Susan Taylor Martin
	Times Senior Correspondent
	susan@sptimes.com

Times Senior Correspondent Susan Taylor Martin and photographer John Pendygraft are reporting from northern Iraq through the country's elections on Jan. 30.

Jan. 30, 2005

IRBIL, Iraq - Small world - who should I run into on Iraq's election but my old friend Bob Kennedy.

Bob's real name is Kadir Beker, and he was born here in Kurdish northern Iraq. But at the height of Saddam Hussein's atrocities against the Kurds, he and his family moved to Vancouver. There he anglicized his name to "Bob" and ran an Iraqi restaurant.

After Hussein was deposed, Bob returned to northern Iraq to visit, and I interviewed him last year for a story on the Kurds. Since then, he's gone back and forth to Canada, but lo and behold, there he was this morning at the same polling place as John and I.

Now he's reverted to his original name - Kadir - and is working with the PDK, one of the two main Kurdish parties. As a PDK official, he didn't have to wait in a long line to vote, but was in and out quickly.

"I'm happy, very happy," he said, looking dapper in a knee-length gray woolen coat. "This election will be very clean - there's lots of security and police."

Bob, er, Kadir's prediction turned out to be true - voting in Kurdish-controlled areas of the north was about as smooth as it could be. We visited several polling places, and the only significant complaint we heard was the that the ballot boxes - which looked suspiciously like Rubbermaid plastic storage containers - weren't big enough to hold all the ballots cast for the Iraqi Transitional National Assembly.

The 275-member assembly will write a permanent constitution for Iraq that, Kurds hope, will ensure they remain largely autonomous. Kurdish officials were hoping for a big turnout so Kurdish parties will win a significant bloc of seats in the new assembly.

And it looks like they got it. Every place we went, there were long lines.

"The biggest problem is me - I haven't eaten lunch yet," said Mohammed Arab, a poll monitor for the PDK party. It was after 3 p.m. and the polling place in the little village of Perzeen, north of Irbil, was still so busy that Arab (He's a Kurd but "Arab" really is his last name) hadn't left the room all day.

Arab watched with some bemusement as a woman struggled to figure out which ballot should go in which box. Kurds were actually voting in three separate elections: for the national assembly, for a Kurdish assembly and for local offices.

"It'll be another 20 years before this nation knows how to put a ballot in a box," he joked.

In Perzeen as elsewhere, all voters were carefully searched before entering the polling sites - the women taken into a small booth to be frisked by female guards. Voting, too, was generally segregated by sex, although families typically voted together.

Many mothers brought their babes in arms; among the more poignant sights was an 83-year-old woman literally being carried in to a voting place in Salahaddin, headquarters of the PDK, by her daughter and grandson.

"This is a blessed day," she said in a barely audible voice, and only the most hardened of souls could disagree with her.

Jan. 29, 2005

IRBIL, Iraq - We had a treat today - 13-year-old Muhammed got out his violin and played the Kurds' national anthem for us:

"The Kurdish nation is still alive,

Whoever says the Kurdish nation is dead is lying,

We water our freedom with blood"

Muhammed is the son of Jalal Hamza Kakasheen, a candidate for local government here in Irbil, capital of Kurdish northern Iraq. The country's 5-million Kurds will vote Sunday not just for members of a Baghdad-based national assembly, but also for the Kurdish parliament and local offices.

[Times photo: John Pendygraft] Muhammed Jalal Hamza, 13, plays a rendition of the Kurdish National anthem in his living room.

Unlike many candidates in other parts of Iraq, Kakasheen has taken no special security precautions "except this" - he pulled back his dark suit jacket to reveal a pistol at his waist.

"As Kurds we have faced many dangers - chemical weapons, mass destruction - so such things do not frighten me. I am not afraid of terrorists."

