Toyota Genuine Parts

On Immigration, Corruption and getting out of Iraq.

The Australian traitor and ex-Prime Minister, Scott Morrison, got his reward recently with a job at American Global Strategies.

American Global Strategies Announces Former Australian Prime Minister Scott Morrison as Non-Executive Vice Chairman

They…

Deliver unparalleled expertise for our clients by assessing the global geopolitical environment, devising strategies for navigating U.S. Government processes and policies, assisting on international business transactions and managing crisis situations domestically.

Empire has rewarded one of its more useful idiots.

Corruption takes many forms, many of them quite obvious, but unfortunately most cannot see or comprehend it. The people shrug and move on to the next headline.

I went out for a meal with a friend recently, and he’d heard about my Toyota parts story from another friend, and so I retold it. I hadn’t done that in years.

It’s a story of corruption, that I benefited from, and ultimately about how I got out of Iraq.

For those new to this Substack, I’ve shared some of my previous Iraqi stories here:

• "Vaccinated" children as human shields: A Saddam Hussein Story

• Missiles & Syringes

• Is this a War?

• Obedience

• Kurds

With corruption in the air, and this story on my mind, I thought I would retell it.

This was written in 2005 so that my kids would one day read it as I was inevitably going to forget the finer details.

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Toyota Genuine Parts

It was May 1991 and time for a family meeting.

We had to decide whether we were going to roll the dice and leave Iraq or whether to stay. I think we all knew what the answer was, but we needed to brush off the cobwebs and say it out loud.

The arguments for leaving included potential financial support from Mum’s family in Australia during the potentially lengthy immigration process. We considered the likelihood of a successful application to go to Australia fairly high because of Mum’s family who had all immigrated in the early seventies.

Among the arguments against leaving were my studies, that I hadn’t finished my third year [Dentistry]. I would be dropping out if I left straight away.

A plan was conceived, my mother and sister would leave as soon as possible, and I would stay behind and finish my third-year exams so that if we couldn’t get into Australia we would simply return, and I’d continue my studies. I wasn’t going to burn all my bridges. Once my exams finished, I would be on the first bus to Jordan in August 1991.

Being a senior Ministry of Oil employee Dad would stay behind, as he would not be given a visa to leave the country. The plan was to get everyone else out of the country and obtain visas to Australia; he would stay behind, eventually retire from his position, sell whatever was worth selling and follow us to Australia.

My mother and sister left in July 1991. The airport had been bombed so the only way to leave Iraq was to catch a very long bus ride to Amman, Jordan. Getting their passports and visas to leave was relatively easy. Being females, they were of little value to Saddam and his armies.

The remainder of my third university year went by in a haze, I don’t remember much of it besides a curriculum that had been chopped and changed to account for five months lost, a collective apathy and disinterest in all things academic. I came into the exams with only one thing on my mind, to invest the absolute minimum effort, get just enough to pass my exams and then get the hell out of that place. I finished my exams in late July, that was the easy part of the plan.

Now I had to get a passport and a visa.

I needed a wasta…

A wasta is an Iraqi tradition. It is the grease inside the rusty wheels of bureaucracy. I suspect it goes by different names all over the world, especially where corruption is part of the very fabric of society. A wasta is a favor, a helping hand from someone in a position of power, however small that power is, in exchange for something. Maybe another favor, cash or something else of value. You really are only limited by your imagination.

I needed two wastas and I needed them quickly. One to get a passport and another to get the exit visa stamped.

Putting in my passport application at the recently established Passports Office was fairly straightforward, at least in Iraqi terms. I had to go three times.

On my first day the buggers had decided to go home early, on my second I waited in a typically long queue and the day ended before they got to me, but on my third day I was finally able to submit my application. Third time lucky and pretty efficient by Iraqi standards. The clerk told me that it would take about two weeks. I wasn’t complaining.

At this point my mother and sister had already left and I wasn’t totally comfortable with the idea of them alone in Jordan for a prolonged period of time, plus knowing Saddam he could close the borders any second or just decide to start another war with someone, you just never knew what you were going to wake up to. I didn’t want to wait two weeks, I needed a wasta.

I had two football mates who lived in the “blue collar” part of the village. They were in their late twenties, brothers and one of them was married to his cousin, as Arabs and Muslims do, with a child on the way.

Ali had recently joined the Mukhabarat-Intelligence and Abbas was with the Amin-Internal Security. They were the two most feared departments of government you could think of, being a law unto themselves. If you were picked up by either group, you could easily vanish, never to be seen again.

