Kurdistan, Revisited.

By Ahmad A. A. Bajalan. FRCP
November 2001

From Diyarbekir to the Kurdistan (Iraq) border, the road was desolate, the towns were run
down. Along this single track road gutted buildings of destroyed villages stood as symbols of
unsettled conflict. The people in the region appeared subdued and their faces smeared with
fear and unhappiness. The Turkish border control into Iraqi-Kurdistan was a shabby filthy 
kilometer-long domain, teaming with soldiers, policemen, Turcoman interpreters, and
various other uncouth, grim and growling men of officialdom. The Turkish-Kurdish taxi
driver and I had to pass through several check points and controls to be inspected, to have
this and that paper stamped and our passports cleared, before crossing over the languid and
the beautiful Khabur river into free Iraqi-Kurdistan. The strained and Kafkaesque image of
the Turkish side of the border control could not have been a greater contrast to the scene that
was awaiting me on the Kurdistan side of the Khabur Bridge. 

In the Kurdish border control, three cheerful civil servants, one of whom a woman,
welcomed me. They, politely, received my passport. “ How long you have not been back
home?” Asked one of them. Like a schoolboy guilty of not finishing homework, I replied, “
twenty five years”. As they got on with processing my visa, they offered me a glass of tea
and a seat in the sparkling clean waiting room. The waiting area had a large TV, and a man
was flicking freely between the various satellite channels. The Arabic Al-jazeera
broadcasting of the news and pictures from the Afghanistan war appeared surreal in that
civil, pleasant and peaceful surrounding. I drifted out of the office. Across the road, two
young border guards stood interlocked, judging from their laughter, in what must have been
an entertaining conversation. I asked the young woman at the passport control “are those 
guards in their dandy dark green camouflage uniforms ours”?   She smiled, perhaps thinking
what a silly question, and said, “Yes, Kaka, they are ours”. At last, I was home in my
beloved Kurdistan and she appeared to be self-assured and happy. 
  
    After a lifetime in England and deeply anglicised, I had taken this momentous and
psychologically perilous journey home from Heathrow on 26th of October of this year. Yet
my real journey home had began earlier in the year on a partially cloudy spring day, from a
modest office at 7 Belgrave Road overlooking Victoria station in London. On the second
floor of this building, protected by the glass pane of a window, hang the unmistakable flag of
Kurdistan with its yellow 21-ray sun snug in a white stripe flanked by the red and green
stripes. On the brass plaque on the heavy black door was written: Kurdistan Regional 
Government-UK Representation. There, we were ready to step into, if not an embryonic
Kurdish embassy, surely a future consulate of a Federated Republic of Iraqi-Kurdistan in a
federated republic of Iraq. I had come to introduce my 19-year-old son, now a student of
politics at the University of London to my old comrade, the KRG representative in the
United Kingdom, Siamend Banna. I had not seen him for years, yet as old friends we talked
frankly. Following his exaltation of the achievements of his government and of the Kurdish
people, he did not hesitate to point out the fragility of the Kurdish society, and its political 
and economic state and its dire need for all forms of support, in particular from expatriate
Kurds. Back with an old comrade’s enthusiasm and commitment, my dormant yearnings to
visit Kurdistan, and contribute to it’s rebuilding, surfaced. 
At last, at 2 PM on the 27th of October, I was home. I was home among my folk and a guest
of their regional government. I was there to do some work and contribute in a modest way to
what gradually unraveled itself to me as gigantic efforts of the Kurdish nation to rebuild and
get on with their lives after 28 years of destruction and genocide. I had organised on paper
and via E-mail with Salahedin and Dehok medical school deaneries a five-day postgraduate
course in Clinical Neurophysiology and two days of lecturing at Dehok medical school. I
had with me, courtesy of KRG representative, names and addresses to liase with. I was sure
of my intentions but doubted its value, to be, over the ensuing ten days, humbled by the
appreciation shown towards my modest effort. 

When I set off from England, I had been told and had read about the changing face of
Kurdistan. A lifetime away with memories of devastation meted out over years by the
various shades and hues of Iraqi governments that ruled Kurdistan, I needed to see 
to believe. The road from Ibrahim Khalil took me through Zakho, Dehok, Akrae, Herir,
Sheqlawe and Salahedin and tens of villages and hamlets before reaching Hewlear. All the
way I was observing, scrutinising and reflecting on all that was evident on either side of the
road.  I saw newly built modern highways finished and others under construction. I saw
Dehok expanded and bustling, transformed from a small neglected provincial town to a
vibrant city still constructing. I saw newly built villages with electricity, water purification
towers, and schoolboys and girls in uniforms returning from school carefree and happy. I
passed through market places bustling with activity. The countryside was alive and the
towns were hives of activity. Cars, buses and lorries, the signs of modernity and active
economy, were frantically ferrying people and loads all over and in every direction. 
Zakho, Sheqlawa, Akrae had newly built bypasses to deal with all this dynamics. By late
afternoon, I saw people, just like the days of my childhood, either in teashops whiling away
or strolling and promenading a long the roadsides. I did not see giant statues, or pictures of
any great ruling potentate, such those that litter the roads of other Middle Eastern countries.
During my stay in Hewlear and Dehok these initial impressions, gained on the road to
Hewlear, held fast and consolidated under the light of close scrutiny. 