Even though Kurdish areas are the safest in Iraq, Kakasheen, 48, says he wouldn't be surised if there is some election-day violence. Months ago, dozens of members of the two main Kurdish parties - the PDK and the KUP - were killed in suicide bombings at party headquarters. Kakasheen says he, too, likely would have died except that he was at home recovering from a serious car accident.

An official in the Kurdish Ministry of Education, Kakasheen was selected by his party, the PDK, to run because of his expertise in educational issues. He once taught English and also was manager of the Institute of Fine Arts in Irbil.

There he was exposed to classical music but never learned to play any instruments himself. That's why he has encouraged his son Muhammed to take up the violin, in hopes he might someday become a musician.

By American standards, Kakasheen's campaign has been rather low-key. He messaged everyone on his mobile phone list to vote for the "Voice of Democratic Kurdistan" slate. He also visited some families and passed out campaign literature.

Because candidates in Iraq run as part of a slate, not as individuals, "We work together," he says. But all official campaigning comes to an end 48 hours before the election, meaning there are no more TV, radio or newspaper ads.

Wouldn't it be nice to try that in the U.S. sometime?

IRBIL - In terms of peace and prosperity, Kurds like to boast that their part of Iraq is at least 12 years ahead of the rest of the country. They're doing pretty well in the red tape department, too.

Since we arrived a week ago, we've spent a good chunk of time running around trying to get credentials to cover Sunday's historic elections.

The first step was obtaining a press pass from the PDK, the Kurdish political party that controls this area of northern Iraq. As I reported in an earlier blog item, it was snowing so hard that the PDK man we were supposed to meet in Salahaddin, the PDK headquarters, got stuck and instead came to our hotel here in Irbil to collect our photos and application. But we still had to go to the PDK office in Irbil to get the press pass signed.

Next came visits to two different offices of the Electoral Commission, which issues credentials for journalists to visit polling places on election day. We filled out applications, complete with photos, copies of our passport, etc.

At one office, the electoral folks told us they'd process our application here in Irbil. Instead they sent everything to Baghdad, and we never heard from them again.

At the other office, we were told to come back in a few days.

In the meantime, we learned that we needed permission from the Kurdish Ministry of the Interior just to move around on Sunday. So we took the ministry the same stuff we'd given the electoral folks: photos, passport copies etc.

"Come back Saturday and your credentials will be ready," we were told.

Bright and early this morning, we were at the interior ministry, along with dozens of other pushing, shoving foreign journalists and local Kurds. Amazingly, order emerged from chaos fairly quickly, and we each got a laminated ID card with color photograph.

As a bonus, they also threw in a plastic card holder and a choice of red, yellow, black or marooon lanyards with which to hang the IDs around the neck.

But we still had to pick up a vehicle sticker for our driver, since only authorized vehicles will be allowed on the roads Sunday. So it was off to yet another office, where there were two problems with sticker:

1) Whoever issued it had neglected to include the tag number of our driver's Nissan SUV.

2) The same person thought that the newspaper the driver worked for was the St. Petersburg Times in Russia, not the St. Petersburg Times in Florida. (Yes, there are two English-language papers of the same name, which often causes confusion.)

It took some doing to convince the bureaucrats that the driver was working for Americans, not Russians, and that he drives a Nissan with tag number 44289. Only then did they hand over the big sticker he must put on the windshield Sunday.

AND WE STILL WEREN'T FINISHED!!!

This afternoon, we had go to back the second electoral commission office to get our passes so we could go inside the polling places, not just hang around outside.

Alas, we were told, the passes weren't ready. In fact, we were told, we weren't getting any passes at all because Baghdad never approved them.

It's moments like this that make you think bureaucrats, not war, will be the end of the world.

At last, a friendly, efficient secretary came up with a solution: She'd write us a permission letter and get her boss to sign it. He did, and now we're good to go - we think.

One thing we did get plenty of was tea - even bureaucrats politely offer tea to their visitors. John says he drank 16 glasses before he lost count.

