I have enjoyed seeing tourism increasing in Iraq in recent years and getting a front row seat to watching foreigners falling in love with this land and its people. It’s hard not to love them! Iraq and its people have a way of getting into your heart and sticking there. For sure, you will experience it for yourself once you come.
When I first visited Mosul in 2021 just before moving to Iraq, I was met with resistance from many other ex-pats in Iraq, hearing a resounding, “It’s too dangerous”, “You can’t move there, it’s not safe”, “I’m sorry to crush your dreams, but Mosul is too dangerous, you can’t go”. And that’s what so many of us have heard about Iraq, especially Mosul, is it not? It’s a nation and a city we were taught to fear. Mosul got labeled based on its past and a time within history, blinding people from being able to see the beauty and new chapters being written in its story.
The warnings from these ex-pats were all well-intentioned and reflected their care. But I’m so thankful I didn’t listen to their fear and chose instead to lean into the possibility of what this city holds. And if you are considering visiting Iraq, I hope you’ll do the same.
I am a trauma and crisis counselor, and I made the decision to move to Mosul to be a part of the current rebuilding in the city and to see people healed from the trauma that they have collectively experienced over the course of recent decades.
Culturally though, it is not common to seek therapy or to talk to people about trauma or anything related to mental health. So daily, I am humbled to the very core of my being by the trust that the people of Mosul have given me, letting me into the most tender and vulnerable parts of themselves, confessing the parts of them that they believe are too ugly or shameful to share with another, and allowing me to bear witness to their trauma, their pain, their stories. It is one of the greatest honors of my life to get to carry their burdens and to walk the journey of healing with them, and to see PTSD became just a part of their story, and no longer a current reality they must live with.
Join the circle!
Get our latest stories, travel reports, and new adventures before anyone else
Thank you!
You have successfully joined our subscriber list.
I was the first known foreigner in decades to live in Mosul, not in a compound, but in a neighborhood and among the people. So when I first moved to the city, I heard a number of the local Moslawi people say, “There are foreigners living here, so Mosul is safe now”. Just simply being present brought a sense of felt safety to my community. As counselors, we’re taught that the number one need of every trauma survivor is the need to feel safe, and that who we are as counselors is ultimately what brings healing. The theories we implement and modalities we utilize are secondary to who we are and how we show up for people. It’s far more powerful in the healing process to be a safe presence, to hold space and listen, and to have the trust of the people we sit with. Presence over performance. Showing up with warmth and care to listen over always having the right thing to say. Trusted connection over top technique. That’s what heals. That’s what people need. Sometimes just showing up really is enough.
And you’ll see that too when you come. You’ll see how much your presence matters. Iraqis love to have their picture taken, often not even wanting to see the photo you took, but they will just walk away with a skip in their step and grinning ear to ear, happy to have had their picture taken and to have had a moment where they were seen by you. And they also will want selfies with you, because your presence brings them joy and they will want to show others who they got to meet that day- you. If they speak any English, they will want to speak with you to show you how much they know, but even if they don’t, they will still try to find other points of connection and ways to communicate with you, desiring connection even if language is limited.
There’s truly a healing power in the simplicity of presence. And in my years of living in Mosul, that power has been a reciprocated blessing of healing…
“TaHtaj shai?” This is the Arabic way to ask, “Do you need anything?” This is a common question that Iraqis ask one another when saying goodbye and before parting ways. This simple question reflects one of the most deeply profound parts of Iraqi culture. It is evidence of the heart of service to one another that is built into the cultural DNA of the people.
And that’s the thing about Iraqis- is that if you need help, you can always find it with ease. They take care of each other and look out for each other. And if you’re blessed enough to live or be among them, you’re included in that too. They are never a people to run away from a problem or from trouble, but on the contrary, they run to those in need. If you need help, you will find it. And they will never make you feel like you are too needy, a burden, or any level of inconvenience. They will gladly allow themselves to be “inconvenienced”, considering it a joy to be able to help you.
I have had taxi drivers go far above and beyond their call of duty to drive me from point A to point B, by buying me snacks for the road, getting out of the vehicle with me at checkpoints to make sure they have eyes on me at all times ensuring that I am okay, contacting with other drivers to make sure they know where to bring me and that I’m being respected, and inviting me for dinner with their whole extended family, providing the very best that they have to offer. I have had the guys at my nearest fruit and vegetable stand treat me like their sister and are always there to step in and help when my electricity isn’t working or I’m having trouble getting the proper gas bottle refilled. There are electricians that I can no longer call electricians, because they are now my friends and my brothers and men that genuinely look out for me, provide for me, serve me, and check in on me when there’s security issues in the region. There are people from every corner of the city that check on me when I’m sick and offer to go out of their way to bring me medicine and take care of me. If I’m seen carrying something heavy, within moments, someone nearby will have dropped what they were doing to come and carry said heavy thing for me. I have neighbors that regularly let me know that they are always available if ever I need anything and I have friends that always remind me, just so I don’t forget, that they are “ready to serve”, day or night, with whatever I need. I couldn’t possibly list it all, because it’s a daily service that I am on the receiving end of. I am surrounded by an army of uncles and brothers, and by my big Mosul family, that have selflessly served me and taken care of me over these years. And when I express my deep felt gratitude, feeling completely undeserving of such care, I’m always responded to with “I like helping you”, or “you’re our sister, it’s our duty”, “this is what neighbors do, we help each other” or “you are here to help my people, so it’s the least I can do to help you too”.
