Baghdad: Iraq’s notorious yet rising capital city (Part I)

Fueled by tea and sleep deprivation amid ongoing military presence, I discover Iraq's capital city.

My driver is speeding beyond 130 km/h through a closed checkpoint on what used to be the most dangerous road in the world, the Baghdad Airport Road. Nevertheless, he manages to light a thin cigarette with a smooth hand movement, offer me one, and stir up a lot of dust on the road, all at once. The wide road, lined with giant palm trees, is about 12 kilometers long and leads from the airport directly to the heavily protected Green Zone, the city's diplomatic, military, and political center. We exchange few words, less due to interest towards the other person, more due to the late-night time. Those bombs or shootings that happened daily on this street almost twenty years ago are now a relic of the past.

A bitter sweet start

The next morning, far too little sleep later, I stroll through the smoky lobby. As a smoker, I'm pleased by the endless places where I can indulge my nicotine cravings, but cold smoke early in the morning, combined with sleep deprivation, quickly turns some people's stomachs. Mine as well. I think I'm the only guest in the hotel since everything seems dusted and forgotten, like once a saloon in the Winnetou classics. The breakfast buffet in the hotel appears decent, but when my acquaintance picks me up, he immediately says, let's eat something proper.

You feel a chill down your spine of respect, prejudice, and fear even if you mention the word Baghdad. This is precisely the attitude I feel during my first few meters in the wilderness called Baghdad's streets. It takes 3-4 blocks for me to acclimatize and for my composure to see the day's light. Mahdi, my companion, brings us the famous Iraqi breakfast, Kahi, a butter spread on several layers in filo pastry with honey, sugar syrup, and milk cream. Accompanied by chai tea. For me, as a non-sweet-eater, not the most suitable breakfast, but I am glad to try local dishes.

Directly across the street from our breakfast spot, a multi-lane main road runs through an underpass, decorated on several sides with graffiti, primarily politically motivated. In past years, graffiti, especially with political statements like these, would not have played out well for the artists. Today, they highlight social, societal, and political discontent and are celebrated on social media; after all, the artists praise their works and sign the graffiti with their respective profiles.

For the first time in Tahrir Square, I realize that I am legit in Baghdad. Every sort of Humvee we know from every American (fiction) war movie and countless armies of soldiers flank the square all around. According to my companion, there are many military troops at each core street to protect the city so that the politicians can defend themselves from demonstrations. Emblematic of the satisfaction and confidence of the citizens.

A place of resurrection

In Mutanabbi Street, Shabandar Café is located next to the book market. In what is probably Baghdad's most renowned teahouse, it seems as if there is an exceptionally bright mood today. Cameras, lights, and men being filmed occupy one corner. The teahouse is a meeting place for young and old. Old gentlemen sit together playing backgammon, young people make videos for their social media, and in between, Mehdi and I try to find space.

Finally, a small bench becomes free, and since space is a sacred commodity in the teahouse, a third man immediately joins us. A boy, estimated to be about 15 years old, carries a tray filled to the brim with chai through the place and serves it to our table, which is tiny and sticky. It is deafening and hectic, and everywhere is smoke, but as soon as you lean back with a chai and observe, atmospheric. Through all the dark days, especially since the attack on the tea house in 2007, this place has been a refuge for poets, intellectuals, and writers. The coward act was meant to show that there should be no freedom of expression. Today, pictures and portraits of famous people, politicians, and guests adorn every spot of the walls, showing once again that this is Baghdad's meeting place, and this place is the symbol of resurrection.

Getting lost in Baghdad

Mahdi has left me, but my stay in the Iraqi capital is only a few days, so I forgo an afternoon nap and hope tea will keep me awake. As is often the case, I stroll aimlessly in cities I don't know, hoping to find a birthday gift for a friend. My only actual task is to survive the traffic. Cars dash around from all directions. I switch to smaller streets plastered with modern houses, some glitzy. A white rabbit catches my eye. Between a garbage bag and a swanky car, he hops around calmly. Behind it, I see a lone soldier at a small crossroads looking at me, puzzled. "Where can I find shops or a market here?". He holds his fist in my direction, "Welcome. Go this way," and points back in the direction where I came from. Alright. At the next intersection, one of those ominous buses or van stops where it's impossible to know where they're going as a non-citizen of the city. I get on and sit down in one of the back rows. A gentleman in the row in front of me holds his arm back, and I hand him 500 Iraqi dinars. Gallantly, he advances the banknote and passes it on. The 500 dinars gradually make their way to the driver. I try to get to the market and try my luck in a different part of the city.

The modern houses have given way. Instead, sandstone buildings and fruit stands adorn the scene. The market activity is already quiet. A gentleman with dark brown eyes, wrinkled face, and elegant gray gilet sits quietly on a small stool. He is the only one who has not tried to drag me into his store so far. I greet him and ask if I may enter his small store or his sales niche. Copper lamps, jewelry, and figurines in small, large, and abnormally large are everywhere, waiting for me to knock them over inadvertently. Cautiously I step through. The older man accompanies me and shows me various things he makes. I spot a small copper figurine in the shape of an owl. I take it. I'm not a big fan of bargaining, except when I realize that the price is not reasonable at all, but since the gentleman doesn't ask for vast sums, I pay and continue to gorge myself at the market.

Is tourism a thing now?

In the evening, I sit in the lobby, trying to classify this city, but I don't quite get the hang of it. If it weren't for the military troops, the tanks trying to camouflage themselves as well as European radar speed cameras, you wouldn't even notice you were in Baghdad. You can walk relaxed through the streets, and the people are incredibly friendly. Even the arrival at the airport, only a few minutes long, was relaxed. This is due to the new Visa on Arrival, recently available for numerous nations and responsible for a real influx of international travelers. Even if the flow of tourists can still be counted on only a few hands, the rate is rising. And that's exactly how it feels like being here. People are happy about visitors, knowing full well that this city and this country are not yet where they should be.

The discrepancy between the city you know from the newspapers and movies and the Baghdad I was allowed to see today, peppered with the thoroughly relaxed and hectic experiences, paints an even more distorted picture than I had hoped. But to really wrap my head around this place, I have to sleep first. After all, tomorrow, I will also visit Saddam Hussein, or rather what he left behind. (2022)

To be continued.