The hotel Chuar Chira where I resided during my week in Hewlear was a first class newly
built modern hotel. Until informed by an old friend, it would have been impossible to
imagine that this friendly hotel had been during the rule of the Iraqi Arab Resurrection and
Socialist Party (Baath) a detention centre and a torture chamber. Within its walls, for years
hundreds of men and women had spent their last living hours in agony. Since that day when
the Kurdish people stormed this petty Bastille, in the uprising of 1991, the people of Hewlear
have transformed this old torture house into a guesthouse with welcoming receptionists,
young helpful bellboys, clean rooms, bars and restaurants. Its lounges and its restaurant were
occupied by a diversity of groups of men and women, some clearly having business dinners,
others just socialising. Several women, retiring from Women’s Union Annual Conference
(yeketiy Afretan), were engaged in a noisy discourse. Only muffled television noise,
giggling, odd snoring and peaceful silence emanated from its chambers. There were no giant
pictures of any dictator on its walls. Instead, portraits of past, distinguished Kurdish poets
each with a sample of a love poem are displayed on the walls. With time I came to realise
that the hotel was a mini cosmos of Kurdistan at large.  Waiting for me, upon my arrival was
Dr. Sherzad Ameen the under secretary of higher education in Prime Minister Nichervan
Barzani’s cabinet and an excellent representative of the people who had made this
transformation possible. 

Today, on the outskirts of Hewlear and where once a hostile Iraqi Arab army had camped, a
garden paradise is growing. In this living and growing monument of Kurdish hope and
accomplishment, sculptors have erected a statue of the late Mohemmed Al-Jewahiry, the
greatest modern Arab poet, the only Arab voice and pen of worth to support the Kurdish
nation’s right of self determination. Beneath his feet, and where once tanks vandalised the
soil, is carved on a marble floor his poem of love for Kurdistan and its people. “This statue is
to let the world know that Kurds honour those who honour them” declared the deputy 
governor of Hewlear, the writer and poet Mahdi Khoshnaw, as we strolled around in the vast
newly built park of Hewlear. All over and beyond the capital, other more subtle signs of
rebuilding of Kurdistan are apparent. Many of the projects are clearly government lead, such
as the central bank, the palace of art, the sewage system, new hospitals, and the expansion of
the universities and higher education; But equally the hands of the unleashed and free
Kurdish citizen and the market forces can be seen at work. A magnificent yet an unfinished
mosque in Hewlear’s skyline is an unmistakable display of private wealth and enterprise. As
I walked in the city centre, there were even more important and indirect signs of people
participation in self-rule.  Kurdish entrepreneurs and ingenious engineers have established a
communication system with the outside world, to counter the sudden cutting of the region’s
telephone communication by the Baghdad government. Private Internet cafés were delightful
signs of the freedom enjoyed by the region’s people. The market places were stocked high
with fresh food and consumer goods. All shop signs were in Kurdish. Unlike any other
Middle Eastern urban centres, I failed to encounter either giant portraits of the big brother, or
banners of diatribe slogans to assault my eyes and insult my intelligence.
 
The seven days I spent in Hewlear and Dehok medical school teaching hospitals were seven
days of astonishment at what has been achieved under difficult circumstances and
admiration for the people who have realised it. In september1991, the Iraqi government had
pulled out its administration, all basic services and finances from the region, and imposed
economical and educational sanction, in the hope of creating chaos and anarchy and pave the
way for the return of the saviour, The hated regime.  Yet nine years later, here is Kurdistan
with three universities and three medical schools. The final year medical school students
were conversant with their subjects and attended every lecture and symposium I had
organised. The site of residents and nurses resuscitating a patient on the medical ward did
not differ from that any where in England. The Medical school lecturers made up for lack of
number by their dedication and their tireless efforts. They reminded me of those families
with many offspring and modest means, yet managing to provide and bring up all of their
children to be accomplished. Under the circumstances, they are managing admirably; but it
is clear they need help. They need specialists from the industrialised world to help with
teaching both basic and advanced medical subjects. They desire to keep up with the
galloping pace of developments in medicine. They need new blood of knowledge to mix with
what is there. With double sanction on Kurdistan, and lack of reliable post, they are in need
of books, periodicals. They need more medical equipment and training in using them. They
look towards the Kurdish Diaspora for contribution and support. They need physicians and
surgeons to come to Kurdistan to train the new generation on skills they are short of. It is
clear beside this practical need, such visits provide moral support and human contact with
the world outside that no mode of advanced communication could replace. They are 
encouraged by the British GMC recognition of the degrees rewarded by the three medical
schools. However, now they need some how to get their young medical graduates to get to
Europe and America for further specialist and academic training through working in
hospitals and research centres.
 
