Zakho Part 1: Something Old, Something New

Gazing up at the entrance, I watched a Kurdish flag flapping proudly in the cool evening breeze in this amusement park nestled in the mountains above Zakho, a northeastern town perhaps ten miles from the border with Turkey. Mouth agape, I looked from the Ferris wheel flashing rainbow lights, to the Dutch-style windmill towering above the park entrance, to the mini-roller coaster carrying exuberant passengers trilling “lee-lee-lee-lee-lee!”  I kept telling myself, “I’m in Iraq at an amusement park. This exists.” When my hostess, who I’ll call Dahlia, invited me to a “park,” I assumed she meant a grassy area with trees and benches. This was a spectacle. I felt like I had walked into an alternate universe, that I had been sucked into the computer game Roller Coaster Tycoon where some precocious ten-year old (me) got a kick out of buiding their theme park in Iraq. (I’m pretty sure that game had windmill-like structures for park entrances.)

After the initial shock subsided, my heart was warmed by this earnest little amusement park. It seemed appropriately local, built with wide lanes for large families with many children traipsing along, holding balloons or licking cones of Turkish ice cream served by young men in short red vests and red fez caps for less than a dollar. Along the lane were shelters constructed for families to picnic, which is immensely popular in Kurdistan. I shared my admiration for the “bring your own food policy” with my Kurdish hosts. They were scandalized to hear about the exorbitant food prices in amusement parks in the U.S., where park visitors are discouraged from bringing their own food and instead pay, say, $20 for a simple meal and drink. Here were families happily bearing coolers and plastic sacks full of neat little shwarma (grilled meat) sandwiches, with blankets and dishes carted from home.

My head was spinning. Here was something local and something global; something old and something new. We arrived around sunset, and the park loudspeakers sounded the evening call to prayer. Some people spread prayer blankets on the park grass and said their prayers; others continued their park revelry. Most of the older women present wore hijab and traditional Kurdish dresses, while younger women also generally covered their hair but donned more Western styles. Packs of young Kurdish men with dark hair greased and slicked back, tight dress shirts tucked into their skinny jeans, sporting pointy European brogues and large wristwatches, circled around the park – as they are apt to do in every public area – checking out the women. As a blonde foreigner, I was openly gaped at, and several people said, “Hello,” or “How are you?” It was friendly and harmless. One woman sheepishly approached and touched my hair, asking if it was natural or dyed. I asked my hostess’ niece to teach me some Kurdish, and as I fumbled with the words and phrases, passersby heard us and good-naturedly laughed. I was just as amused with them as they were with me. I snapped photos, sampled Turkish ice cream, and nearly skipped down the path with joy for the indoor ice skating rink, water and light show synced to classical music, and bumper cars (as if driving habits weren’t already erratic enough in this country!). But mostly I was happy because here was a public place where men, women, and children were all welcome and children were free to play. 

Also I was amazed because I was in a place I had read about in a book, an experience I’ve always found deeply satisfying. I was in Zakho, a “dusty little town in northern Iraq,” as Ariel Sabar describes it in “My Father’s Paradise: A Son’s Search for His Jewish Past in Kurdish Iraq.” Earlier that day Dahlia and I had reclined in a dark room in her home, after a large lunch in the heat of the day. “You know what I’m reading about?” I asked her, eyes dancing. “Zakho!” I said. I explained the premise of the book, and she told me about her grandfather, an aga (tribal leader) who used to protect the Jews of Zakho. Grinning, I told her, “I know, he’s in this book!” I asked her if we could see the ancient Dalal bridge, “the famous upside down V,” Sabar writes about, a bridge his father and generations of Zakho residents had traversed. Noting my interest in the bridge and the river, my gracious hostess invited me to eat at one of the river-side cafes, where we ate our evening meal and talked about many things. “You know, many things here have changed,” Dahlia said, falling silent. The skeleton of a large grilled fish sat divided and conquered between us. We sipped hot, sugary black tea. As the sun sank below the horizon, I watched the murky water rippling in the Habur river below us and mulled over how some things, like that river, remain constant, while others pass with the currents.

 The Habur River (or Khabur, or Habor, or...)

 The Dalal Bridge. Dahlia says that Saddam laid the heavy concrete over what used to be dirt steps. The concrete is apparently weighing down on the stones and causing the bridge to slowly crumble beneath the weight.

  Tourist shot.

 It was a steep walk to the top of the "upside down V."