They say, “it takes a village”, and I stand as proof of that. It has taken the big village of Mosul coming together, to take care of this foreigner who is fumbling her way through navigating life in a new culture and city, helping me to thrive in a place so different from where I come from. They give unmerited grace to my countless cultural and language blunders. They extend patience when I still operate in ways counter to the society around me. And they continue to count me as “Iraqi” anyways; part of them.
But it’s just who they are. That is Mosul. That is Iraq. A people that care for you without any ulterior motives and expecting nothing in return because they see you as one with them. A people of honor and unmatched kindness. A people that value “we” over “me”, presence over performance, quality time over productivity, unhurried contentment over busy self-promotion, and interdependence over independence. All things that rub against my pride and humble me so needfully.
In Iraq, we love closeness and community. You’re always invited, and no one will ever feel left out because you belong with us. The cups of tea are always bottomless and extra sweet, both from the sugar and conversations held around them. The dolma and kubba are always hot and plentiful, so that you’ll always be satisfied. And the rounds of cards or backgammon can be long and go into the night as we enjoy time together, not needing to accomplish anything other than togetherness.
“TaHtaj shai?”
It’s a question that I would initially always respond to with a “No, thank you, I don’t need anything”, even if I did. A response that reflected my own trauma history manifested in an unhealthy hyper-independence; an ugly pride that always thought “I got this”, and that I could help others, but I didn’t need any help myself.
“TaHtaj shai?”
A question that once challenged me and made my insides turn at the thought of allowing others to help me, but a question that now, because of my Moslawi community, I’m learning to humbly embrace. The hyper-independence is slowly being squashed out of me, and healing is taking place in my own heart, something that could only happen from such a consistent, caring presence of the people around me. I’m learning to not just accept help, but to ask for it. I’m learning to be a villager and to live within the beauty of our intended design for an inter-dependence on one another. It really is sometimes just about presence and the way we show up for each other that makes the biggest difference.
I came here thinking the people of Mosul needed healing and needed what I have to offer. And in a sense, many of them do. Because that’s the point- that we all need each other. We all bring something to the shared table of our humanity and have something to offer each other. Many may need trauma healing services, they need someone to listen who won’t share their story with another, and they need our presence. But I’m convinced that we need them just as much. Maybe even more. I have seen how much I need Iraqis and what they have to offer and how who they are brings healing. There’s something so uniquely powerful and special about the presence of the Iraqi people and the way they show up that profoundly touches every visitor.
I think this is why people who come to Iraq end up loving it so much. Globally, we have largely lost touch with the parts of the human existence that Iraqis still hold onto. In a world that is losing genuine connection with one another, Iraq heals a part of us that we maybe didn’t even recognize was wounded. Many in the west find themselves living with a malaise of isolation, fragmentation, and loneliness without even realizing it. The Iraqi people remind us of the beauty, nay, of the need that we have as humans for one another. The need for connection, for community, for kindness, for hospitality. We wrongfully tend to think we need to be about self-preservation, self-promotion, self-care and looking out for ourselves, but Iraqis remind us that it’s in humbly giving ourselves away and in service to others that we truly find life. Their way of life needfully corrects our pride and our tendency to focus on self, not realizing the social atomization we’ve produced. Their generosity and care for others, including a stranger, forces us to look in the mirror and examine our own values, ways of being, and how far we’ve departed from what truly matters. We’re reminded that we were created for communal living, which has largely been lost in modern society to false connections via social media platforms. In our fast-paced, hurried world that is so focused on what you’re able to produce, the pace of Iraq naturally forces us to slow down and just enjoy another cup of tea with someone. Because that shared cup of tea with a stranger might actually be a sacred ritual of rebuilding lost relational bonds, and it’s in that space we see that sometimes the most valuable thing you can produce is a friend.
So, taHtaj shai?
Yes Iraq, we need YOU. We need who you are. We need Your culture of honor Your warm welcomes to a stranger Your lifestyle of connection and community Your sense of belonging that you offer Your heart-felt service Your commitment to family Your ability to rise from the ashes Your ability to hold onto hope when hope seems lost Your resilience that comes through communal bonds Your perseverance through hardship Your devotion to prayer You.
And to the foreigner traveler- come! We need you too. We’re waiting for you. We long for your presence. You have a seat at our table and we want you with us.
Text and photos by Lynne S. All rights reserved. You can see more of her work her Instagram.
Note from Walk beside:
Like Lynne, we believe that the best way to understand a place is by taking the time to sit with people, share a cup of tea, listen to their stories, and experience the warmth of everyday life. Mosul is a perfect example of this.
If you would like to experience Iraq and travel the country with a local guide, and meet the people who make this land unforgettable, we invite you to join our 10-day Iraq expedition next year.
From the south of Iraq, starting in Basra, to the north and Erbil, we will explore the diversity of this country, its history, its traditions, and most importantly, the people who call it home. Discover all the details of our Iraq tour here