I needed a wasta and I wanted it quickly. Coming from a Christian Assyrian family, I knew them as well as I was ever going to know an Arab Muslim family working for Saddam. We didn’t exactly go over for barbeques or go camping together. They married their cousins, and we didn’t, they prayed five times a day and we didn’t, they got paid to inflict pain and suffering on others and we didn’t. We came from different universes, yet we played football together…a lot. We had scored many goals together with hugs and kisses to celebrate. That seemed to bridge the gap between us as it provided a common language and created a bond that otherwise should never have existed. I decided to gamble so I asked Ali to help me with the passport application.

The reason this was a gamble was simple, it was pretty obvious that I was leaving with no intention of ever returning. Ali asked me as much and I told him the truth, there would have been no point lying to him, it would have reduced my chances of getting the help I needed. But it did increase my chances of getting into serious trouble.

I asked Ali if he knew anyone that could fast track the passport application. To my surprise he said he did, and he also offered to take me to his contact in Baghdad that night to lock in the deal. Wow, this was too good to be true and it felt too easy.

I picked him up about 9pm in our Toyota Corona and we drove towards Baghdad. It took about forty minutes to get to his contact’s address. It was a poor; dark part of the city and he asked me to stay in the car while he walked over to the house and knocked on the door. A shadow emerged and I saw the two of them talking for what was a longer period than I had anticipated.

What is friendship? Can you fear a friend? Can you commune with someone for five years yet not know what goes on inside their heads? Is a loose friendship worth more than a promotion in a new job? Can you trust and fear someone at the same time? How many stories had I heard of broken trust? Of dobbing-in mates and family to the authorities.

Saddam was notorious for handing out rewards usually in the form of medals and cash or sometimes a new car, typically a dodgy Passat¹, on national television to those that had “served” the authorities. These ceremonies would run on TV for hours with lots of kissing of Saddam’s hand. Children would be dancing and singing to nationalistic songs and music while Saddam sat center stage, the quintessential alpha male, legs wide apart, taking in the adulation. One night, having nowhere to go, I put the TV on hoping there was a movie, or anything else to keep me entertained. Instead, there was Saddam sitting and listening to a short old man talking loudly into a microphone with a piece of paper in his hand. He was telling the story of what had happened to his son.

Of how his son had deserted the army and come home to hide, of how army people had come looking for his son and how he had hidden him. Of how he was torn between his loyalty to Saddam and Iraq, and his loyalty to his son. Of how he had confronted his son and urged him to go back to the army, to serve Iraq and its glorious leader, to lift the tunic of shame that he had brought onto his family. Of how his son refused and how he had threatened his son at gun point, yet he still refused. Of how he had shot his son dead…

What? Come again?

I heard it right the first time…Saddam was listening to the story, of how a father had murdered his son, on national television and instead of locking him up, he was rewarding him with cash and a car, holding him up as a shining example of all that is good in Iraq.

What is wrong with this picture?

Rumor had it that the old man had developed a fancy for his son’s wife while he was away being a “patriot”. On returning and finding out about the old man’s overtures he had confronted his father and in the ensuing argument was shot dead.

Here was the old man, collecting a Passat…

I was starting to get worried in the car. No, correction, I was starting to panic. Why was Ali taking so long? What were they talking about? Could this be a setup? Could this already be the end of my attempt to leave Iraq? Could Ali really sell me out?

Ali eventually came back with a dark and annoyed look on his face. He told me that his friend couldn’t help but that he had suggested someone else a few minutes away, this somewhat allayed my fears. I could see that he really was trying to help. Ten minutes later we were at house number two, and I was waiting again, worried but without the panic this time.

Why was he helping me when it could get him into trouble? Why was he putting his neck on the line for me? Would I have so readily done the same for him? Maybe I had something to learn about friendship and loyalty.

He came back empty handed, again, but he wanted to try one more house before giving up. Another ten-minute drive and another empty hand. It was about midnight be the time I dropped him off, back at his place, and after many apologies from him and many thanks from me we parted.

Ali had really tried. He was a friend.

I went back to the Passports Office after just one week to try my luck and see if it was ready, unbelievably it was. I now had a passport!

My next step was to get the visa to leave, so time for wasta number two.

This was going to be the harder of the two steps as I was a young male with a 99% probability of never returning. If all men my age left, Saddam would struggle to put an army together and so there would be several hurdles to overcome.

I first needed to get military sign off allowing me to leave for Jordan. Next, I would need to organize a one-million-dinar bond to be paid to the Government in case I didn’t return. Last of all I would need an exit visa, which if the first two things were in place, would be easy to get.

To obtain military sign off I had to go to the military office linked to my father’s place of birth, Kirkuk². This didn’t make sense then; it doesn’t make sense now, just another bureaucratic absurdity.

Kirkuk is 250 kms north-east of Baghdad; it sits on one of the largest oil fields in the world with a diverse population of Kurds, Assyrians, Turkemans and Arabs living in relative peace and harmony. This is where Dad was born and where we had to travel to get the army’s sign off.

