Are Alberta oil companies—and their
multi-million-dollar
investments—helping or hurting a
fledgling Kurdistan?
THE OTHER IRAQ
By Alison Azer
Published in the Sept 2009 issue
SHE ARRIVES AT THE CLINIC BEFORE SUNRISE, SECURING HER PLACE
at the head of what will become a serpentine line. At this hour, the
heat is tolerable and the dewdrops make it almost humid. Habitual
hunger is held at bay by a stranger’s kindness—a sweet roll and a cup
of hot tea. She feels content, happy even.The girl looks up at her
mother and smiles. The woman, old beyond her years, smiles back. The
day holds promise.
Promise comes in the form of a middle-aged doctor from Canada.
He is on a humanitarian vacation of sorts, returning to his homeland—Iraqi Kurdistan—to
see his people and to ease his conscience. He comes with medicine and
supplies and, so it is said, will cure the sick. Gratis. Barely 10
years old, the girl knows better than to believe all she hears. Born
with a weak heart that keeps getting weaker, she comes prepared. She
and her
mother are called into a makeshift examination room where the doctor
stands waiting. Something about the girl reminds him of his daughter
back in Canada and he catches himself calling her gulekem, little
flower.
Her heart needs fixing, she says. And, not to worry, she can
pay him. With tender confidence, she opens her palm, revealing a
creased, worn bill. Two hundred and fifty Iraqi dinars. The equivalent
of twenty-five Canadian cents.
The doctor stumbles through a response. In Canada, her case
would be manageable with high-tech diagnostics, surgery and expert
monitoring. But in one of the poorest pockets of the Kurdish region of
Iraq, her case is impossible. There is neither the medicine, nor the
equipment, nor the will to heal her heart. The doctor feels the twofold
sting of sorrow and shame. How unforgiving this world can be, he
thinks; how unfair. Back in
Calgary, his child’s ear infections and toothaches are treated with
more care than the failing heart of this little Kurdish girl.
He knows that under marginally different circumstances he
could have been waiting in such a line pleading with a foreign doctor
to cure his sick child. And he would have found it
incomprehensible—outrageous, even—for that doctor to say only that he
was sorry but nothing could be done. Not here. Not now. So this doctor
does the only thing he can—he takes a bar of
chocolate from his pocket, places it upon the money nestled in the
girl’s palm and gently closes her fingers around it. He allows himself
a moment before moving on to the next patient.
I cried when I heard this story. First I cried for the girl.
Then I cried for her mother. Finally I cried for the doctor. Which is
to say that I cried for my husband.
DR. SAREN AZER CAME TO CANADA IN
1994, A POLITICAL REFUGEE FROM Iran. A
passionate Kurdish nationalist, he was imprisoned in both
Iran and Turkey for publishing in Kurdish, a banned
language. He sought
political refuge and found it in Canada; I sought personal refuge and
found it with him.
What began as a mutual fascination
with “the other”— westerner
vs. easterner, Christian vs. Muslim, academic vs. activist—matured into
a delightful blend of experiences, values, dreams and desires. In the
shadow of his passion for social justice, I became a quick
study—thirsty for a vision of the world to replace the consumerist
metaphors of my youth. Das Kapital
meets No Logo.
Ten years on, we’re struggling to make room for our principles
in an otherwise crowded life. Since August 2004, Saren has earned an MD
(he’s now a resident in internal medicine at the University of
Calgary), we’ve had three children and we’ve moved to Calgary, to
Vancouver and recently back to Calgary. I’m attempting to balance
motherhood with an “otherhood” of
writing, volunteering and consulting. Our margins are narrow but wide
enough to keep a watch on the world.
For Saren it feels like selling out: putting everything
personal in front of everything political. I feel complicit, but
perhaps I’m getting comfortable with my complicity. Sigh. What to do
when my days are filled with decision points like “I have five
minutes—do I change this diaper or change the world?”
"Kurds’ capital rose with the
toppling of Saddam. Then it was “discovered” that they were floating on a sea of oil."
