Election night

I had hitchhiked to Sulaymaniyah to see an old friend and a new friend, Ashley and Anna respectively. The night I left followed an important day in Iraqi politics; the first parliamentary election in the country since the Daesh incursion. As with politics in general in this region of the world there were some militant tensions between rival parties. I should stop here to note that the Kurdistan region is divided between two large parties, the ruling Kurdish Democratic Party (PDK) who have a majority in the two western provinces, and the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan (PUK) in the eastern provinces of Sulaymaniyah and Halabja. Many of you will have heard of the legendary Peshmerga, who successfully battled Daesh, and prevented the encroachment of Islamist ideals and influence into Kurdish territory. What you may not be aware of is the fact that the Peshmerga, rather than being a unified Kurdish force are instead allied to different political parties in the region. This results in each (larger) party essentially having its own militia.













To be clear, despite the build-up in the last paragraph, this story will not detail a white-knuckled, bone-headed tangle between me and anyone else - least of all the Peshmerga. Anyway, it had gotten quite late in the evening, and I really ought to have left Suli already but I was enjoying myself far too much. I did, however have to get back to Erbil for another day of school! So, at 7 pm as the sun was descending below the horizon, I set off. I had been warned already that the road between Erbil and Sulaymaniyah may be closed due to the aforementioned electoral tensions. I got picked up quickly by a man that spoke very good English - educated in the UK. He took me to his home and served me tea, and we chatted, before going out of his way to take me to the next military checkpoint. His intent had been to drop me there, but the stoney-faced official refused and instead directed us to a gas station a little up the road. I reluctantly got into a taxi and was taken to the next little town.





It must have been at least 9 pm already, so I was a bit worried about my chances of actually making it back to Erbil. I walked through the little town crowded with people celebrating elective success. Men on the roadside invited me to drink tea with them, but I regretfully declined due to how time-sensitive this little jaunt was. I didn't fancy telling my headteacher that I couldn't make it because I had decided to hitchhike back from Suli on election night. When I got to a stretch of road that looked to lead in the right direction I found it to be utterly deserted - not a car in sight. Every few minutes a vehicle would appear to be headed in the right direction but turned off right before they got to me. Finally a battered Volvo pulled up containing two middle-aged men, in full Kurdish decorum. I announced my intention to get to Erbil that night.









They were only going 20 km up to Khalakhan, and when I restated that I needed to get to Erbil a long conversation in his spattering of English and my broken Arabic and non-existant Kurdish ensued. He wanted to take me to his home; no, I said - I have to get to Erbil! Eventually I pulled out my phone and with the help of Google Translate he communicated that I could not complete my journey that night due to the road closures. So, I took him up on his offer of a place to stay. His house was atop a hill overlooking the beautiful, ubiquitous Kurdish mountains. After calling my headteacher to inform her that I might be late for school the next day (to my surprise it was in fact cancelled!), we sat on the floor in his living room, and chatted about the unfolding tensions in Sulaymaniyah.

As usual, I was again fed till bursting. The man cut up an entire melon for me and served me fresh

bread, and tea. We fell asleep in the living room, television still on, recounting the events of the day.

In the morning, I was stuffed to the gills again. And of course, there was more tea. My new friend proudly showed me around his garden - it turned out that though he actually lives with his family in Erbil, this little house on the hill was his retreat. “My wife in Erbil, but here I have my garden - so stay here sometimes,” he told me. At one point I mentioned that I like the traditional Kurdish clothes, to which he responded, “English trousers - no good,” indicating my Quechua hiking pants. He then proceeded to do the splits, “Kurdish trousers happy!” he exclaimed, grinning from ear-to-ear.





It was about time for me to go, so we drove down into town and he helped me wave down a car heading in the right direction. Off we went, with a Peshmerga fighter, a grandmother and her two screaming chickens in tow. I made it safe and sound back to Erbil in time for school - itching for my next escapade.







