The thunder was so loud it could easily have been mistaken for a ballistic missile or drone strike -- like the hundreds that have hit Erbil, the capital of the semi-autonomous Kurdistan region of northern Iraq. Adamat's group did not flinch. They are used to the sound of explosions: Ankawa, the city's Christian district, lies close to the airport and a US base -- prime targets for groups operating on behalf of Tehran.
The conversation lingered on the rain rather than the attacks. After all, even before the ongoing US-Israel war against Iran -- now spilling into Iraq through paramilitary groups -- the country had long been at the center of the Middle East's most severe crises: political upheaval, the rise of the Islamic State and the fall of major cities such as Mosul, sectarian conflict between Shiites and Sunnis, the 2003 US invasion that led to the fall of Saddam Hussein, the international embargo following Iraq's invasion of Kuwait, and the Gulf War. These are only some of the events that have unfolded since 1990 in this land between the Tigris and the Euphrates -- events that also shaped Adamat's life; he immigrated with his parents to France when he was a year old, in search of a better future.
"I used to hate the rain, but now it makes me happy because the soil here needs it," Adamat tells Kathimerini. He returned permanently to his homeland in 2019, leaving behind a legal career in France, driven by a desire to give back to Iraq.
Almost everyone in the region is multilingual. Switching between Kurdish dialects and Arabic is common; many also speak Turkish, as well as fluent English -- particularly among the younger generations. A Chaldean-Assyrian himself, Adamat embodies the cultural density of a random city block in Erbil and, more broadly, the country's linguistic and religious diversity.
"We are not Arabs, nor Kurds, nor Turkmen -- we are Assyrians, descendants of an ancient civilization," he says with evident pride. "We are the last people in the world who still speak Aramaic."
He notes that 90% of Iraq's Christians have left over the past 25 years. "We were more than one million before 2003; now we are just 130,000."
To support the return of the country's Christian diaspora, Adamat founded the NGO The Return, which operates a Western-style co-working space for expatriates, local startups, and returning Iraqis who work remotely. It is located in a neighborhood where residents order quality Italian pizza from across the street -- in the language once spoken by Christ.
"There is normal life here, too," Adamat says. "People have a home and a car they don't owe to a bank, unlike in the West. There is no street crime. If you forget your phone and come back hours later, you will find it in the same place. My uncle was robbed and had his leg broken while walking around Omonia Square. That happened in Athens -- not here."
Decades of conflict and instability have done little to erode the sense of belonging. Perhaps that is what Adamat means -- half in jest -- when he writes on his Instagram page: "Make Mesopotamia Great Again," echoing the well-known slogan of the president whose country maintains troops and bases in the region, making it a frequent target of attacks.
Ancient Arbela
Erbil -- ancient Arbela -- is Iraq's commercial hub, as reflected in its high-rises and modern luxury residences that house the country's economic and political elite. Yet the urban fabric remains largely defined by the typical Middle Eastern architectural style: one- or two-story homes turned inward around a central shaded courtyard -- the core of private life.
At the heart of the city rises the 6,000-year-old citadel, a UNESCO-listed site of continuous habitation. It has not received tourists since the airspace was closed. The shops surrounding it are struggling with frequent power outages caused by the war, and the area is unusually quiet on what would otherwise be an ordinary Ramadan morning.
A short distance away lies the kayseri, the covered bazaar dating back to the late 12th century, where one can find everything from ornate fabrics and imitation jewelry to rat poison. In the tailors' alleys within the bazaar, Muhammed still runs the cafe he inherited from his father -- a five-decade-old establishment lined with photographs of customers, both famous and unknown. He speaks fluent Greek, having lived for years in Greece, and notes that life here goes on as usual because people "are used to such things."
In the narrow neighborhood streets, children play freely and women are visibly present. This is not the case everywhere. On Iskan Street, the city's main artery, known for its nightlife and crowds, women are rarely seen -- and when they are, they are always accompanied. So much so that locals refer to it simply as the "men's street." During the Ramadan fast, few people linger in the open shops; some offer makeshift curtain coverings for customers who eat or drink, so as not to disrupt the observance of others.
Torches aflame
Residents of northern Iraq say they share little in common with life in Baghdad. The Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG) maintains strained relations with Iraq's federal authorities over issues such as the distribution of oil revenues and, more recently, regional security. Over the past month, the north has endured more than 400 attacks, resulting in at least 14 deaths -- some claimed by groups that the KRG believes are backed by Baghdad.
Sulaymaniyah, Duhok, and the wider Erbil region are targeted on a near-daily basis, despite repeated declarations by regional officials that they are not involved in the current conflict.
Yet in the city of Akre, the capital of Newroz -- the festival marking the new year and coinciding with the spring equinox -- a sense of calm prevails. Although the stage set up on the hill for official speeches was dismantled for security reasons just days before the celebrations, people had no intention of forgoing their most important holiday.
On March 20, the eve of Newroz, heavy rain fell, but it did not deter residents from climbing the mountain, carrying lit torches to celebrate the arrival of spring -- a symbol of renewal -- and to wish for good fortune in the year 2726 for those who bear the burden of their geography.
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