Feature

A Marathon Woman Among Muslims

A lone marathoner passes a towering mosque.

Photo by Nicola Visconti

y biggest concern had been my wardrobe selection. What does one wear to run a marathon in a Muslim country like Iraq? Since my children and I had moved to Erbil, Iraqi Kurdistan, two months before the marathon (which took place on October 19, 2012) to join my husband on a work assignment in this booming region, I had yet to even bare my knees while running. But 26.2 miles in 80-plus degree temperatures seemed to warrant skimpy apparel, no matter what local custom dictated. When I spotted a woman wearing shorts, I gleefully pulled off my running pants. I had a like-minded ally, who turned out to be the country director for UN Women in Iraq, a kind, petite Scottish woman named Frances, who had come up from Baghdad to run the 2nd Annual Erbil International Marathon to be able to go for a long run outside, since in Baghdad she could only train on a treadmill inside her walled compound. As we nervously waited for the delayed start, the mercury rising with every passing

by Caitlin Hurley

Kurdish women performed a traditional Kurdish dance at the postrace awards ceremony.
Photo courtesy of Erbil Marathon Organization

minute, Frances and I marveled at the footwear selectioneverything from soccer cleats to slip-on skater shoes to Converse All Stars were sported. I particularly want to know how the young man with the black business shoes fared. We were asked to be in numerous photos, the sight of two Western womenin shorts no lessgiving us unsolicited celebrity status.

Although there were a few other women running, we were by far the minority. It felt like being a modern day Kathrine Switzer in Iraqi Kurdistan. For once I wasnt running to get a PR or hit specific splits, I was running to be part of something bigger than I was, in a country that is trying to heal after years of war, death and unimaginable grief. I was also, in my own mind, running for the women here, trying as I did in fourth grade to show them that girls can do anything boys can do. A marathon anywhere in Iraq would have been unthinkable a decade ago, and even the
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Among Muslims
The author on the fourth and final loop of the Erbil International Marathon. Photo by Nicola Visconti

There were bottles of water handed out here and there, but we were mostly left to our own devices.
finish line at Sami Abdulrahman Park is a testament to how far Iraqi Kurdistan has come since the War in Iraq erupted in March 2003: a dozen years ago the park was treeless, and before 1991 it was part of the largest military facility in Northern Iraq. Today, it is a forested central park with rose gardens, small lakes, colorful playgrounds, a climbing wall, with grassy lawns and picnic areas amid bustling restaurants. The idea of a marathon in Iraq was conceived five years ago, during the height of the War in Iraq, when Nicola Visconti, the founder of the NGO Sport Against Violence in Rome, tells me he half jokingly threw out the idea during a Sunday lunch to organize a marathon in Baghdad with all the significance that it would entail: peace, solidarity, reconciliation. Because of obvious security reasons, a marathon has yet to take place in Baghdad, although plans are underway to make that a reality this coming December. For the moment, the Erbil Marathon for Peace and Development, spearheaded and co-sponsored by the Governorate of Erbil, Sport Against Violence,

IKNN (Iraqi Kurdistan NGOs Network), and UNAMI (United Nations Assistance Mission in Iraq), is playing its part by using sports as a vehicle for education and reconstruction. The course, four loops of a normally heavily trafficked ring road around the city center, was a study in determination. While the conditions were similar to the record-breaking heat at the Boston Marathon in April of 2012 (if you ran it youll know what Im referring to), there were no firemen hosing us down, no ice chips passed out by thoughtful spectators. There were bottles of water handed out here and there, but we were mostly left to our own devices. Thankfully my husband was ready at each lap ready to ply me with a homemade sports drink I had prepared (lemon, honey and waterhe asked after what in the world was so sticky in there) and Gus I had imported from the U.S.

Weekend life in Erbil unfolded around me as I continuously circled the 10 kilometer course: men sipped their morning tea at street-side cafes while vendors pushed heavy rickshaws laden with bananas and pomegranates in a backbreaking effort to make a living. Women in black chadors crossed the street with freshly baked bread and small children in tow. Shoeless street children ran with me, proffering their small, dirty hands for a high five, and I gladly obliged. As I peaked a bridge on the far side of the ring road, I could see the Citadel of Erbil, a walled fortress, arguably the longest continuously inhabited city in the world, which sat towering above the city as it has for the past 7,000 years. Archeologists and international development groups are restoring the Citadel and many other ancient wonders that were neglected or damaged during Saddam Husseins 24-year presidency, and a burgeoning number of tour companies are taking intrepid travelers on journeys that Indiana Jones himself would be envious of. The fast-paced development of luxury hotels and world-class malls has many wondering whether this oil rich region, promoted as the other Iraq by the Kurdish Ministry of Tourism, will become the next miniDubai. As I continued my slog, the clutches of men at the cafes and the traffic policemen began to recognize me and my bright yellow shirt, my blonde ponytail and perhaps my scantily clad legs. This recognition slowly turned from curiosity to admiration, and on my third and fourth laps they finally cheered me on, giving tribute to the perseverance it took to complete a lonely marathon in heatsapping conditions. Like many runners, I have admittedly dreamed of winning a marathon: throngs of spectators cheering me on, my hands held high in triumph as I break through the tape, a laurel wreath placed on my head while I am handed an American flag. While this was a far cry from the reality of my first marathon victory, I had all that I needed at the finish line, 3:12:56 after I began: my children, Luca (7) and Mia (4), and my husband were there to embrace me, there was water to drink, a bench to rest my weary body, and of course, a pair of pants to hastily cover my legs. You won the marathon, mom! Luca squealed as Mia hopped on my aching lap. Sure, it wasnt Boston or New York, nor was it near my best time, but I was proud to be part of something that may start changing mindsets, one steamy mile at a time. The fourth grader in me couldnt conceal a smile the size of Texas, or in this case, Iraq. NR

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