Iraq Tori dem: I Go Iraq—No Be to Prove Anything, But Because Babylon Still Dey

Baghdad. Di Tigris River. Six for morning. One fisherman stand for di bow of im wooden skiff, dey cast im net with di exact same motion wey dem dey show for Assyrian reliefs two thousand years ago. Across di river, Mutannabi Street dey wake up — booksellers dey unroll tarpaulins, dey lay out yellowed volumes for open-air stalls. Di teahouse opposite dey send up di morning first tendril of charcoal smoke. From one speaker somewhere along di riverbank come di morning news for Arabic — di Iraqi parliament dey debate one bill, di anchor pace rapid like person wey dey try finish sentence before Ramadan fast begin. Only di distant fighter jets and di occasional pigeon wey dey cross overhead remind you sey dis no be ancient Mesopotamian morning — dis na Iraq for 2026.

I no come here from heroism. No be because I wan 'challenge' one country wey Western media don define as dangerous. E be because, after one single search for 'Iraq World Cup 2026,' my screen don show more dan travel warnings — e don show one photograph of di ruins of Babylon. One blue-glazed lion, two and half thousand years old, behind one chain-link fence for one dusty courtyard, almost entirely alone. My thought for dat moment: if Babylon still dey, why nobody dey go?

Iraq dey sit for di Middle East, ancient Mesopotamia — 'di land between two rivers.' Di Tigris and Euphrates meet here, dey give birth to humanity earliest civilization: cuneiform writing, di Code of Hammurabi, di Hanging Gardens. Wars and conflict since 2003 don rewrite dis country name from 'cradle of civilization' to 'conflict zone.' But di Lions of Mesopotamia — Iraq national team — go represent dis country for di World Cup stage for 2026. For many people wey neva search for Iraq before, football na di first reason to open dis door.

Mutannabi Street dey host Baghdad best book market every Friday. Di selection na scrambled timeline: yellowed poetry collections beside cheap English textbooks, Saddam-era political pamphlets beside dog-eared Arabic translations of Harry Potter. One bookstore owner — reading glasses perch for im nose, fingers grey from decades of ink and dust — speak to me for English: 'During Saddam time, dem burn di bookstores for dis street. During di American invasion, dem burn dem again. But di books no die, and di river no change.' E gesture outside at di Tigris: 'Dis river old pass every regime wey we don ever get combined. E don see di kings of Babylon, di poets of di Abbasid dynasty, British tanks — and now e dey watch us.'

Di ruins of Babylon dey about eighty-five kilometers south of Baghdad, two-hour drive. But dose two hours dey pass through at least four military checkpoints and one stretch of airspace wey American drones once patrol heavily. As I dey arrive, I count two vehicles for di parking lot — one belong to di guide and di other belong to one staff member of Iraq antiquities authority. Di guide, one local from Babylon Governorate wey dem call Hassan, open di heavy iron gate of di archaeological site with di casual ease of person wey dey unlock im own backyard: 'E no be tourist season — Babylon neva be tourist season.' E point at di Ishtar Gate — im blue-glazed bricks, di dragons and bulls still intact — and talk: 'When Nebuchadnezzar II build dis gate, Babylon na di largest city for Earth. Now — now e no even get bus route.' No self-pity dey im tone. Just one statement.

Further north, Erbil, di capital of di Kurdistan Region of Iraq, dey operate at one entirely different pace and security level. Di Citadel — di oldest continuously inhabited settlement for Earth, neva abandoned for six thousand years — dey rise from di city center like one giant sand-colored cake. One Kurdish university student carry me go im favorite kebab stall and, between hungry bites, tell me about Aymen Hussein latest goal, wey e score with header against Oman. 'Di whole teahouse for Erbil jump at once — Kurds, Arabs, Turkmen — only one identity dey dat room.' E use im kebab skewer to draw di shape of one football pitch for di table, and write two words for di middle: Iraq.

Di Mesopotamian Marshes for di south — di legendary site of di Garden of Eden — na di last, and most surreal, thing wey I see for Iraq. Floating reed houses wey dem know as mudhif dey rock gently for di water. Water buffalo show nothing above di surface except nostrils and one pair of curved horns. One boatman, dey stand for im mashoof canoe, talk for simple English: 'Saddam once try to drain all dese marshes — to punish di Marsh Arabs wey live here. Di water disappear for ten years. Den di Americans come, and di water return. Now — di water dey go down, e dey come up, e dey go down again. Di marshes still be di marshes.' E dip im paddle; ahead of us, one flock of white birds lift off. No commentary need. Di facts themselves carry all di weight.

For my last evening for Baghdad, I return to di teahouse for Mutannabi Street. Same seat, same pot of Arabic coffee. For di next table, one young man dey translate di latest Iraq World Cup qualifying news from im phone to im friends for Arabic, di words 'Mbappé' and 'Messi' occasionally dey break through — football na di universal dialect. As I dey write dese final notes, di call to prayer sound from outside. Di Tigris, invisible for di darkness, now only audible — di sound of water dey move. I wan fit everything inside one single sentence, but Hassan — di guide from Babylon — don already write am for me when I leave: 'You sabi, less dan one hundred years after Nebuchadnezzar die, Babylon empty. But today travel guidebooks? Iraq dey get one single line: Do not travel. Dis city luck no big — history give am title too grand, and di present give am review too small.' I pay for my coffee. I sign di guestbook — even though nobody go read am.