Packing: June-August 2011

I was offered a position as an English teacher at a private international school in Erbil, Iraqi Kurdistan. I learned what and where Kurdistan was only a year before. I knew of the Iraqi no-fly zones established at the 36^th parallel at the end of the Gulf War in 1991 to protect the Kurdish population from Iraqi reprisals. I just did not realise that it was the seed that lead to de facto Kurdish independence.

My farewell party was two months long. As ready as I was to push the plane, I knew leaving London would be fraught with conflicting feelings. I gathered with friends in pubs, bars, restaurants, museums, galleries and I think in a park too. In nearly four years I had amassed a wide social network (I mean real friends in real life!). Yet, these days, people do not say “goodbye” but “see you later”. And I usually do. There is always a fair, event or conference where people with similar professional or personal interest will congregate. Especially within the art crowd and in particular among those working in an international capacity (NGOs, Foreign Service, journalism, oil & gas, etc.).

When I announced that I would be moving to Kurdistan, suddenly everyone knew someone who had lived, worked or travelled there and were eager to introduce me. I was excited about the prospect of jumping into a ready-made network on the ground. I do not think I will have four years to kick it in Kurdistan.

When I first left London in 2001, my last weeks were a mad dash to do and see as much as possible. I squeezed in a quick trip to Paris and whirlwind tours of Ireland and Scotland (in perfect, 6-day loops). Ten years later it was not much different except this time I took it easy and spent a weekend in Cumbria before diving into the madness of packing.

A peaceful walk to Kendal. A stranger even waved to me!

London may have 1700 parks and green spaces but there is something about Yorkshire.

Breaking in the Wellies.

A view of the Tan Hill Inn. The highest inn in the British Isles at 1,732 feet (528 m) above sea level.

Walking along the "backbone of England".                       

The sun setting on my thoughts of England.

Yorkshire wildlife....otherwise known as food. 

13 boxes, a signed Hirst Beautiful Inside My Head Forever Sotheby’s auction poster, some fine art photography and a print shipped out on August 15. The packing process was frustrating, tedious and emotionally draining. 

Not large enough for the emotional baggage....

Inside my head.....

.....organised!

London was still smouldering from the riots that erupted the week before around the UK. People worrying about my safety in a post-conflict region bemused me. On the evening of 8 August 2011, as I returned home from a dinner with friends, I stepped out of Westbourne Park Station to see a line of empty busses stopped along Great Western Road. A few passengers were scuttling off one of them and making their way swiftly on foot. The air was so charged I could hear it crackle as the ghostly current of mysterious events passed through with the wind. It felt as though I was in the surreal Spitalfields attraction, Dennis Severs’ House: Something happened a moment before, but everyone had already fled the scene. Only a bus stopped at an odd angle in the road, some broken glass, a rock and a stick lying on the ground left a clue that something went down. I learned the next day that local Michelin-starred restaurant, The Ledbury, was robbed by “thugs and rioters armed with bats and wearing hooded tops”.[i] But the looters were pushed back by in an incredible show of force by the staff that rushed from the kitchen brandishing knives, rolling pins and other implements including a fry basket (perhaps it was still hot). It was also confirmed that passengers were forced off busses and searched for valuables by looters.[ii] Clearly the apocalypse was coming to London and I would be far safer living less than 400km from Baghdad.

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[i] Orr, James. “London riots: Kitchen Staff at Notting Hill Restaurant The Ledbury Protect Diners with Rolling Pins.” The Telegraph, 9 Aug 2011

[ii] “Rioter 'Stormed The Ledbury and Stole Diners' Jewellery'”. The Telegraph, 12 June 2012

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Pre-Departure: 17 June 2011

I read the e-mail on my mobile while waiting in the queue at the popular Café Rendezvous in Victoria. I was looking forward to a generous helping of their delicious lasagne, yet I was hungry for something more: like a new adventure. In the e-mail was a job offer that promised one somewhere near the cradle of civilization.

London and I have had a good relationship. We complimented each other and pulled through the rough patches most of the time. However, we had been having more problems than usual recently. I was not getting what I wanted and needed, and London was no longer meeting my expectations and I was growing increasingly unhappy. Sound like relationship issues? It certainly was a love affair on the wane.

Four years, two graduate degrees in the arts and about three internships later, a full-time, PAID, permanent position that remotely reflected my skills, interests and education proved elusive. It was time for a new partner because London was disappointing me.

When I first departed the Big Smoke in 2001it was a life interrupted. I had just finished my undergraduate studies and found a great job in the media relations department of a prominent development NGO (which complimented my academic background and interests). I also found a great guy (who also complimented my academic background and interests) and I had a wonderful network of friends spread across all corners of the city with whom I enjoyed all of the delights Londinium had to offer, too numerous to detail now but will surely be reminisced about in future posts. As most good things come to an end, 9/11 and the Home Office put paid to my youthful mirth and merry-making. My visa expired thus I had to leave the job, the man (but never the friends), the UK and pack up and return stateside. I pinned for London and my fondest memories and longed for my return ever since.

I returned to London in 2007 for graduate school after six-year hiatus that included stints as a Peace Corps volunteer in Africa and teaching in France. My idealised memories of my first sojourn set me up for the initial shocks of return. The city changed, I changed and most of my friends either moved away or moved on. I was not so naïve to believe that the 28-year-old me I would pick up right where I left off at 22 so I jumped into my mature chapter of Life in London. Hobbled by expectations no less. I was to complete my graduate studies and land my dream job (again). The economic tectonic plates were just starting to shift around before completely snapping apart with the collapse of Lehman Brothers a year later during my first week in my Masters programme. The irony of that moment was that it was also the day of the infamous Damien Hirst sale at Sotheby’s, the swan song to the heady days of the art boom where those with more money than sense would pay anything for everything that glittered. That sale drew in around $200 million for the only single-artist direct sale in auction history. And Mr Hirst has been quietly counting his stacks ever since.

While my tutors basically laughed at the prospect of my class finding jobs after graduation, I tried to hold on to hope that I would be able to make use of the education I was paying through the nose for. However, where there is an earthquake, later comes the tsunami. Jobs were lost in just about every sector and sentiment ranged from uncertainty to sheer panic. Though some classmates did find art jobs, I was not exactly envious of their roles because if the devil wore Prada in the fashion industry, then the art professionals beat their gallerinas with Hermés Kelly bags. Everyone has to eat sh*t when they start out in their careers, especially in the notoriously competitive “creative industries”, I just prefer my sh*t to have substance, value and direction.

I received all the education both inside and outside the classroom I could possibly absorb during my time in London. Plus the government cuts to arts programmes in the UK put paid any chances of getting paid so I had to make a plan. I knew that in order to pursue my interests in the Middle East I would have to move there. What is the easiest way for a native English speaker to land a job abroad? Teaching.

At first my sights were set on Syria. Its history from Antiquity with its Roman imprint and Christian influences to the Islamic architecture would certainly stimulate my art historical senses. However, Syria was in the grip of revolution that was getting bloodier by the day.

I pulled up an old email. Subject: Teaching English in Kurdistan. 

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