Coming Home to Iraq
Mike Sarafa
GUEST column
There was a sadness in their eyes, but they were happy to pose. When I pulled out my phone to take a picture, they stood up straight and simultaneously pulled their arms behind their backs. They stared straight at me.
The two young village boys seemed curious. Who were these visitors creating all this commotion? I honestly didn’t know if they were Christian or Muslim. We were near the church but had been told that the population of Christians in Telkaif is almost zero.
We were in Telkaif for the second time on our eight-day trip to Erbil. Some of the guys hadn’t had the opportunity to see their family homes inside the village on the first trip a few days earlier. We were told it was best to be out of Telkaif by dark.
From a geo-political standpoint, the area is controlled by the PMF – the Iranian controlled paramilitary forces. On both trips to Telkaif, our Kurdish hosts could only go so far. We were stopped at a checkpoint and then accompanied the balance of the way by the PMF. We felt inconvenienced.
But there are checkpoints all over Erbil, some only a few miles apart, especially in the north. Freedom of movement is limited, not so much for people but for goods and materials. It is an absolute burden for the people there, coming up multiple times in conversations with the locals.
The need is evident. In Baqofa, they needed water wells. In Batnaya, we were greeted by a dozen special needs children and adults. In Alqosh, the Bishop there asked for jobs, work for the people. Without trade and commerce, there are no jobs, therefore no reason for people to come back.
In Telkaif, the cemetery remains in ruins. Having been demolished by ISIS, we were told it had been put back together. But, no, not really.
Yet, in Erbil, under the patronage of Bishop Bashar Warda, a Catholic University and a Catholic Hospital exist. They need much but have so much promise and are doing great work.
In Ankawa, in Dohuk, our people seem to fare much better. At least they have property management, factories, finance, and technology. One such gentleman told me he was comfortable. He questioned what he would do in America. But he acknowledged that the future for his children was not in Iraq.
Most Christians in Iraq all have one thing in common – they’re stuck, either because they’re too rich or too poor – all somehow pawns in a chess game between the Iraqi Central Government, the Kurdish Regional Government, and Iran. In one meeting, a high-ranking Kurdish official acknowledged that Christians predated everybody in these lands. “Iraq belongs to you,” he said, very sincerely.
The Chaldean Church there felt hopelessly mired in politics. Accusations flew that the Church conspires with the government to block visas. It’s hard to know what’s true.
I don’t know what the future holds for the Christians of Iraq. But I know this—until there’s a solution, or at least an agreed-upon path, it is our duty here in the United States to do more. Collectively, especially the younger generations, we have taken for granted the sacrifice made by our forefathers to pursue the promise of America. It wasn’t that long ago. Iraq is our history, our memory. We must never forget.
As the sun set in Telkaif, our security detail started to get antsy. We shouldn’t be here past dark. We boarded the bus. My mind wandered to the two young boys. What would the rest of their night be like? What would they do the next morning?
Selfishly, I thought to myself, but for the vision and courage of my immigrant father and others like him, and but for the Grace of God, there go I. And maybe all of us.