Our chances of getting sign off quickly were slim at best. We needed a wasta and it needed to be a good one. I didn’t know anyone that could help me out this time as all of my contacts were based in Baghdad. Dad started to make some calls until he came home one day holding an envelope in his hand that was a letter to a friend of a friend that worked in Kirkuk. We were now ready to make the trip north.

Because of the bald state of the Corona’s tires, its unreliable radiator and a long list of other ailments, we decided to catch a bus or taxi to Kirkuk instead. We wanted to be in Kirkuk as early as possible so in early August 1991 we arrived at a bus and taxi depot in Baghdad at approximately 3 am looking to catch a ride. It was surprisingly busy primarily with soldiers going back to their posts. We decided not to wait for the next bus but instead chartered a taxi with two others to take us to Kirkuk. I slept through most of the four-and-a-half-hour drive.

Arriving in Kirkuk around 8 am, Dad gave the driver a specific address and after asking for directions a couple of times we got dropped off at an industrial site with a long line of warehouses. We found the right warehouse, knocked on the door but no one was in yet, so we waited. About half an hour later we were still waiting when Dad found an attended office nearby and got to use their phone to make a call. Ten minutes later someone turned up and after initial greetings was given the envelope that Dad had been given in Baghdad. He opened it, read the handwritten letter inside and put the letter and the envelope inside one of his back pockets. He went to make a call and before long we were all sitting in his car driving to one of the several military offices in Kirkuk.

The last time I was in Kirkuk I would have been between two and three years old. Amazingly I still have memories of our trip to Kirkuk to visit my grandparents, uncles and aunts. They all lived there in 1972. They would “immigrate” down to Baghdad in 1973 and move in with us in our Bataween³ flat.

I remember the massive house rented from British Petroleum where my grandfather worked as head of the laundry. The British had always liked and employed many Assyrians until their departure from Iraq in the late seventies. I remember digging for foot long worms in their backyard; I had collected a considerable number that I decided to store in a large tin can. At the age of three, ventilation is not a concept easily grasped and I remember opening the lid and finding all my beloved worms very dead and sticky. I cried.

I remember falling into a small empty canal in front of their home and being terrified at the oncoming cows walking down the canal. I remember sitting on a hill one breezy night watching from a distance a movie played on an outdoor cinema. It was a horror movie and the scene I have never been able to forget had a birdcage with a man’s head in it being eaten by rats. That is why movie ratings are so important!

I remember the Olympic size outdoor swimming pool with the ten-meter diving platform and the young, beautiful girl poised at the top, jumping off with a twist, cleanly diving in. Her brother Michael would be murdered in 2006 in Mosul by local Muslim militia. They knocked on his door, he came to the door, and they dragged him out into the street, shot him dead and drove off.

I remember stories of certain locations in Kirkuk where on a really hot day if you made a hole in the ground with your finger a small flame would erupt. Kirkuk is synonymous with oil and gas in Iraq.

When we arrived at the Army Office there was already a crowd of young men pushing their way towards whatever small, barred window was open for business. Extended arms holding passports and certificates were muscling their way to the front, vying for the attention of the very slow and disinterested officers on the inside. We got out of the car and following our obviously influential host, walked straight past the guards and into the single storey building. We were in.

They asked us to wait on a corridor bench outside the doorless office entrance of someone important. About half an hour passed with people coming in and out of that office. There was no end to the saluting and standing to attention and the word “Sayyidi”, My Master, was mentioned a lot. Whoever this master was, he was about to determine the rest of my life.

They called us in, so we all got up, but our host suggested I stay outside. I remained standing as they both went inside and positioned myself so that I could see them both when they sat on the low sofa facing the Master. From my vantage point I could not see The Holy One.

Our host began with some brief small talk and then quickly proceeded to introduce my father, the “Dr.”, as academic achievement generally and PhDs in particular are admired and respected in Iraq. Our host seemed like an experienced operator, he was going to pull all the necessary strings, he went on to explain why he was there with the Dr. and how it was important to get the sign off for his son so that he could visit his mother and sister in Amman during the holidays and still be able to return in time for his University of Dentistry studies. A Dr. and father of a doctor-to-be, this was impressive stuff.

I could not hear the General as he didn’t say much, he just listened and when our very able host had finished his succinct presentation, he said that he was looking forward to helping the Dr. Our host then pulled out a small notepad from his shirt pocket and said:

“Sayyidi, now onto a different matter, I understand that you have been having some trouble with your car. Is there anything I can do for you?”