Jan. 28, 2005

Since today is Friday, the Muslim holy day, most businesses in Irbil were closed. So our driver took me to a little shop in Ankawa, a village near here with with a large Christian population. (It's also home to a small unit of American soldiers.)

There was no running water, so a young woman heated water in a kettle, then poured it into a plastic tub. I sat in one of those molded plastic chairs while Iven, the stylist, carefully poured out just enough water to suds, rinse, suds and rinse.

The walls of her tiny shop were covered with glossy photos of beautifully coiffed brides in their wedding dresses. Kurds, the predominant population here in northern Iraq, go in for big weddings, and the bride and her bridesmaids often spend hours in shops like this getting their hair done and their faces professionally made up.

Iven herself is still unmarried at 30. But she loved pointing out photos of her favorite brides.

"Are you going to vote Sunday?" I asked, referring to Iraq 's first democratic elections.

"No," she said. "That's my only day off and I want to be free."

The price for an excellent shampoo and blow-dry was just 5,000 Iraqi dinars - about $3. I gave Iven a 2,500 dinar tip but she insisted that was too much and handed back 1,000 dinars. I told her I'd return.

On the way back to Irbil, we were passed by two vans full of laughing young women waving colorful scarves out the windows. They were on their way to a wedding - Friday is a big day for them. The drivers honked madly, and other motorists grinned and waved.

For the past few days, we've also been hearing loudspeakers blaring out slogans for various candidates and political parties. After a slow start, the election campaign is finally in full swing, but tonight is the last we'll see - or hear - of cars with loudspeakers on top. A nationwide travel ban goes into effect tonight - ironically, Iraq will in effect be under marshal law for its first free and fair election.

IRBIL, Iraq - There's just no getting around it - Iraqi Kurds don't like Turkey, and vice versa.

The Kurds are a non-Arab ethnic group that migrated from Central Asia eons ago and settled in the mountainous regions of Iraq, Turkey, Iran and Syria. For 15 years, Turkey waged war against its own 15-million Kurds as they resisted Turkish attempts to suppress their language and customs. It was only two years ago that Turkey and its Kurdish population finally declared a cease-fire.

But Turkey has kept a wary eye on neighboring Iraq, fearful that the Kurds here might try for independence if the rest of the country degenerates into chaos. The last thing Turkey wants is for its own restive Kurdish population to join an Iraqi Kurd independence drive. Turkish officials have made it clear that they would go to war rather than give up any of their territory to an independent Kurdish state.

The Turkish press frequently writes negative - some would say outlandish - things about Iraqi Kurds, and Kurds here in Iraq don't miss any opportunity to take a dig at Turkey.

One example: There are only two elevators in our new 10-story hotel here in Irbil, capital of Kurdish-controlled northern Iraq, and for the past several days one has been out of operation. That has caused problems with scores of guests trying to get up and down.

This morning I was waiting, as usual, for the one elevator to arrive when a Kurdish hotel staffer walked up.

"Are you going to get that fixed?" I asked, gesturing toward the inoperable elevator.

"Elevators no good," he replied. "Made in Turkey."

Jan. 26, 2005

IRBIL, Iraq - While John was trying to get permission for our driver to take us around on Sunday's election day (most traffic will be banned for security reasons), I spent some time with Dr. Mohammed Ihsan, Minister of Human Rights in the Kurdistan Regional Government.

Ihsan has worked closely with Greg Kehoe, the Tampa lawyer and former federal prosecutor in charge of building the criminal cases against Saddam Hussein and his top advisers. Shortly after "major fighting" ended in Iraq in 2003, Ihsan and Kehoe searched for the mass graves where hundreds of thousands of Kurds and other victims of Hussein's reign of terror are buried. Many were women and children - Ihsan showed me chilling photos, including one of a baby's skull with pacifier.

"We are looking at it not for forensic or political purposes but humanitarian purposes," he says. "Many Kurds are still looking for their mothers and fathers."

