I was pleased to return to Erbil. I have friends there. Their posts and roles did not affect their preoccupation with people's concerns and questions about the future. I was pleased to see, in this beleaguered part of the Middle East, a city where buildings are racing toward space, policemen are regulating traffic, courts are adjudicating disputes, a government is convening and making decisions, and a parliament holding it accountable. I, an Arab journalist, was pleased to see a city where electricity is available round the clock. This is not possible to see in Beirut, in Cairo, and certainly not in Sana'a – let alone Damascus, dear reader, which is reeling from both obscurity and oppression. I was pleased. But I am an unfortunate journalist. My joy is transient and my disappointment is long-lasting. I travel in search of news, only to be met with saddening stories and painful conclusions. I returned to Erbil on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of the U.S. invasion, to ask about the future of Iraq and not about the future of the Kurdistan region, while realizing the difficulty of separating the two. When you pose questions in Erbil, you must remember that the region is encumbered with the burdens of history and geography, having borders with an edgy Iran, a prowling Turkey, and a careworn Syria. I asked a man who knows the ins and outs of the story. He answered, “I will not lie to you. I do not know exactly how things will end up looking like. “What is certain is that the Iraq that you knew before the invasion is now dead. This is something that Nuri al-Maliki, Usama al-Nujayfi and Massoud Barzani realize." “Let's be honest. The Shias are sailing in one direction, the Sunnis in another. The Kurds are sailing in a third direction." The man paused briefly, before he added, with a smile, “The situation in Iraq is almost like that of a wealthy man sitting on oil, but who died suddenly because of tremors at home and beyond. This wealthy man had three sons: One Shia, one Sunni, and one Kurd, who are now squabbling over their shares of the land, fortune, and power. And out of the fighting between the heirs, another Iraq will be born, though it will certainly not resemble the old one." He also said, “It seems to me that the nation-state that emerged in the 1920s, which failed to solidify the notions of citizenship, pluralism, and mutual recognition, is now finished. Maps may not be torn yet, but they will have to see new arrangements. I also believe that the Syria we knew is now dead too. The Alawis are sailing in one direction, and the Sunnis in another." He then added, “We used to go to Beirut and say we must learn from the Lebanese the art of coexistence. But does it not intrigue you that the Orthodox draft electoral law (which stipulates that each sect can alone vote for its representatives) emerged in light of the Syrian fragmentation? “Would Hezbollah have supported General Michel Aoun over this proposal had it not been in agreement with Iran's new policies in the region, based on rescuing parts if it becomes impossible to retain the whole?" I became exhausted by such painful conclusions. I decided to ignore them. The night in Erbil was magnificent, and dinner was a delight. Among those present was a reticent and quiet Syrian businessman. I asked him about his country, and he complained of the extremists in both camps of the conflict. He spoke to me about Aleppo and the destruction and looting of its factories. He spoke to me about the ashes that once used to be its markets and historical edifices. The calm man went on and his reticence soon gave way. He told me, in a whispering voice, “The Syria that we knew is now dead." I remembered that I had heard the same expression a few hours earlier from the Iraqi politician. Dinner dragged out and saddening stories continued. I returned to my friend's house troubled. I felt that the same expression would meet me if I visited Sana'a. Who knows, it could also be waiting for me in Cairo. An earthquake has struck the region and we are now witnessed the birth of a terrible new Middle East. We console ourselves by saying that it is but a transitional phase full of blood and mud and that it is inevitable. But I fear that I will soon visit Beirut, and be met with a sober politician who would tell me, “The Lebanon that you knew is now dead."
