From the Stars and Stripes:
"Americans in Irbil make the most of night life near a war zone"
For the first time since Islamic State fighters advanced to within 25 miles of this Iraqi city last month, T Bar Sports Lounge is hopping. Jimmie Collins takes a sip of white wine and brushes back a loose strand of hair. "Can you kill the music?" she asks the bartender, who turns down the dial on the stereo and passes her a microphone. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to quiz night," Collins says to the 60 customers, mostly Americans, at the bar. "Tonight's the usual stuff. We'll have two spoken rounds and three picture rounds." Outside of this city in northern Iraq, Islamist insurgents and Iraqi Kurdish forces, backed by American fighter jets and drones, battle for ground. But at this bar, the American version of life goes on. Oil workers cluster around flat-screen televisions tuned to National Football League games and women's professional wrestling. They have returned after a brief evacuation, along with aid workers and English teachers who fill the tables by the bar's windows, tinted so people outside can't see in. Then there's Collins, who never left Irbil. At the moment, all eyes are on the 28-year-old Texan, who starts the quiz by asking, "What word links a group of whales with a group of peas?" The crowd groans. "Oh, c'mon you guys," she says. "It's an easy one." How do a bunch of Americans end up in a place like this at a time like this? For Collins, who taught English in Taiwan and the Czech Republic after college, it was a chance to seek adventure in the most foreign place she could imagine. That was two years ago, when the Iraqi Kurds, who occupy a semiautonomous region in the country's north, were desperate to bring in Americans. They wanted U.S. companies to help explore their massive oil fields. Just as important, they understood that American citizens like Collins offered a measure of protection in the event that Iraq began to disintegrate. As Kurdish Deputy Prime Minister Qubad Talabani, using a common acronym for the Islamic State, explained: "While ISIS was in Mosul, nobody cared. While ISIS moved on to Baghdad, nobody cared. But the moment ISIS moved on Kurdistan, the U.S. cared." American oil companies had invested billions of dollars in rigs and drilling contracts in Kurdistan that in early August were suddenly at grave risk. So, too, were American lives. Within 48 hours of the Islamic State's advance on Irbil, the U.S. military was dropping bombs. "And that," Talabani said, "is unprecedented." Collins works days as the office manager for a small oil company, but her passion is Irbil's nighttime social scene. She helps oversee EPIC, which stands for Erbil Party International Circuit, an online information site for U.S. and European expats that has grown to about 12,000 members and organizes events such as quiz night and beer pong tournaments to benefit Syrian refugees. Until recently, Sometimes Collins finds it hard to believe that it has been only a few weeks since Kurdish peshmerga forces ceded the nearby cities of Makhmur and Gweir to radical Islamist fighters, setting off panic in Irbil. On that night, rumors swirled that the main checkpoint south of the city had been overrun and that radical jihadists were headed toward Irbil's Christian district, a few minutes' drive from Collins' home. Collins and some friends who work in the private security industry began planning for the worst. Most airlines were canceling inbound flights, and seats on the few planes headed out of the country were selling out fast. If the pesh merga couldn't keep the insurgents back from Irbil, Collins and her friends decided they would flee north via back roads to the Turkish border. Instead the enemy assault stalled, and now Collins is circulating among the seven quiz night teams, asking if they need her to repeat any questions. Murad follows closely behind with his tray of shots. She snatches a drink and throws it back. Her body gives a quick shudder as the iridescent blue liquid slides down her throat. The teams trade their quiz sheets for scoring. Collins reads off the answers and officiates disputes. A British woman insists that a giraffe's tongue is really more gray than blue. "All right, I'll give it to you," she says. A few feet away, an Iraqi Kurd who works in the warehouse at the U.S. Consulate complains about his stalled application for permanent U.S. residency. "At least they didn't reject you," an American oil executive tells him. "I have a friend who waited seven years. You just have to be patient." "Iraq is all trouble," the Kurd mutters. "Everywhere is bad. It's just big trouble. I just want to change everything." Collins, meanwhile, is asking one last question — a tie-breaker — as the contest nears its end. "How many points are there on the sun on the Kurdish flag?" she asks. "Twenty-one," someone yells, and as Collins pronounces that team the winner, Murad hands them their prize: two bottles of Stoli vodka.
