Villages around the Mosul Dam remain desolate, devastated by terrorists

D. Morrow
25 September 2014

Mosul Dam

In the quiet of the empty “Mosul Dam Tourist Village,” there is a single Iraqi Sunni family living. They came back only a day after Da’esh militants were ousted from the area, but now live alone in what feels like a ghost town. 

Though originally from Mosul, the head of the family was once the village’s mayor. He explained how his family fled the day Da’esh arrived, fearing what might be about to happen to them. They made it to Mosul safely, after witnessing members of the jihadist militia tear through homes, drink, and litter through the small neighborhood, which sits between the power station and the dam itself. 

The family waited for a month in Mosul, but realized it was no safer there. They made their way back shortly after peshmerga retook the dam on September 6 and 7. They now live in the eerie silence that marks the town. Down the neighborhood’s roads (named ‘Duhok’ and ‘Samarra’ after other Iraqi cities) the houses are shuttered. Graffiti marks one that declares the peshmerga’s victory. In another spot, the ground is razed from the fighting that took place here. A lonely movie theatre stands empty on the edge of the residential area, the doors closed.

Peshmerga fought Da’esh hand-to-hand in these houses before ousting them from the area a few weeks ago. The signs of the battle have been mostly cleared now, aside from scorch marks and one bombed-out washing machine, but the family we meet is the only one that has returned. This little village is home for good now that the Mosul road has been closed. It’s unclear what they do, or can do, or will do, so long as this place remains nothing more than peshmerga outpost. The three hundred engineers who are required to run the dam stay in a neighborhood around the hill, but this Sunni family feels more comfortable in their old home. Of their three children, two are of school age, but will not be attending classes this semester. There isn’t anyone to teach them. 

As we spoke in their living room, a White House press conference was happening on the television. In it, President Obama pledged to disperse and destroy the group calling themselves the Islamic State. Here at the very edge of the fight, this family’s stake in that promise is greater than ever.

Minority IDPs taken refuge in mountain town of Pire Magrun

D. Morrow
24 September 2014
Pira Magrun

The tiny town of Pira Magrun rests under the formidable peak from which it takes its name, about half way between Sulaymaniyah and Dukan. Dusty and quiet on a Thursday at noon, it is almost impossible to tell that the town is home to anywhere from 3,000 to 6,000 displaced people in addition to its own small population.

Many of these people took refuge in the few local schools, but when classes could be delayed no longer they disappeared into the surrounding town. Helmut, a teacher, drove me across town to the main public school. Through a crumbling concrete doorway, a piece of tan canvas is strung, blocking a small, open-air alleyway between the edge of the school and the shops that back it. Six families consisting of twenty-eight people are living in this small space, after fleeing the contested city of Bashiqa to the north, which is currently full of Da’esh militants. 

The people here are from the Shabak Shi’a minority, and they are one of a number of minorities who have taken refuge in Pira Magrun. Shabaks are similar in some ways to Yazidis, as their religion incorporates elements of Christianity and mystical Sufism.

In some ways Pira Magrun probably reminds them of home – Bashiqa is known for the small mountain range that circles it and is home to a number of other minority groups, such as Yazidis and Assyrians. In addition to the Shabaks, Pira Magrun is hosting these other minorities as well, and fleeing Iraqi Sunnis with nowhere else to go. 

Despite the danger they have left behind, the Shabaks here feel very safe – for what is probably the first time in a while. After suffering through the Anfal campaign of the ‘80s and ‘90s, Shabak people have continued to be persecuted, often by Sunni militants in post-2003 Iraq. The Da’esh campaign appears to be only the latest in a history marked too often with tragedy.

Kaydar, one of the Shabak men, tells me they have been here for 50 days. The people in town are friendly and helpful, providing this small family group with the food and supplies they have needed so far. But almost half of the group consists of small children, and none of them have been able to attend school here. All they want is to go home, like so many other displaced families I’ve spoken to in the last couple of weeks. 

“The Da’esh, they take everything,” says Kaydar, as his children run around and between his legs. But for now at least the families here have each other, and the kindness of strangers in the town. I add them to my list though, of people for whom winter will only bring new hardship. 

