We step out of the elevator to piles of pointed patent leather shoes arranged outside the door, in Iraqi- Kurdistan always a sure sign you’ve arrived at the right place. We remove our not so pointed, not so patent shoes and walk onto the glistening marble floor of a pent house apartment. The apartment is filled with shoeless Kurdish and Arab businessmen, industrialists and entrepreneur. The men range anywhere from 30 to 50 years in age and reek of shady dealings. There are no women here. As I glance up at the 3 consecutive chandeliers cascading across the ceiling, dripping in crystal I can’t help but think I’ve propelled myself into the belly of the beast. Then as two Ethiopian slaves, I mean servants appear producing platters piled high with baklava, dates and greasy grilled meat; I’ve removed all doubt. In this moment I know I’m in the belly of the beast. So what’s an idealistic American blonde, exempt from gender norms to do at a moment like this? Drink heavily? That’s what my partner in crime (the other blonde American) generally opts for. So as she heads for the Scotch I decide it's an opportune time to delve into the current upheaval in Egypt. Nothing like good corruption chat laced with pleasantries. So off I go onto the deep dark road of government corruption in the Middle East amongst the men who facilitate it. Iraq's recently topped the corruption charts as number 4 in the world and I can't help myself.
I have always considered experiences such as these highly valuable, but what happens when these people become your “friends”. The term friendship is negotiable like all things in the Middle East including the number of wives a man has, your daughter’s nuptials, a barrel of oil and how much you will pay for that political favor now and maybe two to three fold in the future. Nonetheless, if you spend enough time in the belly of the beast you may just develop some of their eating habits. And these acquaintances become that have now become friends may one day become co-conspirators.
A dear friend of mine would always warn that the company you keep might turn into the company you provide. I generally escape grazes with corruption unscathed but for how long? I even recently have wondered what is so wrong with the luxury these people choose to live. Crystals cascading across the ceiling and swimming pool in your penthouse is nothing I’d want for myself but who am I to judge? At moments like these I believe it is best to hearken back to the dear revolutionary, Mr. Guevara. I do not idealize Che nor do I diminish the violent acts he committed but, he was really on to something with the idea that "The amount of poverty and suffering required for the emergence of a Rockefeller, and the amount of depravity that the accumulation of a fortune of such magnitude entails, are left out of the picture, and it is not always possible to make the people in general see this." For a few moments munching on Baklava and staring at business suits I forget the idea described by our Venezuelan friend. But then the Ethiopian servants shuffles in, head down avoiding eye contact and I remember why extravagance like this should not exist.
So to the Rockefellers of the Middle East, I thank you for the experience and excuse myself as not allow those acquaintances to become anything more than a good story.