^ While I'm glad that Erbil is safe and booming once again (I have friends there) it is a little sad knowing that they have more of a nightlife living in a warzone then I do on my mountain. ^
http://www.stripes.com/americans-in-irbil-make-the-most-of-night-life-near-a-war-zone-1.306913
"Americans in Irbil make the most of night life near a war zone"
For the first time since Islamic State fighters advanced to within 25 miles of this Iraqi city last month, T Bar Sports Lounge is hopping. Jimmie Collins takes a sip of white wine and brushes back a loose strand of hair. "Can you kill the music?" she asks the bartender, who turns down the dial on the stereo and passes her a microphone. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to quiz night," Collins says to the 60 customers, mostly Americans, at the bar. "Tonight's the usual stuff. We'll have two spoken rounds and three picture rounds." Outside of this city in northern Iraq, Islamist insurgents and Iraqi Kurdish forces, backed by American fighter jets and drones, battle for ground. But at this bar, the American version of life goes on. Oil workers cluster around flat-screen televisions tuned to National Football League games and women's professional wrestling. They have returned after a brief evacuation, along with aid workers and English teachers who fill the tables by the bar's windows, tinted so people outside can't see in. Then there's Collins, who never left Irbil. At the moment, all eyes are on the 28-year-old Texan, who starts the quiz by asking, "What word links a group of whales with a group of peas?" The crowd groans. "Oh, c'mon you guys," she says. "It's an easy one." How do a bunch of Americans end up in a place like this at a time like this? For Collins, who taught English in Taiwan and the Czech Republic after college, it was a chance to seek adventure in the most foreign place she could imagine. That was two years ago, when the Iraqi Kurds, who occupy a semiautonomous region in the country's north, were desperate to bring in Americans. They wanted U.S. companies to help explore their massive oil fields. Just as important, they understood that American citizens like Collins offered a measure of protection in the event that Iraq began to disintegrate. As Kurdish Deputy Prime Minister Qubad Talabani, using a common acronym for the Islamic State, explained: "While ISIS was in Mosul, nobody cared. While ISIS moved on to Baghdad, nobody cared. But the moment ISIS moved on Kurdistan, the U.S. cared." American oil companies had invested billions of dollars in rigs and drilling contracts in Kurdistan that in early August were suddenly at grave risk. So, too, were American lives. Within 48 hours of the Islamic State's advance on Irbil, the U.S. military was dropping bombs. "And that," Talabani said, "is unprecedented." Collins works days as the office manager for a small oil company, but her passion is Irbil's nighttime social scene. She helps oversee EPIC, which stands for Erbil Party International Circuit, an online information site for U.S. and European expats that has grown to about 12,000 members and organizes events such as quiz night and beer pong tournaments to benefit Syrian refugees. Until recently, Sometimes Collins finds it hard to believe that it has been only a few weeks since Kurdish peshmerga forces ceded the nearby cities of Makhmur and Gweir to radical Islamist fighters, setting off panic in Irbil. On that night, rumors swirled that the main checkpoint south of the city had been overrun and that radical jihadists were headed toward Irbil's Christian district, a few minutes' drive from Collins' home. Collins and some friends who work in the private security industry began planning for the worst. Most airlines were canceling inbound flights, and seats on the few planes headed out of the country were selling out fast. If the pesh merga couldn't keep the insurgents back from Irbil, Collins and her friends decided they would flee north via back roads to the Turkish border. Instead the enemy assault stalled, and now Collins is circulating among the seven quiz night teams, asking if they need her to repeat any questions. Murad follows closely behind with his tray of shots. She snatches a drink and throws it back. Her body gives a quick shudder as the iridescent blue liquid slides down her throat. The teams trade their quiz sheets for scoring. Collins reads off the answers and officiates disputes. A British woman insists that a giraffe's tongue is really more gray than blue. "All right, I'll give it to you," she says. A few feet away, an Iraqi Kurd who works in the warehouse at the U.S. Consulate complains about his stalled application for permanent U.S. residency. "At least they didn't reject you," an American oil executive tells him. "I have a friend who waited seven years. You just have to be patient." "Iraq is all trouble," the Kurd mutters. "Everywhere is bad. It's just big trouble. I just want to change everything." Collins, meanwhile, is asking one last question — a tie-breaker — as the contest nears its end. "How many points are there on the sun on the Kurdish flag?" she asks. "Twenty-one," someone yells, and as Collins pronounces that team the winner, Murad hands them their prize: two bottles of Stoli vodka.
^ While I'm glad that Erbil is safe and booming once again (I have friends there) it is a little sad knowing that they have more of a nightlife living in a warzone then I do on my mountain. ^
http://www.stripes.com/americans-in-irbil-make-the-most-of-night-life-near-a-war-zone-1.306913
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