Theme Park Offers Respite For War-Weary Iraqis
Just over the final mountain pass leading to this beleaguered town in Iraqi Kurdistan, a blinding array of lights dazzles in the distance.
A theme park’s giant Ferris wheel emerges on the horizon, an odd spectacle of multicolored, pulsating lights amid the thousands of refugees who washed up here after fleeing the militants of the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria.
Even locals will admit it is a jarring juxtaposition: giant rainbow-colored slides, blaring pop music, hydraulic spinning rides and paddle boats in a place where intense American airstrikes may be the only thing keeping the militants from sweeping in.
But on a recent weekend night, most people at Happy Park were just glad for any kind of escape.
“It’s only for our kids,” said Basima Hasan, strolling through the park with her husband and their five children. “I can sense their tension at home.”
Mrs. Hasan said the couple could no longer hide what was going on from their children. Sidewalks, plazas and half-constructed buildings teem with those who fled ISIS’ advance. Televised images of violence and suffering are too common.
Though they do not understand everything, she said, the effects emerge in sudden ways, like when the children take turns playing the role of ISIS in mock battles.
“They feel much better when they are somewhere like this.” she said. “They can have fun.”
Many visitors were wealthy families who could afford to flee to Zakho for safety. Others were longtime residents seeking a break.
“It’s for all of us,” said Basim Alyas, 53, who fled the town of Bartullah with his wife and children one day before the militants arrived and now lives with his cousin. “We needed a change of environment.”
Peals of laughter filtered through the balmy evening, as a group of girls on the Kangaroo ride were hoisted up and dropped in erratic motion. Teenagers stood in the center of a spinning, convulsing dance floor, moving with the melodies of explicit American pop music.
Hundreds of visitors poured in through the evening. Young families pushed strollers, clusters of girls burst into giggles, and languid youths looked for something to scoff at.
“If anyone tells you this place is cool, don’t believe them,” said Sobhe Fauzi, 21, hair perfectly gelled, clothes perfectly pressed, seated with his two friends on the edge of the grounds.
Happy Park once hosted thousands on weekend nights. Giant tour buses rolled in one after the other, carting Arab families from central and southern Iraq. Locals also flocked to the park, with its roller-skating rink, giant lake with dancing fountains and manicured gardens.
Those days are gone now, with ISIS on the doorstep. Roads are blocked, and an abiding mistrust of Arabs permeates Kurdistan since the initial wave of militant attacks, when many Sunni neighbors opted to join the militants.
Local crowds have thinned, too, amid security fears and the resulting economic uncertainty.
“It’s nothing compared to before,” said Nizar Taher, an accounts manager at Happy Park, commenting on the crowd of several hundred. “Life hasn’t gone back to normal yet here.”
Many who chose to come to the park did so with a measure of guilt.
“If someone from my family knew I was here, enjoying the park, they would accuse me of being insensitive,” said Jouma Salim Maho, 27, parked on a bench on front of a giant artificial pond with his wife and four daughters.
He offered a faint smile and then sighed.
“Even when I’m here I don’t feel pleasure,” he said. “I know what’s out there.”
The evidence is hard to miss. A few hours earlier, about a half-mile away, several hundred Yazidi refugees stood in line under an oppressive sun, waiting for emergency payments from the national government.
Police officers yelled names from clipboards. Men bunched together, clutching yellow folders with their family identifications, a requirement to process the roughly $850 payment. Those who did not have time to grab their paperwork before fleeing turned up anyway, hoping someone might vouch for them.
Seemingly in a different world, Happy Park was in full swing by 9:30 p.m., and at least a few visitors seemed to be having fun. The Dance Machine Tagada was drawing a crowd.
Shaped like a merry-go-round with seats along the periphery, the ride spun around and bounced up and down simultaneously, perhaps leading more to wait and watch than to try it.
As music blared over speakers, an older man entered the center of the dormant ride and began dancing. Waving his arms like a willow, popping up and down in traditional Iraqi dance moves, he moved in sync with the music.
Periodically, he floated to the edge of the ride and hustled people from their seats to dance with him. One by one, they gave up, no match for his wild energy. Visitors swelled, pulling out cellphones to capture videos of the performance.
“No one can challenge me,” the old man, Adel Shameri, yelled, thrusting his arms in the air. “I don’t want anyone to call me an old man.”
Seconds later, the contraption awoke and abruptly began to spin. Tossed onto the seats like a rag doll, Mr. Shameri hung on for dear life. A few younger men stepped into the center, defying the machine, and playfully taunted him.
When the ride finally came to an end, Mr. Shameri stumbled down the stairs, laughing hysterically.
“It reminds me of the discos in Baghdad,” he said, slipping into his sandals, which had flown off during the ride. “This is a good chance for us. You can only do this in Kurdistan.”
NY Times
Azam Ahmed