THROUGHOUT 2005 AND 2006, SAREN REMAINED RESTLESS. In the
spirit of Norman Bethune and Albert Schweitzer,he wanted to practise
medicine in the neediest of places, on the neediest of people. In May
2007, with the ink on his MD barely dry, using the only four weeks of
vacation he’d had in years, Saren set off for the Kurdish region of
northern Iraq.
At the invitation of the Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG),
he saw patients in the hospitals and clinics in the region’s three
largest cities—Suleymaniye, Dohuk and Hewler. He also visited the
shantytowns and refugee camps encircling the cities, meeting people
displaced by war, chemical attacks and invasions. They couldn’t have
received him more warmly; the nation’s son had returned! In their
midst, in some of the worst conditions imaginable, he felt alive for
the first time in years.
After decades hovering in geopolitical obscurity, the Kurds’
pivotal role in the 2003
US-led invasion of Iraq garnered international
acclaim. Their capital rose with the toppling of Saddam Hussein, jumped
when he was captured and soared when he was hanged. The new belle of
the Middle East had arrived. Branded by Madison Avenue as “the other
Iraq,” Kurdistan became an oasis in a hostile land. International
carriers began flying in to Hewler, dousing the region with a mix of
adventure
tourists, venture capitalists, aid workers and diaspora Kurds.
At first, the attention spurred growth, democracy and good
government. Emerging from a past scarred by betrayals, bombings,
manipulation and mass graves, Iraqi Kurdistan was coming of age. Then
it was “discovered” that Kurdistan was floating on a sea of oil. To
Kurds there was no discovery
required: they’d long been able to start fires by striking a match
across the soil. Saddam, with no interest in a petroleum-inspired
Kurdish uprising, had decreed that the oil stay underground. Even
during the decade-long era of the “no-fly zone,” there was little
domestic capacity to kickstart an industry as capital intensive as oil
extraction. Yet the irony of living atop one of
the world’s largest oilfields while paying bloated prices for an
unreliable supply of petrol was not lost on Iraq’s Kurds.
By mid-2006, the few starred hotels in the big cities were
filling with
western oilmen representing a range of oil interests—from Fortune 500
blue
chips to wildcat penny stocks—whose presence fuelled a dream of
drill-based economic development. The KRG relished the opportunity,
courting foreign investors with panache while ignoring confrontational
calls from Baghdad. A war of words over jurisdiction was small bother
compared to the bounty beneath their feet.
Canadian energy companies
beat a path to the KRG’s door. With lapels festooned with newly minted
Kurdish/Canadian friendship pins, they tried to learn regional
traditions—like triple cheek kissing among the same sex. Still, without
a Kurdish
version of the Lonely Planet
guides, westerners struggled with some of
the more intimate details of cross-cultural adventure. A consultant
hired by a Calgary company with a stake in Kurdish oil
asked me if I could introduce him to Iraqi Kurds living in Calgary,
people who would put a face to the place and help to answer questions
about day-to-day living in the region’s
business capital, Suleymaniye. Pressing him for an example, I laughed
at his reply. “They want to know whether Kurdish grocery stores stock
peanut butter.”
WHEN SAREN MADE HIS INITIAL TRIP BACK TO KURDISTAN—his first
in 13 years—it was under the banner of the organization we founded
almost a decade ago, the
International Society for Peace & Human
Rights. He went with fellow member Lynne Foster—and 100 teddy
bears,
gently worn children’s clothing and boxes of aloe vera cream for
victims of Saddam’s chemical warfare. Arriving at the outskirts of some
villages, they would be surrounded by hundreds of people who had just
learned that a western doctor was coming to take the sick back to
Canada in his personal jet, no less. Many came with treatable
conditions, such as infections due to
improper water and sewage sanitation, and needed a good dose of
antibiotics—which they received. Even more were sick due to hunger, and
needed a meal—which they received. But most were ill, really ill, and
with nothing to give, there was nothing to receive.
