The Volokh Conspiracy - Michael Totten finally makes it back to Iraq.--

Michael Totten has been spinning a wonderful tale of taking his friend Sean to Kurdish Iraq on a lark. I waited to link until the third installment when they finally set foot in Iraq, though there are more posts to come.

The first installment is here, the second here, and the third here.

From the third post, "Back to Iraq--III":

Turkish Kurdistan is a disaster. It is not where you want to spend your next holiday.

One village after another has been blown completely to rubble.

The Turkish equivalent of roadside Kurdish strip malls have also been blown to pieces, by tank shells, air strikes, or what I could not say. . . .

The civil war in Eastern Turkey didn't look anything like it was over. I could tell just from driving on through that the Marxist-Leninist Kurdistan Workers Party (the PKK) was still active. How else to explain the full-on siege by the army? The Turks' treatment of Kurds has been horrific since the founding of the Republic. But the PKK seems hell-bent on matching the Turks with the worst they can muster, including the deliberate murder of Kurdish as well as Turkish and foreign civilians. . . .

Some Kurdish villages in Turkey still stood. Every one of them, though, looked grim compared to many of those I had seen earlier in Northern Iraq.

The only places in Turkish Kurdistan that looked pleasant were those where no people lived, where there was no dug-in military, where there was no visible poverty, where there were no blown up buildings, and where you did not look across minefields toward Syria on the horizon.

Later, at the border:

We pulled up to the side of a building. The man with the horrible pink scars on his face got out.

"Follow that man," our driver said. "He knows what to do."

We followed him to a drive-thru type window and handed our passports to the border official. He stamped us out of the country and we were set.

"Do you know why that man's face looks like that?" Sean said on our way back to the taxi.

"No," I said. "Do you?"

"He's Iraqi," Sean said. "Those scars are burns from chemical weapons. I've seen photos online. I know that's what happened to him."

We drove through a post-industrial wasteland of devastated buildings, piles of scrap metal and box cars, an unfinished international highway, and derelict drive-thru gates that presumably were closed after the Saddam regime's batshit behavior required a long-ago shutdown of the Turkish side of the border. After a quick hop over a one-way bridge we were inside Iraq. The Iraqi side was cleaner, more orderly, more prosperous, and far more soft on the eyes than the Turkish side. I wish I could have taken some pictures for contrast. I swear it felt like the sun came out and the birds started chirping as we left Eastern Turkey behind. . . .

"Well," Sean said as he flicked his eyes around the room. "We're here."

A portrait of Kurdistan Regional Government President Massoud Barzani hung on the wall.

I knew I would go back to Iraqi Kurdistan. But I could hardly believe I was back there already.

The customs boss came out from behind the desk and walked up to me and Sean.

"What do you guys do?" he said. "Are you NGOs?"

"You won't believe me when I tell you," I said.

He raised his eyebrows.

"We're tourists," I said.

He laughed. "Welcome to Kurdistan! How long do you want to stay?"

"We're just here for the day," Sean said.

He laughed again. "How long will you be here, really?" he said. "Two weeks? A month?" He spread out his hands.

"I swear to God," I said, "we are going back to Turkey today. I've been here before. Sean hasn't. We were just in the area and I want to show him Dohok."

He smirked at us, indicating he was willing to play along with what he thought was a ruse. "Welcome," he said. "Welcome." . . .

He grinned and patted both of us on the back. "Welcome, my American friends!" he said. "Have a wonderful time while you're here."

The whole thing was just weird. I don't quite know how to convey how surreal it is to leave a country that maybe, just maybe, might join the European Union and enter a country that is a poster-child for wrenching war-torn catastrophe and have everything around me dramatically improve all at once. But that's how it goes these days when you cross into Iraq from Turkey. Even though Sean had never been there before, he, like me, breathed a sigh of relief at our arrival in a tranquil place at peace with itself.

Great stuff!

	[Jim Lindgren, April 12, 2006 at 4:45pm] Trackbacks Michael Totten finally makes it back to Iraq.-- Michael Totten has been spinning a wonderful tale of taking his friend Sean to Kurdish Iraq on a lark. I waited to link until the third installment when they finally set foot in Iraq, though there are more posts to come. The first installment is here, the second here, and the third here. From the third post, "Back to Iraq--III": Turkish Kurdistan is a disaster. It is not where you want to spend your next holiday. One village after another has been blown completely to rubble. The Turkish equivalent of roadside Kurdish strip malls have also been blown to pieces, by tank shells, air strikes, or what I could not say. . . . The civil war in Eastern Turkey didn't look anything like it was over. I could tell just from driving on through that the Marxist-Leninist Kurdistan Workers Party (the PKK) was still active. How else to explain the full-on siege by the army? The Turks' treatment of Kurds has been horrific since the founding of the Republic. But the PKK seems hell-bent on matching the Turks with the worst they can muster, including the deliberate murder of Kurdish as well as Turkish and foreign civilians. . . . Some Kurdish villages in Turkey still stood. Every one of them, though, looked grim compared to many of those I had seen earlier in Northern Iraq. The only places in Turkish Kurdistan that looked pleasant were those where no people lived, where there was no dug-in military, where there was no visible poverty, where there were no blown up buildings, and where you did not look across minefields toward Syria on the horizon. Later, at the border: We pulled up to the side of a building. The man with the horrible pink scars on his face got out. "Follow that man," our driver said. "He knows what to do." We followed him to a drive-thru type window and handed our passports to the border official. He stamped us out of the country and we were set. "Do you know why that man's face looks like that?" Sean said on our way back to the taxi. "No," I said. "Do you?" "He's Iraqi," Sean said. "Those scars are burns from chemical weapons. I've seen photos online. I know that's what happened to him." We drove through a post-industrial wasteland of devastated buildings, piles of scrap metal and box cars, an unfinished international highway, and derelict drive-thru gates that presumably were closed after the Saddam regime's batshit behavior required a long-ago shutdown of the Turkish side of the border. After a quick hop over a one-way bridge we were inside Iraq. The Iraqi side was cleaner, more orderly, more prosperous, and far more soft on the eyes than the Turkish side. I wish I could have taken some pictures for contrast. I swear it felt like the sun came out and the birds started chirping as we left Eastern Turkey behind. . . . "Well," Sean said as he flicked his eyes around the room. "We're here." A portrait of Kurdistan Regional Government President Massoud Barzani hung on the wall. I knew I would go back to Iraqi Kurdistan. But I could hardly believe I was back there already. The customs boss came out from behind the desk and walked up to me and Sean. "What do you guys do?" he said. "Are you NGOs?" "You won't believe me when I tell you," I said. He raised his eyebrows. "We're tourists," I said. He laughed. "Welcome to Kurdistan! How long do you want to stay?" "We're just here for the day," Sean said. He laughed again. "How long will you be here, really?" he said. "Two weeks? A month?" He spread out his hands. "I swear to God," I said, "we are going back to Turkey today. I've been here before. Sean hasn't. We were just in the area and I want to show him Dohok." He smirked at us, indicating he was willing to play along with what he thought was a ruse. "Welcome," he said. "Welcome." . . . He grinned and patted both of us on the back. "Welcome, my American friends!" he said. "Have a wonderful time while you're here." The whole thing was just weird. I don't quite know how to convey how surreal it is to leave a country that maybe, just maybe, might join the European Union and enter a country that is a poster-child for wrenching war-torn catastrophe and have everything around me dramatically improve all at once. But that's how it goes these days when you cross into Iraq from Turkey. Even though Sean had never been there before, he, like me, breathed a sigh of relief at our arrival in a tranquil place at peace with itself. Great stuff!