The time I swore to never return to Kurdistan

by

“This is a stupid fucking country that doesn’t even exist and everyone here is incompetent and I’m never coming back!”

I actually said that out loud, and in a government building too, but let me start from the beginning.

Wasta. It might not be in most dictionaries, but ask anyone from or familiar with the Middle East and they’ll tell you exactly what it is.

Though two years of formal Arabic isn’t good for much else in Iraq, it does inform me that the word wasta (واسْطة) comes from the root w-s-T, which relates to “the middle,” and the form wasta literally translates into “means.” As wasta is the means to pretty much everything here, that is appropriate, although other translations equate it to “who you know,” “clout,” or “agency.” It mostly has to do with who your family is.

I keep Iraqi Dinars in my wallet, but everyone knows Wasta is the real currency of Kurdistan.

The second day of Ramadan, I had to wake up early and go to the Department of Residence to extend my 10-day entry visa for a month (failing to do so would make it difficult to leave the country without a hefty fine and heftier hassle). I’d been up until sunrise, eating and drinking so I could keep fast during the day, so my tolerance was a bit compromised by sleep deprivation.

The Department of Residence is a open air maze of offices that is particularly hellish in the heat. First, through the women’s door and past the female security guard. Next, taken from office to office with the pesh merga who’s doing all the talking for you, playing helpless witness to an endless series of increasingly heated exchanges. Back and forth down the crowded hallway. Then, walking to nearby shop to get photos taken, nevermind that you reminded everyone you needed to get these beforehand. Because it’s Ramadan the only shop still open is packed with a dozen people– too crowded. Long walk back to the car. Long drive to a far away store where you wait 30 minutes for a dozen thumbnail photos of myself, frowning. Back to the maze. More heated conversations, and finally, an AIDS test, which takes place in an office identical to all the others plus some gloves and needles, like getting blood drawn in the waiting room of a dirty clinic.

From the beginning, my limited Kurdish was letting me comprehend what I already knew what was being said, but didn’t want to hear. This is the granddaughter of so-and-so. This is the granddaughter of so-and-so. My family name, my family name, my family name.

Like that was all I would and should need to cut the lines, to skip the process everyone else had to go through, to get away with anything. Like the rest of the people in the room couldn’t hear those same words and weren’t staring at the American girl to whom the rules didn’t apply.

I was at the end of my rope, and a lot of other things I usually only hear from my mom when my brothers and I are really misbehaving. Like ready to pull out my hair. Like livid.

Because wasta isn’t just how you get your visa extended here. It’s what runs this place. It determines how people treat you, if you have electricity in your house and sometimes even what grades your kids get in school. It determines if you’ll be able to breeze through checkpoints or get interrogated, and how fast you’ll be served at a restaurant.

This is the point when I said that really awful thing that I know I don’t mean (but did at the time). Thankfully, I don’t think anyone understood what I was saying.

I was angry because wasta is so ingrained into society that people living here don’t even seem to take any issue with it, especially not if they’re on the right side of it. I guess it’s no surprise that as a headstrong American, this makes my blood boil. I detest special treatment, and my constant encounters with it here do make me question my intentions to return.

I know I’m probably only scraping on the surface of wasta, and I know I’m still coming from the perspective of someone who has been helped more than hurt by it.

But I also know is that wasta means little social mobility, little hope of “making it for yourself,” and little opportunity for the drastic changes and reforms Kurdistan so desperately needs. Because it’s so tied to respect, it reinforces the cultural norms related to women and honor that severely limit women’s rights and freedoms. It stifles education. It even stifles free speech: because politicians are the ones with all the wasta, most of the press is run by political parties, absolving the government from much of the criticisms the press would otherwise provide, meaning those who do speak out are quickly and expertly silenced by threats or by death.

Wasta, true to its Arabic root, seems to be in the middle of all the dirty happenings in Kurdistan.