I now heard Sayyidi casually rattle off a list that included a carburetor, four new tires, lights…it was a long list. Our host quietly and efficiently wrote everything down and when the transaction was complete The Almighty called in one of his juniors, who walked in, back straight as a rod, stopped on a dime and saluted shouting “Naam Sayyidi!”, yes, my master! He briefly explained that the Dr. and his son where to be taken to so and so place to have their paperwork finalized. Without a word, he swiveled and left the office leading the way for my now very thankful host and father.

It was done.

We farewelled our host as he left the building. We would spend the next hour going from office to office having one form after another magically signed and stamped until we left the building with a piece of paper that said:

XXX is allowed an exit visa to Jordan, pending necessary bond. The visa is to expire on 01-10-1991.

It was done.

My freedom had been bought with a list of Toyota Genuine Parts.

In post-Gulf War Iraq getting your hands on new spare parts, and genuine parts at that, was no easy feat as they were rare, expensive and hard to come by. I don’t know how Dad did it, but he managed to find someone in Kirkuk who was not only well connected but had access to the gold that was Toyota genuine parts.

It was downhill from here and I was on my way out of Iraq.

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1. In the 1980s, the Volkswagen Passat available in Iraq would likely have been the second generation of the model, known as the B2 series, which was produced from 1981 to 1988. The B2 Passat marked a significant evolution from its predecessor with more angular, modern styling, reflecting the design trends of the early 1980s. This generation was available in a variety of body styles, including sedan, hatchback, and wagon (Variant).

2. Kirkuk is a city in northern Iraq, recognized for its rich history and diverse cultural heritage. It is one of Iraq's oldest cities, with its history stretching back to the 3rd millennium BCE. Kirkuk has been a crossroads of civilizations for centuries, influenced by various peoples including the Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, Arabs, and Ottomans, among others. This mix has contributed to the city's diverse demographic, including Kurds, Arabs, Turkmen, and Assyrians, each community adding to the cultural mosaic of the city.

Geographically, Kirkuk is situated in an oil-rich region, making it one of the most strategically and economically significant areas in Iraq. The presence of vast oil reserves has been a double-edged sword, fostering economic development but also fueling conflict and competition among different groups and neighboring countries.

The city's demographics have shifted over time due to a variety of political and social factors. Policies of Arabization under Saddam Hussein's regime, aimed at altering the demographic makeup of Kirkuk by settling Arab families and displacing non-Arab inhabitants, have had long-lasting effects on the city's social fabric.

Kirkuk is also home to historical landmarks that reflect its ancient past, including the Kirkuk Citadel, believed to be one of the oldest continuously inhabited sites in the world. The citadel sits atop a tell, or archaeological mound, that contains layers of ancient civilizations.

Following the US-led invasion of Iraq in 2003, Kirkuk has seen significant political and military contention, especially regarding the control and management of its oil resources. The city's status is a contentious issue in Iraqi politics, with Kurds, Turkmen, and Arabs each claiming rights and interests in the city. The Kurdish Regional Government (KRG) and the Iraqi central government in Baghdad have both sought control over Kirkuk and its oil fields, making it a focal point of Kurdish aspirations for independence and broader disputes over territory and resources in post-Saddam Iraq.

3. Bataween is a notable neighborhood in central Baghdad, Iraq, with a rich and complex history. It has been known for its cultural diversity, historically being home to a significant Jewish population until the mid-20th century. The area was once a vibrant center of Jewish life in Baghdad, with synagogues, schools, and businesses reflecting the community's prominent role in the city's social and economic fabric.

The history of Bataween is closely intertwined with the broader history of Baghdad's Jewish community, which dates back to the Babylonian exile in 586 BCE. By the early 20th century, Baghdad's Jewish community was one of the largest and most prosperous in the Middle East, contributing significantly to the cultural, economic, and intellectual life of the city. Bataween, in particular, was a symbol of this prosperity and vibrancy.

However, the situation began to change in the mid-20th century, particularly after the establishment of Israel in 1948. The ensuing years saw increased tension and violence against Jews in various Arab countries, including Iraq. The 1950-1951 Operation Ezra and Nehemiah airlifts significantly diminished the Jewish presence in Iraq, as many opted to leave for Israel amid rising persecution. This exodus included the residents of Bataween, leading to a dramatic change in the neighborhood's demographic composition.

In the decades that followed, Bataween and the broader area of Baghdad faced various challenges, including political upheaval, economic sanctions, and the impact of successive wars. These events have left indelible marks on the urban and social landscape of the neighborhood.

Today, Bataween reflects the multifaceted history and resilience of Baghdad. While much of its Jewish heritage has faded, the area remains a testament to the city's diverse past. The neighborhood, like many parts of Baghdad, has experienced periods of violence and instability, particularly following the US-led invasion of Iraq in 2003. However, it continues to be a part of the fabric of Baghdad, illustrating the city's complex history and its ongoing struggles and transformations.