Born in the Sulaimaniyah Governorate of Iraqi Kurdistan, Aram Karim had long been aware of the smugglers whose covert businesses, ferrying all manner of goods, operated along the borders that fragmented his native land. Granted, he had a personal insight from years ago: He had tried — and failed — to be smuggled into Turkey three times. Yet while the struggles of these impoverished villagers living on the margins were widely known, they were rarely documented.

“The land where they work is ultimately Kurdistan, greater Kurdistan. It is now divided into Turkish, Iranian, Syrian and Iraqi Kurdistan, but really it is one land,” said Mr. Karim, 37. “I wanted to see these places and participate in this life, which somehow is also my own life, my own culture. The borders are where the idea of Kurdistan really comes to life.”

His quest to better understand that world resulted in “Smugglers, 2009-2015,” a project he curated on Metrography, the independent Iraqi photo agency founded by Kamaran Najm and Sebastian Meyer. Mr. Karim, a freelancer with the agency, sought to capture as many aspects of smuggling as he could.

At first, it was slow work. Starting in the villages around Choman, near the Iraq-Iran border, he gradually got to know the smugglers and was able to accompany them over the border.

“Sometimes, when I went to new places, I was stopped at the checkpoint, and I was not allowed to photograph,” he recalled. “It took some time for them to trust me, but once I gained their trust, it was for good.”

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Over the next five years, he traveled regularly between the settlements of smugglers and his home in Sulaimaniyah City. Each visit yielded new glimpses into the daily operations along the smuggling hierarchy, from those who organize orders to the individuals who shoulder deliveries across the border. Smugglers as young as 11 wait solemnly to depart, while others laugh and smoke shisha at dinner, or pause midjourney to help one another drink water.

Smuggling is an integral way of life in villages where, for many, there is no other way to earn a living. Often, it is a business that certain families have practiced for generations. In some cases, a few individuals from a town are involved — in others, the entire community. The leaders of these groups request specific products unavailable on their side of the border.

Privately owned warehouses, rented to smugglers on a nightly basis, are filled either with newly delivered goods from across the border or with items waiting to be carried to the other side. For 100,000 Iranian rials (approximately $3.50), smugglers make several trips daily, carrying on their backs or on mules fuel, tea, tires, alcohol, makeup, clothing and electronics. Satellite dishes, which are illegal in Iran, are especially popular.

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Years before the project, Mr. Karim knew what it was to be the cargo: In 2000 he attempted to reach Europe by being smuggled through Turkey. “I tried three times, but I was stopped by Turkish border patrols, and the last time they beat the hell out of me and put me in jail before sending me back,” he said.

The smugglers he photographs do not transport people, but the journey across the border is still hazardous and injuries common. Smugglers bribe border guards, but each time they embark upon hidden routes they risk being arrested, shot or killed. They navigate minefields prevalent on the Iraqi borders with Iran and Syria, and cross rivers and mountainous terrain with mud, snow and ice.

Winters make for especially harsh crossings, and smugglers will often get mules drunk to take the edge off freezing trips. The season also poses additional natural risks of avalanches and landslides that can dislodge land mines into previously safe areas. “I once witnessed the explosion of a mine where five mules were injured and later killed,” he said of a route that had been heavily used.

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Mr. Karim’s subjects — who are often his friends — said they would give up this dangerous work if there were any other jobs available. One friend in particular stands out: Ari, who oversees many exchanges in the region around Choman, introduced him to even broader networks of smugglers.

Not all interactions are harmonious, and discord can break out. “Even though they are close, they fight a lot about the money,” Mr. Karim said. “It never escalates, but it is a constant discussion, and a loud one.”

Yet there is a sense of unity that impresses Mr. Karim. Silence is safer on most trips — but sometimes Kurdish folk songs echo through the air en route to an exchange point. That these operations run seamlessly between communities underscores their cultural connection. For Mr. Karim, smuggling showcases kinship among people who have had to make their lives along borders imposed on them.

“The smugglers from both sides of the borders know each other well,” he said. “Their families have known each other for generations. They are all Kurdish, and the border is often for them purely political, geographical and nothing else. It does not matter how many years of war there has been between the countries: The people, the communities stay united.”

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