April 1 – 10, 2014.
“You should tell your friend you were kidnapped,” says the dark-featured young man I met a short while ago, cigarette dangling from his grinning lips. The car careens down a dusty new highway in northern Iraq. The man has a bulwark of long eyelashes around his murky eyes, and short dark hair with a hint of silver emerging from the edges. “It is April, after all,” he says with a wink. As I peer out the window, oil wells, billboards for Turkish and Russian companies, and craggy mountains whiz by.