Like many of Iraq's 5-million Kurds, Ihsan has a story that is both tragic and inspiring. He, too, lost many relatives to Hussein's campaign against the Kurds, and left Iraq with his family at the height of the atrocities.

From a humble start as a dishwasher, Ihsan finished his education (University of Kentucky, the University of London) and earned his doctorate degree. He returned to northern Iraq in 2000, when the Kurdish areas were under British and American air protection.

Ihsan still has two brothers in San Diego and two sisters in Dallas - all the siblings are now in Nashville, Tenn., one of the few polling sites in the United States were expatriate Iraqis can vote in Sunday's election. His father is registered to vote in London.

Sadly, Ihsan's mother will not be able to take part in Iraq's first democratic election. She was in Mecca, Saudi Arabia, for the hajj, the pilgrimage all Muslims are supposed to make at least once in their lifetimes. She died a few days ago and was buried there, the holiest site in the Islamic world.

Earlier in the day we attended a press conference with another leading Kurdish official - Hosyar Zebari, Iraq's interim foreign minister. Based now in Baghdad, he came to Irbil, capital of the Kurdish areas, to stress the importance of this election to Iraqi Kurds.

[Times photo: John Pendygraft] Hosyar Zebari speaks to the press Wednesday from a table filled with microphones and flowers matching the colors of the Kurdish flag.

"Here you will see a different picture from other parts of the country," said Zebari, a jovial looking-man in a dark, pin-striped suit. "People here will go to the polls in large numbers, and there is great enthusiasm and readiness to cast ballots because Kurds understand the agenda - we need to have a strong presence in the upcoming Iraqi Transitional National Assembly."

The 275-member assembly will write a permanent constitution that Kurds hope will grant them considerable autonomy.

As he fielded journalists' questions in Kurdish and English, Zebari sat at a table abloom with red and yellow roses against a green and white backdrop - the colors of the Kurdish flag. It is, frankly, a bright and refreshing change from the flags of Arab countries, almost all of which have a lot of oppressive black in them.

I later asked about the significance of the Kurdish colors and got this explanation: Green is for agriculture and the richness of the land (northern Iraq, with its mountains and valleys, looks totally different than the desert south.) The white is for peace; the red is for victory and the yellow sunburst in the center represents a new beginning.

You never realize how much you miss a pair of old, beat-up boots until they're gone.

After we spent hours tramping around in mud yesterday, my boots were so caked with the stuff you could no longer tell they were black. I took them off and left them outside my room, with the idea of cleaning them after dinner.

When I returned to the room around 9, the boots were gone. I called housekeeping and was told they were being cleaned and would be returned in 5 minutes.

An hour and three phone calls later, the boots still had not arrived when I went to bed. Nor were they anywhere to be found this morning.

Was it possible they had been pitched by the housekeeping staff, unaware that the only other footwear I had was a pair of old bedroom slippers?

Desperately, I called the front desk clerk and the head housekeeper - no, they didn't know exactly where my boots were but both assured me they would be located before it was time to set out in 40 degree cold.

As I was waiting, bootless, in the lobby, up walked Burt, one of the many South African security guards working with private contractors here. Burt is in the room opposite mine, which is 518.

"You missing a pair of boots?" he asked in his Afrikaner-accented English. "My mate is in 418 and says he found a pair of strange boots in his room."

Mystery solved. Apparently, the hotel's staff also gets confused about floor numbers. (See previous blog entry about problems with hotel elevators.)

Jan. 25, 2005

IRBIL, Iraq -- The sun finally came out today, so John and I decided to head for Kirkuk, about an hour's drive away.

Kirkuk is often called a flash-point between Arabs and Kurds - during his "Arabization" campaign in the 1980s, Saddam Hussein forced thousands of Kurds to leave the city so members of his Baathist Party could move in. Since the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq two years ago, the Kurds have begun returning to Kirkuk to reclaim what they say are their rightful homes. (We'll be reporting more about this issue in a future St. Petersburg Times story.)