Kurdish students in Sulaimani gather relief supplies for refugees and IDPs

D. Morrow

24 September 2014

Sulaimani

School may have started late this year for many Kurdish children, but students at the International School of Choueifat – Sulaymaniyah wasted no time putting together their own response to the conflict that has shaken this region since June. While many public schools were filled with families of refugees and IDPs well into September, delaying the start of classes, by mid-September prefects from the eighth and ninth grade here quickly put together a two-week fundraiser to collect food for displaced Iraqis living in Sulaymaniyah before Eid.

“We want to get as much [as we can] to make them full,” said Dosyar, in 9th grade. The Eid holiday is on October 3 and 4 this year, and students want to ensure that at least some of the families who have recently arrived in their city will have enough to eat. 

So far, they’ve gathered 22 cardboard boxes full of staple food items, such as rice, salt, and oil, or “Anything a mother would use for food,” another student explained. They hope that their fundraising will result in upwards of 50 or 100 boxes total by next Wednesday. 

The nine Kurdish and Arab students spearheading this project recognize how different their lives are to the new arrivals in Sulaymaniyah displaced by war, but they also share an affinity to what’s happening to them – especially minority groups like the Yazidi Christians after the devastation of Mount Sinjar. 

“It hits close to our hearts… because this happened to the Kurdish people before, and people remember. It was an act of genocide,” 9th grade head prefect Reza explains. 

Two of the girls here have already visited refugee camps with their families over the school holidays in the summer, one near Duhok and another to Arbat, outside Sulaymaniyah. “It was really touching,” said Sawan, “to see the kids just playing, in the mud…” 

The students are already arranging another fundraiser for when they return from the Eid holidays – this time a clothing drive in advance of winter. “Humanity needs us and everyone to have a stable life – not just for the people here, but human to human and family to family.”

Christians from Qaraqosh displaced in Sulaimani

D. Morrow
Sulaimani
23 September 2014

The fifty-six Christian families living at St Joseph’s Chaldean Church in Sulaymaniyah have come a long way to be here. After fleeing Da’esh militants in Qaraqosh two months ago, they went first to Erbil. 

“There are so many people there,” one of the women, called Rose, explains. Here in Suli it is, “not so crowded.” 

Indeed, the church exudes a feeling of calm and quiet, unlike similar refuges in the overwhelmed Christian areas of Erbil. But the two hundred civilians here are lucky to have been able to make the journey south after spending two days there – though they remain in close contact with friends and family still in Ankawa. They don’t know how many more will try to move here, as that city becomes more and more overcrowded with Iraqis fleeing D’aesh. Many others are stranded throughout the overflowing northern region of Kurdistan. 

Displaced Christians like these ones are, in some sense, better off than other minorities I have met recently. The church, run by Father Ayman, provides for them and ensures they do not go hungry. But none of the 17 children are attending school, and few of the people venture out of the church grounds. 

“They don’t speak Arabic,” Rose says, gesturing out into the city behind us – and none of these people have any knowledge of Kurdish. So they remain, caught in the strange limbo that is internal displacement. Unable to leave, but unable to settle. The church is one of the few places in Sulaymaniyah that displaced people can remain in safely. Elsewhere in the city, 333 families are living in substandard living conditions, 1000 in hotels, 1300 in rented houses, 55 with relatives, but the few that are able to pay for their accommodations won’t be able to for much longer. The situation is considerably worse in the areas immediately surrounding Sulaymaniyah. 

The church, though, is a small place of calm amid the despair. The people here don’t know how long they will have to stay, but they fervently repeat the same thing. “We want one thing: to return to our country. All of us,” Rose gestured to the others listening nearby. “We want to return, but we will need peace to Qaraqosh. We want international support. We want soldiers to save us. We are good people.”

As I turn to leave, another woman comes up and grabs my arm. She is one of the few who goes into the city for errands and other small business. “Peace for Iraq! Peace for Christians – to go home,” she says, then disappears around the corner. 

Peshmerga at the Mosul Dam

D. Morrow

22 September 2014

Mosul Dam

The peshmerga based at the Mosul dam are in good spirits almost two weeks after they recaptured it, despite the fact that signs of the IS occupation are strewn everywhere in the garbage they left behind, and the occasional sniper still hides in the hills watching them. 

Stationed in what were once civilian homes around the dam, the soldiers here are responsible for the 300 engineers who maintain the dam on a daily basis. This used to be Iraqi territory. For a month, it was in the hands of Da’esh. Now, it is Kurdistan. 