That fall, cholera broke out in Iraqi Kurdistan. An
infectious gastroenteritis transmitted through contaminated food
and water, cholera is an unforgiving disease—the afflicted can die
within hours. An accurate assessment of the spread of the disease was
difficult to pin down. The KRG’s account was markedly more conservative
than that of the World Health
Organization,
which within two weeks labelled the situation an epidemic. In private
conversations with health officials on the ground, Saren learned that
the situation was nearing a crisis—medications imported via Baghdad
weren’t reaching the Kurdish region quickly enough. We approached Health Partners International
Canada, an organization that coordinates
donations from Canada’s pharmaceutical industry for humanitarian
efforts. Their rapid response, in combination with a donation from an
international transportation company to ship the medication directly to
Hewler, resulted in over $100,000 worth of first-class cholera medicine
arriving at the crest of the epidemic.
Our initial endorphin rush from doing something tangible faded
to numbing regret at not being able to do more. The needs are infinite,
the resources finite—it’s mathematically impossible that the lines will
meet. And so we threw ourselves into plans for a May 2008 trip to
Kurdistan. The delegation expanded to include Jason, a settlement
worker, and Sheila, a retired
nurse. I stayed at home with the children. Our delegation was
expanding, too—I was pregnant and due in August.
A Calgary oil company operating in a desperately poor region
of Iraqi Kurdistan wanted to support the community. They donated
$10,000 for the mission; Saren and Lynn spent five days seeing patients
at a clinic in the community.
During one of those five days, Saren and Lynn met Parveen. She
moved gracefully, laughed easily and breathed deeply. But appearances
deceived. Parveen’s condition was not only serious but potentially
fatal. A blood disorder had enlarged her liver and spleen almost beyond
her petite body’s capacity to contain them. Parveen shared her story
with Saren, talked about her family and
their poverty. And about the fact that they could see oil wells out
their back window. “Who are these foreigners taking our oil?” she
asked. The question hung in the air.
There was nothing Saren could do for Parveen. She needed
surgery—a specialized procedure not offered in the region. She needed
to go to a neighbouring country such as Iran or Turkey, and for that
she needed at least $5,000. Money her family didn’t have, money we
didn’t have to give her.
But Parveen made an impression on Saren and Lynn. She asked
them for their phone numbers and called daily while they were in
Kurdistan and weekly once they returned home. At the end of every call,
she said: “Forgive me, but I will die without your help. Please don’t
forget me.”
When Saren returned to Canada he was a shadow of the man
I had taken to the airport six weeks earlier. Exhausted, gaunt,
emotionally spent. Seven months pregnant and raising two young girls
while working and preparing to relocate our family
to Vancouver, I endured a roller coaster of emotions during his
absence. On the way up I was proud, optimistic, resilient. On
the way down I was worried, vulnerable, resentful.
And on it goes. It’s becoming a split-screen existence for
us—Canada vs. Kurdistan, abundance vs. scarcity. Albeit in different
roles, Saren and I have taken a stake in the struggle. It’s the only
way we can live with ourselves and with each other.
"How would the Talisman of
wartorn Sudan differ from the Talisman
of war-torn Iraqi Kurdistan?"
SAREN WAS IN KURDISTAN WHEN I GOT THE NEWS THAT ANOTHER
Canadian oil company had signed an agreement
with the KRG: Talisman Energy.
One of Canada’s largest
independent oil and gas companies, it has struggled to repair
the damage done to its reputation during the company’s
tenure in war-torn Sudan. In late 1999, allegations surfaced
that Talisman’s
role in Sudan was fuelling the civil war. The
numbers balanced: $1-million a day in oil royalties, $1-million
daily in military spending. Talisman eventually withdrew from
Sudan under heavy criticism.
Five years later, Talisman entered Kurdistan with a US$95-
million investment in two exploration blocks. I had a dreadful
sense of déjà vu. True, Kurdistan is no Khartoum—but it’s
no Shangri-la, either. The KRG is increasingly guilty of institutional
megalomania, their hold on power reinforced by corruption,
nepotism and tribalism. The stealth armour surrounding the
KRG leadership is rattling under the tectonic shifts gripping
Kurdish society. The gaps between rich and poor, traditional
and modern, loyalty and opportunism are widening and the resulting
tension undermines the stability of “the other Iraq.”
