THOM WESTCOTT

Roving Reporter

“The Land Rover has been killed by the Kurdish referendum”

It’s referendum day in Iraqi Kurdistan, when citizens of the already semi-autonomous state have the chance to cast ballots to decide whether they want to remain as part of Iraq or live in a fully independent country called Kurdistan. The whole affair is rather high-risk politically, since Iraq has said it will not recognise either the vote or its outcome, and much of the international community has spent months trying to dissuade Iraqi Kurdistan officials from going ahead with it.

Iraqi Kurdistan is crawling with international media – who love the Kurdish cause – and, in an attempt to find a unique story, I decide to make a short tour of voting centres in disputed territories – areas to which Iraq and Iraqi Kurdistan both lay claim. The ethnically-mixed populations are fiercely divided about the referendum, meaning these disputed areas are where there is most likely to be unrest.

“Where are you?” I message my Kurdish friend Zardasht, a cameraman for a local news network. We bonded during a fourhour wait at an army checkpoint outside Mosul because he was driving a Land Rover. “I drive Land Rover to Kirkuk,” he replies.

Oil-rich Kirkuk is the most hotlycontested of the disputed areas, mainly because of the lucrative opportunities offered by the oil bubbling beneath it. I had stayed the night there, fearing arbitrary checkpoint closures might have left me trapped in Erbil, the de-facto ‘ capital’ of Iraqi Kurdistan.

“Nice. How is the Land Rover?” I ask. “With other team. I drive new Land Rover. Smaller. But new,” he replies.

His Swedish boss at the Kurdish TV station is crazy about Land Rovers and insists his teams drive a purpose-built one fitted with a full satellite broadcasting system to all northern Iraq’s trouble hotspots. The teams do not share his enthusiasm and Zardasht is the only staff member I’ve met who actually likes the Land Rover.

He sends a proud photograph of the pristine 2016 Defender 90, in a gleaming shade of maroon. I ask how fast it goes and he gleefully claims it can reach 200 kph which, considering the state of some of the roads in Iraqi Kurdistan, sounds suicidal. I hope he isn’t writing these messages whilst driving.

“I drive very fast now. 160 kph,” he writes and I hastily reply: “Wow. Let’s talk later.” I don’t want to be inadvertently responsible for a car accident.

Touring the polling stations in Kirkuk proves to be rather uninspiring. Lots of flag-waving, traditional attire and cute kids posing for photos, which tells only part of the story. So we move on to the town of Tuz Khurmatu, a place so plagued by violence that a wall has been built through the town, separating the resident’s majority Shia Muslims from the minority Sunni Kurds. It’s remote and volatile. If anything’s going to kick off, it’s here.

While the town’s Kurdish residents are cheerfully casting their votes, behind the breeze-block structures which have been built across every road, alleyway and gap between houses, to form the wall through the town, are thousands of local residents loyal to the Iraqi government. The Iraqi national flag defiantly flies above the wall, alongside the colourful flags of Shia Islam and the pale blue of the little-known Turkmen flag.

Within an hour of our arrival, there has been a shooting, targeting a bus-full of Kurdish peshmerga fighters going to vote. The driver is killed and one passenger injured. Outside the hospital local Kurds start gathering for action, armed with an assortment of mostly soviet-era weapons in amazing condition – well-kept, freshly-cleaned or newly painted. This is clearly a place where people value their weapons. As news of the shooting spreads, more and more armed men arrive.

Across the road, I notice a nice white single-cab Land Rover with an external roll cage parked up on a driveway. Its gleaming exterior and the vast puddle of suds around it shows it has just been lovingly washed. Its owner is nowhere to be seen but, perhaps like many Land Rover drivers, he is clearly more interested in his vehicle than mere politics. Seeing it reminds me of Zardasht so I message him, asking how the Kurdish journalists and their Land Rovers are getting on in Kirkuk.

It’s bad news. He sends a short video, filmed from his new Defender, of the team’s other Land Rover, on the opposite side of the road, being loaded onto the back of a bright red flatbed lorry.

“OMG. The Land Rover has been killed by the Kurdish referendum!” I write. “No, but he is very hurt Land Rover. Also I am so sad when I see him like that but I can’t do anything,” he replies.

The long-suffering mayor of Tuz Khurmatu manages to broker some kind of peace deal between the two sides. A warning is broadcast that any man carrying a weapon will be arrested, and the armed Kurds start to disperse, as the polling centres close their doors and start counting the votes.

As the sun sets, we turn back towards Erbil, and I check my phone for any more Land Rover updates. Nothing as yet...

Thom Westcott is a British freelance journalist who has written for the Times and Guardian, and now mostly spends her time reporting from Libya