From the last outpost on top of a hill behind the dam, you can look back across at the massive turquoise reservoir held in by the dam, and look forward into what is currently Da’esh territory – their positions are about 10-12 km from here. Lieutenant Colonel Jemil Mohammad told us of the two-day battle to recapture the dam, in which the peshmerga were targeted by snipers, fought hand-to-hand in the houses that look out over the lake, and were backed up by American airstrikes. Signs of the fight are ubiquitous – from broken windows in the guardhouses and bombed out vehicles, to the gaping hole torn through the bridge over the dam, to the hundreds and hundreds of bullet casings left behind from AK-type weapons. 

We are invited to have lunch with the peshmerga guarding this place, and one shows a photo of a huge fish caught in the reservoir the day before. The men here are calm, ready, and confident that Da’esh won’t be returning. In fact, they are sure that retaking the city of Mosul, 40 or 50 km south down the Tigris River, is inevitable. Though they appreciate the American air support, they don’t believe foreign fighters will be required to fight Da’esh – just foreign weapons. The first supplies of these from the international community were arriving in Erbil the day we visited the dam on September 19. Though it’s reported Da’esh only used small arms and light weapons in the battle when they lost the dam, Lt. Col. Jemil acknowledges, “They are brave men, with good training… they are armed and very rich.” 

The dam itself is of no use to Kurdistan – the power it generates and water it releases are distributed south to Baghdad. But that doesn’t appear to matter to the peshmerga stationed here, when we ask what will happen to this place after the war. We had driven across the old Kurdish/Iraq border maybe an hour earlier, across a dry yellow wasteland of abandoned villages, burned homes, and scorched earth, but nowhere is there a sign of the Iraqi army. “Who do you see here?” Lt. Col. Jemil asks us. “We lost many people. We fought for here. We will have it.”

Life in the ancient Christian village of Al Qosh

D. Morrow

22 September 2014

Al Qosh

The most noticeable thing about Al Qosh when you arrive is the quiet. Of the 3500 residents, only about 60 per cent are currently living here. Two weeks ago, the town was completely empty. 

An Assyrian holy site, Al Qosh is a Christian town between Mosul and Duhok. It has been inhabited for approximately 3000 years, and the people here, like so many minorities in this region, are no stranger to persecution. A huge crucifix mounted on the mountain behind the town faces out over the Mosul dam reservoir, where only two weeks ago air strikes took out IS militants fighting the peshmerga. A month earlier, when the Mosul dam fell to IS, a mass exodus took place in Al Qosh – the majority of residents walking north to Duhok, over 20 km away. Since then, residents have feared the advance of IS would leave it permanently abandoned. 

“It’s not stable,” Sami, a returnee resident who lives between Al Qosh and the United States told us, as he showed us his town. When asked if he thought IS would ever make it all the way here, he replied, “There is a possibility always. There are no protection forces to fight them.” But how close would IS have to be to permanently abandon the town? “At the last checkpoint,” he responds matter-of-factly. We can see it from where we stand on the side of the hill. It’s not particularly far – barely 10 minutes away. But the only people the residents can trust to take care of their town are themselves.

Al Qosh is caught on the very border between Kurdistan and Iraq. Before conflict erupted in this region in June, Al Qosh was technically in the Ninevah region belonging to Baghdad. Now, it sits firmly in Kurdish territory. The town is heavily protected by Kurdish forces, as its historical and religious significance for minority Assyrians across the region make it an important pilgrimage site. The most significant of these is the tomb of Nahum, a Jewish prophet that rests in a ruined temple in the centre of the town. The Jewish population was expelled from Al Qosh in the mid-twentieth century, leaving no caretaker for the site. When we visited, someone had constructed a metal roof over the temple to protect it from further deterioration. Despite the ruin, it remains an eerie and beautiful building, the tomb itself covered carefully with clean green cloth despite the dust and age of the space around it. Candle sconces hang broken off the stone walls, catching the evening sunlight. 

A short walk from here is a private home that seems the very opposite of the quiet gravitas of the crumbling temple. A local artist has adorned her home with a riot of colourful interpretations of various biblical images, sculptures, and decorative floral arrangements. The contrast from ancient pilgrimage site to modern curiosity denotes Al Qosh as a place essential to the history of Iraq, both ancient and modern – and more specifically as a place defined by the minorities that have continued to live here through myriad conflicts.