The dark underbelly of Iraqi Kurdistan’s accelerated coming
of age is stained with human rights abuses, limitations on
freedom of the press and miscarriages of justice. It has caught
the eye of the international human rights community, most
notably Human Rights Watch, which in 2007 published a report
entitled “Caught
in the Whirlwind: Torture and Denial of Due
Process by the Kurdistan Security Forces.” Human Rights Watch
claims that security forces, known as Asayish and operating
outside the control of the Ministry of the Interior, have held
hundreds of detainees without due process. Detainees tell of
being beaten with cables, hoses and metal rods.
To what lengths did Talisman go to ensure that the KRG’s
human rights record did not contravene the company’s business
and ethics policies? How did Talisman ensure that it would not
be charged with “complicity in human rights abuses” like it was in
Sudan? Did Talisman appropriately consult communities about
potential human rights issues affecting its operations? In a press
release announcing the company’s entry into Iraqi Kurdistan,
Talisman CEO John Manzoni said: “We have done extensive
due diligence, including careful review of corporate social
responsibility [CSR] issues.” In addition to the US$95-million
spent on the properties, “as part of the transactions with the KRG
and in keeping with Talisman’s corporate responsibility policies
and practices, the company will pay US$220-million plus further
conditional contributions to the KRG for the sole purpose of providing
financial support to infrastructure and capacitybuilding
projects for the benefit of the people in the region and in
particular the local communities in the agreement areas.”
The official ruling body of Iraqi Kurdistan is a national
assembly of 111 seats. After years of fighting—with words and
weapons—the Kurdistan
Democratic Party and the Patriotic
Union of Kurdistan created a coalition in 2004 called the
Democratic Patriotic Alliance of Kurdistan. The names are lofty,
the reality less so. In the 2005 election, the coalition received 90
per cent of the vote. Overnight, entire tribes of uncles, brothers and
nephews of the leaders rose to bureaucratic stardom. The stench of
nepotism hangs in the air still.
The relationship between the KRG and the Iraqi government
is complicated by a high-stakes competition for the assets of
this fledgling federal state. Bubbling to the top are disputed
claims over oil revenues. The KRG argues that it has sole
authority over the resources. Baghdad begs to differ. Like other
investors in the region, Talisman must nervously watch as this
petroleum passion play unfolds. Will KRG leadership resort to
Klein-esque decrees to “let the southern bastards freeze in the
dark?” Is an Iraqi version of the NEP imminent?
I’m more than a little surprised to learn that Talisman would
allow the KRG—warts and all—to oversee the disbursement
ensure that the funds are spent accountably? How much of
the money will make it out of the
gated communities of top
officials and into impoverished communities like Parveen’s?
And, more troubling, if the disagreement between the KRG
and Baghdad over the spoils of oil continues
to escalate and
civil strife breaks out, how would the Talisman of war-torn
Sudan differ from the Talisman of war-torn Iraqi Kurdistan?
It’s
Spring 2009.
Saren and Lynn are preparing for another trip
to Kurdistan. Again they’ll
travel with medicines,
supplies and a suitcase filled with teddy bears. It’s a shorter trip
this time—three weeks is all they could manage—and there’s
a lot of ground to cover. They feel a moral imperative to see
Parveen. According to her doctor, she’s worse off than she was
a year ago. Should they tell her that among the foreigners in
her backyard is a new batch of Canadians?
As long as I’ve known him, Saren calculates potential
expenditures by comparing them to what the money could
do for others. Take our old IKEA coffee table—decorated
with stickers and indelible drawings, perfect for his university
bachelor pad, impractical for a family of five. It took more that
a year of lobbying to get Saren to part with $100 to buy a modest
replacement. Don’t get me wrong—he’s not cheap. He would
empty his wallet for anyone in trouble and would never expect to
be paid back. But spending impulsively when 30,000 children die
every day of hunger? To him, it’s no different than stealing.
Alison Azer is a Calgary
researcher and activist. She is a former Public Policy Fellow with the
Sheldon Chumir Foundation.
Further Reading:
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