Iraq Stories: Ah Gaed tae Iraq—No tae Pruive Ocht, but Acause Babylon Is Still Thaur

Baghdad. The Tigris River. Sax in the mornin. A fisherman stuid at the boo o his widden skiff, castin his net wi the exact same motion depictit on Assyrian reliefs twa thoosan year ago. Across the river, Mutannabi Street wis waukenin up — beuksellers onrowin tarpaulins, layin oot yellawed vollums on apen-air stalls. The teahouse fornent wis sendin up the mornin's first tendril o charcoal reik. Frae a speaker somewhaur alang the riverbank cam the mornin news in Arabic — the Iraqi pairlament debatin some bill, the anchor's pace as rapid as somebody tryin tae feenish a sentence afore the Ramadan fast begins. Ainly the distant fechter jets an the whiles cushat crossin owerheid remeended ye that this wisnae an auncient Mesopotamian mornin — this wis Iraq in 2026.

Ah haednae come here oot o heroism. No acause Ah wantit tae 'chaallenge' a kintra defined as dangerous by Wastren media. It wis acause, efter a single search for 'Iraq Warld Cup 2026,' ma screen haed shawn mair than traivel wairnins — it haed shawn a photae o the ruins o Babylon. A blue-glazed lion, twa an a hauf thoosan year auld, ahent a cheen-link fence in a stoury courtyard, awmaist entirely alane. Ma thocht at that meenit: gin Babylon is still thaur, why is naebody gaun?

Iraq sits in the Middle East, auncient Mesopotamia — 'the laund atween twa rivers.' The Tigris an Euphrates meet here, giein birth tae humanity's earliest civilisation: cuneiform writin, the Code o Hammurabi, the Hangin Gairdens. Wars an conflict sin 2003 hae reewritten this kintra's name frae 'cradle o civilisation' tae 'conflict zone.' But the Lions o Mesopotamia — Iraq's naitional team — will represent this kintra on the Warld Cup stage in 2026. For mony fowk wha hae nivver searched for Iraq, fitbaw is the first raison tae apen this door.

Mutannabi Street hosts Baghdad's best beuk market ivry Friday. The selection is a scrammelt timeline: yellawed poetry collections aside cheap English textbeuks, Saddam-era poleetical pamphlets aside dugs-lugged Arabic translations o Harry Potter. A beukshop awner — readin glesses perched on his nose, fingers gray frae decades o ink an stour — spoke tae me in English: 'Durin Saddam's time, the beukshops on this street wur burnt. Durin the American invasion, thay wur burnt again. But the beuks didnae dee, an the river didnae chynge.' He gestured ootside at the Tigris: 'This river is aulder than ivry regime we've haed combined. It haes seen the kings o Babylon, the poets o the Abbasid dynasty, British tanks — an the noo it watches us.'

The ruins o Babylon are aboot echtty-five kilometre sooth o Baghdad, a twa-oor drive. But thae twa oors pass throu at least fower military checkpynts an a stretch o airspace that American drones wance patrolled heavily. Arrivin, Ah coontit twa vehicles in the paurkin lot — ane belanging tae the guide an the ither tae a staff member o Iraq's antiquities authority. The guide, a local frae Babylon Govrenorate cried Hassan, apened the heavy iron gate o the archaeological site wi the casual ease o somebody unlockin thair ain back gairden: 'It's no tourist season — Babylon is nivver tourist season.' He pyntit at the Ishtar Gate — its blue-glazed bricks, the dragons an bulls still intact — an said: 'Whan Nebuchadnezzar II biggit this gate, Babylon wis the mucklest ceity on Yird. The noo — the noo it disnae even hae a bus route.' Thaur wis nae sel-pity in his tone. Juist a statement.

Faurer north, Erbil, the capital o the Kurdistan Region o Iraq, operates at an entirely different pace an security level. The Citadel — the auldest contin'ously inhabitit settlement on Yird, nivver abandoned in sax thoosan year — rises frae the ceity centre lik a giant saund-coloured cake. A Kurdish university student took me tae his favourite kebab staund an, atween ravenous bites, telt me aboot Aymen Hussein's latest goal, scoured wi a heider agin Oman. 'The hail teahouse in Erbil jumpit at wance — Kurds, Arabs, Turkmen — thaur wis ainly ae identity in that ruim.' He uised his kebab skewer tae draw the shape o a fitbaw pitch on the table, an wrote twa wirds in the middle: Iraq.

The Mesopotamian Marshes in the sooth — the legendary site o the Gairden o Eden — wur the last, an maist surreal, thing Ah saw in Iraq. Floatin reed hooses kent as mudhif rockit gently on the watter. Watter buffalo shawed naethin abuin the surface but nostrils an a pair o curved horns. A boatman, staundin in his mashoof canoe, said in simple English: 'Saddam wance tried tae drain aw thir marshes — tae punish the Marsh Arabs wha bid here. The watter disappeared for ten year. Syne the Americans cam, an the watter returnt. The noo — the watter gangs doon, it comes up, it gangs doon again. The marshes are still the marshes.' He dippit his paddle; aheid o us, a flock o white birds liftit aff. Nae commentary wis needit. The facts thairsels cairried aw the wecht.

On ma last evenin in Baghdad, Ah gaed back tae the teahouse on Mutannabi Street. Same seat, same pot o Arabic coffee. At the neist table, a young man wis translatin the latest Iraq Warld Cup qualifyin news frae his phone tae his friends in Arabic, the wirds 'Mbappé' an 'Messi' whiles brekkin throu — fitbaw is the universal dialect. As Ah wrote thir final notes, the cry tae prayer soondit frae ootside. The Tigris, invisible in the mirk, wis ainly audible the noo — the soond o watter muivin. Ah wantit tae fit ivrythin intae a single sentence, but Hassan — the guide frae Babylon — haed awready written it for me whan Ah left: 'Ye ken, less than a hunner year efter Nebuchadnezzar dee'd, Babylon wis tuim. But the day's traivel guidebeuks? Iraq gets a single line: Dae no traivel. This ceity's luck is no great — history gied it a title ower grand, an the praisent gied it a review ower wee.' Ah peyed for ma coffee. Ah signed the guestbeuk — even tho naebody wad read it.