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 36th 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.
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| A peaceful walk to Kendal. A stranger even waved to me! |
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| London may have 1700 parks and green spaces but there is something about Yorkshire. |
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.
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| Not large enough for the emotional baggage.... |
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| Inside my head..... |
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.....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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