I Followed My Intuition, It Lead Me To Iraq

by Elizabeth Rushing (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Iraq

Few people knew that I would visit Iraq alone. An unlikely destination for solo female travel, I knew, despite my avid interest, and up-to-date awareness, that my family and friends would try to talk me out of it. The reasons why I wanted to go were still sort-of elusive. It was innate. To admit my intentions openly would mean having to explain to other people what I could hardly explain to myself: I needed to go. For years, I’d studied the region. I was particularly interested in the evolution of the region’s maps—the modern geopolitics that developed in the collapse of ancient empires, how ISIS had risen through the cracks in the Syrian conflict to conquer swaths of territory across the Levant for their so-called caliphate. At their height, ISIS had controlled 40% of Iraq—now 15 months after the liberation of Mosul, I was going to go. Maybe it was dangerous at the time but it had been worse for years. The US Government’s travel advisory website rated Iraq as a Level 4 out of 4, “Do Not Travel.” This was certainly true of Baghdad, Mosul, the Iraq of the news. But I wasn’t going to go there. I was going to the other Iraq, Iraqi Kurdistan. Within the Iraqi border, the Iraqi Kurdistan Region was practically a different country, ruled semiautonomously. The Kurds, a stateless minority, are ethnically, culturally, and linguistically different than their Arab neighbors. They had their own government, army. They had kept their capitol, Erbil, stable, more or less, throughout the terrifying reign of jihadis in neighboring Mosul, 50 miles west. Timing was the real risk, I thought. At what point do you dismiss official warnings and practicalities to fulfill your dreams? I had to decide for myself. Not talking about my idea meant that I had no one else’s opinions to lean on, but also that the small voice inside was allowed to speak front and center. Go. I had tried to coordinate my time in Iraq the same way I coordinated any solo trip I’d ever taken: by scouring Google maps. Mosul—one of the world’s most dangerous cities—was 50 miles west of Erbil, beyond the Kurdish border. My visa, granted on arrival, would restrict me to the Iraqi Kurdistan Region—some of which was recently contested with Baghdad. The Nineveh Plains, disputed between the two governments, was the place I wanted to visit most, so I did something I’d never done: I hired a guide. Having a guide felt a little like cheating at solo travel, but also like I had an inside connection. I drank hot cups of sugary tea in men-only stalls. I moved, uninterrupted, through the maze of Erbil’s bizarres, haggled for textiles, and crossed checkpoints in and out of the IKR. I visited the iconic Mar Mattai Monastery, 20 miles outside of Mosul, and walked barefoot through the village of Lalish, holy land to the mysterious Yazidis. Between Erbil and Mosul, I stopped for green figs—organic, unbelievably flavorful—at a roadside stand. Somewhere, among herds of sheep, I squinted at cuneiform carved into the ancient Jerwan aqueduct. In my long white dress, I learned how to fire a fully automatic AK-47 beneath the sun of the Nineveh Plains. Near dusk, the second day, I discovered the Rabban Hormizd Monastery. Carved high into the side of a mountain, the 640 AD monastery overlooked Alqosh, a Christian town said to be the origin of the three wise men. The monastery had been abandoned for more than a century, keeping its quiet existence throughout the recent jihadi quest to destroy historic and religious sites in the Levant. I stood beneath the bell tower at its precipice. Looking down, it was a straight drop to the winding path that led up the side of the mountain. The valley filled with late-day shadow. Above, the sun shifted west, closer to home, and the patterned farmlands of the Nineveh plains stretched out to meet the horizon. I hadn’t noticed Alqosh on a map before that day, but you can’t look at a map and see into your future. You have to trust in yourself, to find your own way.