suitcase and go over to the Iranian border post. I said goodbye toi the driver and started walking. But then they called after me:"No , wait, we have to make sure..." They came after me, and shouted for the Iranian border guards to come out and meet them. All the guards gathered oin the middle of the bridge that led across the river between the two countries. The Iranians looked at my passport. "It is ok", they said . "Mush mushkila?" the Kurdish Iraqis asked, incredulously? "Really? No problem?" "Mush mushkila" the Iranians said, "She can come" The Iraqis smiled happy smiles of relief, the driver waved at me, and they walked back into the dark. I entered the Iranian border post. In here it was warm, the officers looked well groomed, graceful, slender and considerably less macho than the Iraqis. They were friendly and charming, and I felt really happy to be back in Iran, and left out a long breath of relief.
And indeed there was a bus, waiting, at this ungodly hour, to take us all to Marivan town and Sanandaj and the bus was full, too. Suddenly I was surrounded by Kurds who all wanted to invite me into their home in Marivan, to get some rest, have tea, get some sleep, before I go to Sanandaj. But I knew that my friend was waiting for me. I was hours late, after the long wait in Duhok, the interrogation and near- arrest in Halabja, and texted him with the phone credit he had kindly sent me that I would arrive at some time before 4 and 5 in the morning. Again! Like in Tehran, I had to rely heavily on the kindness and tolerance of my Iranian friend to come out and meet me, the lone traveller, at some crazy hour, to take me to his home.
We got into the car again. Drove for 15 minutes, another checkpoint. The driver stopped. "Where are you going?" the soldiers wanted to know, kalashnikovs strung over their shoulders. They looked at me with curiosity, in the semi dark of the car. "To the Iranian border." "Where did she come from?" "Duhok." "Why didn't she take the airplane from Erbil?" Exasperated , I rolled my eyes. Is this so f...g unusual to be a woman in a car in the night, driving towards the Iranian border? Was this place of such ill repute that people chose to fly across it? Was this nothing but a smugglers route, used by the odd Kurdish tourist? The driver explained something, they tipped their hats, and we were off again.
Then we approached the border. By now it was 1.30am, and I wonder if the border guards would be there at all . They were not in the building where I had received my visa for Kurdistan before, but instead in the back of the building. The driver and I walked down a long hallway to find them. Again I had to explain that I wanted to go to Iran, and after some checking they gave me an exit stamp. But then the officer came out with my driver to our car and said:"You cannot go there without hijab. You have to change your clothes, can you do that?" I opened my suitcase, took out a sscarf, put it on. They looked at me quizzically. "You can't go like that, you have to cover yourself completely!" Appafrently my long blouse was still too tight, the sleeves only reached below the elbows. I took out a loose long orange Indian shirt, pulled it over my blouse, and I was covered in two layers now, down to my wrists and half way down to my knees. They said, this was ok now, and I should take my suitcase and go over to the Iranian border post. I said goodbye toi the driver and started walking. But then they called after me:"No , wait, we have to make sure..." They came after me, and shouted for the Iranian border guards to come out and meet them. All the guards gathered oin the middle of the bridge that led across the river between the two countries. The Iranians looked at my passport. "It is ok", they said . "Mush mushkila?" the Kurdish Iraqis asked, incredulously? "Really? No problem?" "Mush mushkila" the Iranians said, "She can come" The Iraqis smiled happy smiles of relief, the driver waved at me, and they walked back into the dark. I entered the Iranian border post. In here it was warm, the officers looked well groomed, graceful, slender and considerably less macho than the Iraqis. They were friendly and charming, and I felt really happy to be back in Iran, and left out a long breath of relief.
And indeed there was a bus, waiting, at this ungodly hour, to take us all to Marivan town and Sanandaj and the bus was full, too. Suddenly I was surrounded by Kurds who all wanted to invite me into their home in Marivan, to get some rest, have tea, get some sleep, before I go to Sanandaj. But I knew that my friend was waiting for me. I was hours late, after the long wait in Duhok, the interrogation and near- arrest in Halabja, and texted him with the phone credit he had kindly sent me that I would arrive at some time before 4 and 5 in the morning. Again! Like in Tehran, I had to rely heavily on the kindness and tolerance of my Iranian friend to come out and meet me, the lone traveller, at some crazy hour, to take me to his home.
