Before I go into my anecdote, let me give you a little bit of an idea about how merchant ships work. Considering that my family - even after me being a seafarer for 5 years - doesn't understand half the things I say, you might need the background study.
I am a deck officer on a tanker that transports oil. We are currently chartered (hired) by Hindustan Petroleum Corporation Limited to bring crude oil from middle east Arab countries (particularly the United Arab Emirates, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and Iraq) to the HPCL refineries in India. This crude oil is processed to produce petrol, diesel, naphtha and other such expensive jewels. (Next time you go into a HP petrol pump to fuel your bike or car, you could think of me with gratitude and maybe send me gift cards for being so vital to your everyday life. Yes, I also accept cash gifts.)
When we come into the port for loading or unloading crude oil, an experienced Captain from the port comes onboard our ship and guides us in bringing the vessel (ship) safely inside since they know the local waters and it's dangers quite better than we do. This designated person is called a harbour pilot and my story is about one such harbour pilot I met in Iraq.
11.01.16 was just another Monday to me, until I came on watch (duty) at 1500h (3pm). We were supposed to bring the ship inside the port of Al Basrah for loading crude oil. As you might have already guessed, one strict looking Muslim pilot with a unibrow came onboard. Tall, clean shaven face, no beard, no mustache, holding a tasbih (prayer beads) tightly in his hand. Throughout the pilotage he kept to himself, only occasionally talking into his walkie talkie in Arabic and instructing our steering man now and then to turn the vessel in a particular direction. He didn't talk to me directly and I assumed it was because I'm a girl. You see, I'm used to being kept distances from. A lot of seafarers around the world are still adjusting to the idea of having women onboard. I stopped taking offence for it a long time go and decided to let them grow up.
Later that evening, after the ship was brought in safely, we had about 2 hours before the pilot had to leave. In those 2 hours, he shyly requested that I take his pictures inside the Bridge (the glamorous control room from where we steer the ship). It is a very unusual thing to ask for a Pilot/Captain of his age (52? maybe 53), I mean he should have been on at least a hundred ships. I agreed anyway and we went on with the task. He wore his Rayban and held still with the walkie talkie in his hand, and I clicked a picture as if he was caught candid on camera in mid conversation. He posed holding the steering wheel, he posed holding the sound powered telephone. He even posed as if he was looking out melancholy into the sea (a favourite among us mariners, we being suckers for drama). Once he was satisfied with his photographs, he put back his Arabic-Keypad-wala-Samsung-Duos into his pocket and smiled at me. With the ice now broken, we eased into conversation. I guiltily realized he was not rude at all, in fact he was very friendly. Like every other conversation between two strangers, ours too started with complaining about the weather and ridiculing our Governments. I was telling him how the lowest temperature we may experience in Chennai is about 20 deg and how I am so unaccustomed to the cold. In return he told me about his early cadetship (trainee) days when they had to wake up at 5am for P.T and take a shower in the open with cold water. He said he prefers the cold over the sun any day and has come to like cold water showers so much that he braves them even when it is freezing outside. He spoke so fondly about his youth, his family and showed me pictures of his children. He talked about the Iraqi wars and how badly they have come to affect their economy, their everyday lives. He oh-so-painfully narrated how Iraq went to war with Iran and fought for 8 years until everything was completely destroyed on either side. He told me how the jihadist militant groups (like the ISIS aka Daesh) have made their lives hell by laying out rules in the name of Islam and Allah. He cringed when he told me about a young man who cut the head off of his own mother because she tried to stop him from becoming a terrorist. They have no hard limits he said, they wanted to dictate how Iraqi men and women led their lives and brought up their children. They think they are God-appointed guardians of Islam but all the things they do are exactly the opposite of what God wants from us. These so called guardian organizations are so intolerant to the various religious minorities in their country and do everything they can to destroy them and have Iraq for themselves. But that wasn't God's plan now, was it? He would've created only Muslims in Iraq if he didn't want anyone else living there but he created Christians, Yarzans and others too.
He spoke with pride and grief about his country, about how Allah has blessed them with so much beauty and resources. He said Iraq has a lot of natural oil fields. Enough to make them extremely rich. And all this oil is at a very superficial depth beneath the earth's surface. He said if one were to drive around Basrah city, one could see tanker lorries filling up oil at these fields. But no one wants to trade with them. Even their neighbors aren't willing to involve themselves with Iraq in fear of sending out the wrong message to the world. They're also mostly scared of getting looted and bombed by Iraq itself.
He fondly remembered a time from when he was younger. He said whenever they went ashore in European countries, in America and exchanged their money, 1 Iraqi Dinar used to fetch them 3.2 US dollars. But today after the economic downfall his country has faced due to the countless wars and the terrorism that is eating them up from within like termites, the equivalent of 1 USD is 1200 Iraqi Dinars. He asked me how the INR was doing against the USD, I said we are quite okay compared to them at 67 rupees and he seemed genuinely happy for us. I asked him to tell me more about his family. He said he has two wives and was visibly excited when he showed me pictures of them. He said his second wife is a Christian and still prays to 'her God'. He doesn't see why it has to be any other way, they are praying for the same things aren't they? I was overwhelmed by his simplicity and realized how ignorant I had been. You see, I had assumed every Iraqi is either a meathead terrorist or a conservative who lives the way he lives because he believes in organized religion and jihad. For that sake, I could've very well been the most ignorant girl in the whole of Iraq at that moment. Well, I was wrong.
He showed me pictures of Fatima and Mohammed, 2 of his 5 kids. Fatima looked so adorable in a cute lil' angel frock with silver shoes and a tiara, holding up her red lipstick pout. He told me she never stops dressing herself up and is always asking for more make-up goodies every time they went to a mall. She couldn't have been more than 5 and I wished I could've met her. He laughed when he mentioned the funny things he ends up doing because he has two wives, like buying two similar looking phones or buying two similar looking hijabs so that neither feels jealous, spending the same amount of time with either of them, appreciating their cooking skills in the same manner and sometimes even kissing them exactly the same number of times. Hahaha!
It was getting slightly chilly outside while we were still talking about his upcoming work trip. He was so excited about it and I stood there listening, with a new window of realization opened out in my judgemental brain. Sometimes strict looking Muslim guys who say Inshallah way too often and decline your offer to eat onboard, too are simple Iraqi men with families and beautiful kids. They too spend their lives working hard for their daily bread and dream about going to Istanbul one day. They too are scared and disgusted by terrorism just as much as we are. They too, are people like us.
At sun down, he broke his fast with 2 glasses of our Amul Taaza milk and a silent prayer. He left soon after, promising me a parcel of Iraqi dates, the next time I showed up at Basrah Terminal.