I was invited to the annual start of academic year ceremony, organised by the medical school
student union of Kurdistan. Just as the dean was finishing his obligatory pet talk to the
students, I arrived and took my seat in the festival hall. Following the dean’s speech, the
undergraduates began to show off their diverse talents beside the academic ones. Some
played a beautiful piece of classic music, some staged a comedy sketch and others read out
their poems of love and patriotism. In Middle Eastern societies these occasions are not
parties in the sense of student union parties, during fresher week in an English University.
They are more of ceremonies celebrating the achievements of the students and their
university. It has a political flavour. The whole atmosphere was full of the youthful
excitement. But no sooner, I had felt exhilarated by the flavour of the whole affair, a bitter 
after taste brought me down to an unpleasant realisation.

 I was shocked when it was announced in this auspicious and symbolic ceremony that in
response to student demands the singing section would start with an Arabic song. I could not
believe my ears. I felt devastated. How could they? Couldn’t they start of with one or two
Kurdish songs then perhaps an Arabic song? How come those in charge allow such a
travesty? The school student union leader and the dean answered me that they themselves do
not approve of it, but there is not much they could do about it in a free society.  I explained
to them“ But even in the most of liberal societies, there is sense of occasion during which
certain behaviour is not tolerated”. The student union president invited me on to the podium
to dissuade his fellow students from committing this foolishness. Following a heart felt
argument, the students agreed to spare my feeling and cancelled the Arabic song. Then they
voted that in future not to have any non-Kurdish song on such momentous occasions. On this
same occasion, a young frail female medical student explained to me that her father had been
a Peshmerge and had been martyred in the struggle to liberate Kurdistan and that for years
they had had to live as refugees in eastern Kurdistan (Kurdistan-Iran). Following the
liberation of Kurdistan, they had returned home. Her gentle voice and her frail body
trembling, she protested “ Dr. Ahmad…. Now some of the students and teachers taunt me
and call me Iranian. I am not Iranian. I am a Kurd”. “What do you expect me to do?” I
asked. “ You are our honourable guest, talk to them. Ask them not to taunt me,” she
pleaded. I obliged her and I hope for her sake I have succeeded. These two incidents gave me
a glimpse into that large and festering carbuncle deep in the psyche of a generation of Kurds,
the ugly legacy of the violent occupation and the rule of Arab Fascism.

Looking around, I realised that if not all then the majority of these young students have not
had the experience of living under totalitarianism of Iraqi Baathist State and its policy of
forcing Arabic language and culture down the Kurdish throat. Some, who have been brought
up in households that had grown up under the thirty years of Arab Resurrection and Socialist
Party, with its fascist ideology, appeared to be indifferent to their cultural disaster. Many of
this generation and their parents appear to be incognisant of the perils of their political
indifference. Now that they are free, many of them like the freed black slaves of 
America, do not know what being free means and implies. These are the defeated. They are
the greatest threat to themselves and the nation. They are the greatest reconstruction
challenge facing the Kurdish leaders, politicians and educators.  During my evenings of free
time, I renewed old friendships and they in turn introduced me to new ones. I had no
difficulty in communicating with any of them. We were kinder spirited. In by gone days, we
had lived and struggled shoulder to shoulder against the rising tide of Arab Fascist
totalitarian ideology and political dominance. Their spirits were never broken. I spent 
several evenings dinning with these various old and new friends probing them about the
Kurdish society and how they were going to deal with the legacy of psychosocial problems
left for them by the government of Baghdad. The Kurdish polity appears to have a firm
believe that freedom and gentle persuasion will ultimately sort this section out. With this
apparent belief and practice of liberal democracy there is no immediate political reason for
any Kurd to leave Kurdistan of Iraq and claim political refugee status. 

On the third afternoon of my stay, I attended an open-air discussion forum about terrorism
held in the pleasant gardens of Qasir Naze restaurant across from Chuar Chera. The guest
speaker was the newly appointed KRG minister for human rights. In attendance were the
capital’s academics, writers, journalists and various members of political parties. This
meeting gave me a glimpse into the minds of the opinion makers and Kurdish think tanks.
The diversity of the visions and methods of thinking expressed in this meeting reminded me
of many highbrowed Radio and TV discussion forums held in England. Nobody in that 
meeting appeared to care to, nor tried to mention, let alone express gratitude to any mythical
guiding hand of any mighty leader alive or dead, such as is the norm all over the Middle
East. To me, the free, the diverse viewpoints and expressed in that dialogue was the most
important indicator of hope for the future reconstruction of the Kurdish society. The Kurdish
men and women are learning to deal with each other on one to one bases in a democratic
manner. This is how liberal democracies develop.