[Times photo: John Pendygraft] An Iraqi man sells black market gasoline on the road from Irbil to Kirkuk Tuesday.

I bought a nice green-and-black head scarf, similar to what Kurdish women wear, for the bargin price of 2,500 Iraqi dinars, or less than $2, at the big street market in Irbil. John got a black stocking cap with the logo of Real Madrid, the football club, plus a black and white keffiyeh which our translator showed him how to put on turban-style.

Our driver also swapped the SUV we'd been riding around in - "You don't want to be in what looks like an American government car" - for a more modest Opel. The windows were so dirty we could barely see out, but that was an advantage since any potentially hostile individuals couldn't see in.

As we pulled out of Irbil, we noticed long lines at the gas stations. Although Iraq has the world's second- or third-largest oil reserves (Canada sometimes figures in there after Saudi Arabia), you still see dozens of cars lined up at the pumps. But, as it turned out, this is due as much to good old entrepreneurship as to genuine gasoline shortages (though that happens, too, because of frequent sabotage of pipelines and refineries.)

A lot of motorists, we were told, wait in line to buy gas, or benzine as they call it here, then turn around and sell it to black market dealers, who jack up the price for those unwilling to wait to buy cheap fuel.

For 100 liters - about 25 gallons of gas - for example, you'd pay just $3 or $4 at the pump. The black market price can be as much as $50 for the same amount.

Ary Osman, 18, was selling benzine from 5-gallon containers at the side of the highway. He says business is good, which is fortunate since he and his brother, a soldier in the new Iraqi army, are the sole sources of income for their 12-member family.

We also bought a few bananas from a shy boy of 10 or 11 - he makes the equivalent of a few dollars a day selling Dulcita Brand bananas from Ecuador. He wanted about 25 cents a piece for them, but we gave him more - why, we wondered, wasn't he in school? He ran off before we could question him further.

Jan. 24, 2005

IRBIL, Iraq - Here in the Kurdish regions of northern Iraq, it's not violence that's threatening Sunday's elections. It's snow.

Much of the north is mountainous, and in the past several days snow and icy roads have made it hard to traverse high-country roads. If the foul weather continues, there's concern some Kurds won't be able to get to the polls - Kurdish officials hope for a near perfect turnout so Kurds, once oppressed by Saddam Hussein's regime, can win a significant bloc of seats in Iraq's Transitional National Assembly.

On Sunday, photographer John Pendygraft and I set out for Salahaddin, headquarters of the PDK, one of the two main Kurdish parties. We were to meet a Mr. Ibrahim so John could get press credentials to take pictures in PDK-controlled areas of the north.

As we left Irbil, the Kurdish capital, and started up the mountain to Salahaddin we noticed it getting foggier and foggier. Soon we were inching along in a foot of new snow in near white-out conditions. Visibility was less than 20 feet.

[Times photo: John Pendygraft] Driver Adeeb Yalda approaches a Kurdish checkpoint with a Times photographer and reporter through fog and snow Sunday.

He graciously agreed to meet us at our hotel in Irbil to take our applications for press credentials so we wouldn't have to go back to snowbound Salahaddin.

Speaking of hotels, we're staying in what is probably the newest, most modern hotel in Iraq - the Hotel Erbil. But everyone calls it the Sheraton - before the 1991 Gulf War, the Sheraton chain had several hotels in Iraq. The owner of this one, we were told, hoped to get a Sheraton franchise but the security situation apparently dictated otherwise.

Opened less than four months ago, the hotel has attractive rooms, a tasty buffet and friendly staff. It has become a favorite haunt of Kurdish officials, foreign contractors and - starting this week - journalists covering the Iraqi elections.

The only gripes would be with the business center, which has only two computer terminals with Internet access, and the elevators, which always stop at a floor below the number you want.

If, for example, you press 5, the elevator stops at 4. If you want to go to 5, you press 6.

Quipped a BBC producer: "That's to confuse the terrorists."

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