 For the first time, since the creation of the modern Middle Eastern kingdoms and republics
some 75 to 80 years ago, the Kurdish nation has had the opportunity to experience
sovereignty. From what I saw during my visit, the Kurds have developed their experiment in
democratic government to become when it has fully flourished an example, not only for Iraq
as a whole, but even for a democratic state like Turkey. Life in Kurdistan is not all roses. It
is hard. But considering where it was in 1990 it is nearly a paradise.  To live, man needs
freedom besides food. In Kurdistan people have to work hard for the daily bread, but there is
plenty of freedom and it is available free like air. 

Besides being an honour, the audience granted to me by President Masaud Barzani was very
informative. Having seen what has already been accomplished during his rule, his gentle
demeanour reinforced the respect I had developed for him from afar through following his
leadership of Kurdistan over the last ten years. On my last day in Hewlear, I was invited to
meet the deputy KRG Prime Minister Shewket Shiekh Ezdin. Being thanked by him for my
humble efforts was unexpected and made me feel embarrassed. We exchanged some
opinions and shared a pot of tea. Considering the near impossible tasks facing him and his
government in the reconstruction of Kurdistan and healing the rifts within the Kurdish
society, I for sure do not like to be in his shoes. 

On Sunday the 4th of November 2001, I set off with my old friend and now the deputy
director of higher education, Dashti Wehab, on my pilgrimage to the grave of the immortal
Mela Mustafa Barzani. It was a sunny day and the air was cool. The winding road from
Hewlear to Barzan ascended many mountains and traversed several fertile plains. We
crossed many rivers, brooks and ravines. We passed through towns and villages. I watched
men, women, and children of Kurdistan here and there blissfully engaged in a rainbow of
different activities and getting on with their lives. Only peace reigned on the people and the 
land. Like all pilgrims, I spent the two hours of my journey to my destination reflecting on
all that I was experiencing. The time of mourning and heartache for his death ended 22 years
ago when I, like the rest of the Kurdish nation, struggled to come to terms with the loss of
one of the most inspiring of old and modern leaders in our nation’s history. I was going there
to enrich my spirit by the journey to where only his body has been interred. For he, the spirit,
the tireless energy and the model of dedication to the nations ideals and hope, is living in the
heart of all those generations he lead through out his fifty years of leadership.  
The houses in Barzan village gradually climbed and straggled up the mountainside. Beyond
the last few houses, the ascent became more acute and the road ended abruptly into a natural
platform. On this short span of flat surface is the burial ground for the nation’s immortals. A
modest village guesthouse was few yards a way from the small prayer house in the
graveyard. The guesthouse attendant accompanied us and pointed out where the grave we
were seeking lay. Unlike the enormous mausoleums of the Supremes and mighty rulers of
east, Mela Mustafa’s tomb was an anonymous humble stretch of rusty soil not higher than a
row of mole mounds. Like all the other graves a short slab of local rough granite marked the
burial site of the great Barzani.  Next to him was that of his late and much loved son Idris,
who passed away in 1987. Beyond his grave, right to the edge of the precipice, stood the
short slabs each marking where lay the bodies of his lifetime companions. They were the
fighters who after the fall of the Republic of Kurdistan in 1946 fought their way in their
legendary escape from the attacking Iranian, Iraqi and Turkish armed forces into the relative
safety of the Soviet Union. There were no names; no machine gun clad guards to protect 
this burial ground. All in all, it was a very Islamic affair.

At that noble patch of soil, though deeply a humanist, I had no hesitation to read for the soul
of the deeply devout Muslim, the immortal Mela Mustefa, the Alfateha verse from the
Koran, first in Arabic then in Hezhar’s Kurdish translation. From the vantage point of the
graveyard, as I looked around the surrounding magnificent mountains, coloured with
walnut, chestnut and juniper trees, permeating with the scent of juniper and freshly baked
bread, it dawned on me that Barzani’s shrine is more beautiful and magnificent than the Taj
Mehal. These lofty mountains in free Kurdistan stand as a monument to the great soul. 
The love and the reverence of the Kurdish people are his pacing up and down guards.
In my heart, this journey, my first one to home, ended by leaving that sacred piece of our
land. The remaining days of my stay were working days, the anticlimax on my way back to
England. I shall go back again and each time I shall renew my love to my people at the foot
of that mole mound blessed grave. 
 

Ahmad A A Bajalan, November 2001,
Consultant and head of the Department of Clinical Neuophysiology
Hull and East Yorkshire Hospitals NHS Trust
Anlaby Road
Hull
-------------------------------------