“We Made Hawler”: The Lost Tradition of Brickmaking in Kurdistan

By: Hevi Fuad

If you have ever taken a stroll in and around the citadel of Hawler you must have noticed that all the houses are made from bricks. They give the houses a unique and captivating look that sets them apart from plain modern architecture. The brick houses reflect not just the history of Kurdistan’s architecture, but also the history of its people, in particular the Kurachis. The Kurachis were the group of workers who made the bricks that built these houses.

Gilkand is the district where the Kurachis of Hawler reside. Its most striking features are the old house styles and uneven gravel roads, with several palm trees here and there. “Kurachi” is the Kurdish word for brickmaker, In Kurdish the word signifies more than just an occupation, it is also a family name for many.

Brickmaking is one of the oldest professions in Kurdistan, that has existed for centuries. Although the Kurachis have stopped making bricks for decades, they have built a Divan where they can get together, drink tea, and reminisce about old times. It seems that the dispersed community finds solace in having a spot that allows them to maintain a connection. The walls of the divan are covered with antique Kurdish rugs and traditional handcrafted bags, which gives the place a unique cultural atmosphere. On one side of the wall, countless pictures of  Kurdish workers who are presumed to have been Kurachis are hung, some including pictures of the men sitting opposite us.

I visited the place with my friend Haroon, the descendant of a line of aghas with close ties to the Kurachis. He had to enter before me to “Get permission to let a woman enter,” and to my luck, they were kind enough to admit me. Before you enter the divan, you pass by a small hall where there lay portraits of Kurdish workers from decades ago. The portraits depict the process of making the bricks, a cloud of thick dark smoke coming out of the giant kiln in one of them, sitting in front of it on a pile of bricks is a worker, smiling. Haji Abda refused to listen to me  when I tried to explain the potential damages the smoke can cause, he guided me  to one of the pictures hanging on the wall, of a man named Karim Salim Kurachi “Doctor Adnan continuously attempted to caution us against the smoke, so he  responded ‘you and I will both go to the medical center and test our lungs, if mine  were cleaner than yours, you have to leave us in peace.’”

We sat down, and Kak Irfat, the only older man in a suit, started to talk about the rich history of the Kurachis in Hawler, that he had learned from his father. Long ago, their grandfathers were forced to evacuate their village in Kurdistan due to problems with the muftis, who were common religious figures in the area. Upon  evacuating, they headed to Iran where they learned the profession, married, and made families. The next generation decided to return and bring with them the profession.

Near the citadel, especially the street of Saadwnawa and the areas close by, all belonged to the Kurachis. They lived and worked in that area until near the years  1955-1956, when Hawler started to grow in population. They were visited by a  health professional whom he referred to as a “doctor” who asked them to move their factory away from the center of the city as it would negatively impact the health of the inhabitants. From there, 40 families headed to a district called  Tobzawa, and 20 families went to Qoritan. Kak Irfat still held a grudge regarding the matter “They took 114 acres of land from us. Write this down, I saw  it, I saw it with my own two eyes, they took two of our property deeds, then  distributed them among themselves, we have no one.” Some of the Kurachis still live near the citadel, refusing to give up their houses to the government. They were complaining about not being permitted by law to renovate their houses,  otherwise, they would face consequences and have their houses confiscated by the Ministry of Municipality, despite being their rightful owners. He continued “We are being discriminated against, in the heart of Hawler. How is it possible? We  made Hawler, and we have the evidence, Look around you, every brick that is  placed on top of another is done by the hard work of our fathers and  grandfathers.”

After hearing their complaints, I went on to ask why they had to give up their profession. Apparently, after the introduction of concrete blocks in building construction in the 70s, the demand for bricks died down gradually. Nowadays there are rarely any brickmakers left in Hawler, Mam Hashim argues it is because the overwhelming majority of the houses are built with concrete blocks “There is not much left, really, not much at all. Everything has been replaced with  concrete.”

Manufacturing any material is largely dependent on the available resources. The bricks were made from a mixture of hay and livestock manure, both easily accessible at the time. As Hawler became urbanized, these materials became less and less available and were subsequently replaced altogether. Moreover,  concrete blocks are much larger, which accelerates the building process,  while brick houses take much longer to build. Not to mention, due to the lack of equipment in the early days, construction was a much more challenging task. Haji  Abda even mentions how they used to carry mud around in plates when building brick walls. However, Mam Hashim was keen that bricks were the better option  “They regulated the house temperature, retained heat in winter, and stayed cool  in summer.”

The portraits hung outside had piqued my curiosity regarding the making process,  and all the labor that went into it. As they were explaining, I tried to associate each step with its respective portrait. First, they transferred sand from Glkand to their factories, either in Tobzawa or Qoritan. Then, they would turn it into mud,  mix it with the other materials, mold them, and leave them to dry. The third portrait was fresh in my mind, two little boys squatting down with the molded bricks in front of them, their Kurdish clothes covered in mud, while a man standing at the back was pouring water into a mixture. Next, the dry bricks were put into large kilns and fired for days on end, then left to cool down. The fourth portrait depicted two men resting on piles and piles of bricks. After the bricks cooled down, they were stacked up and delivered to the clients. Three boys were transferring bricks from the kiln to the back of a truck in the last image.

Despite the demand shortfall, a very small portion of the Kurachis continued working in their factories. However, they only worked during summer and produced at a much lower rate. Unfortunately, even these shut down on the governor’s demand, who claimed the factories polluted the environment and risked the health of the nearby inhabitants. Thus, in 2012 they were sent away and compensated for with pieces of land near the Gwer sub-district.

Kak Irfat and his companions are the last generation of Kurachis, for whom this title means more than just a family name. With them goes the history of a  century-old tradition in Kurdistan, that had been ingrained into the culture and civilization. Their old factories, he stated, have been seized by the government  “They took it. They are planning to keep it for themselves. It will not take long until it starts to crumble. It is not fair. We have lived here for 150 years” he was immediately cut off by Mam Hashim “150?! It has been at the very least 300-400  years. This area was covered in kilns. Look at the pictures on the wall, some of them date back to the 1800s. Everyone on this wall was a Kurachi, all of them are  our grandfathers.”

We went to check out the picture at the wall’s left end. A black and white picture of a bearded man wearing the traditional Kurdish turban. “Pirdawd Saadollah  Kurachi 1889” was written under it. It saddened me to realize the Kurachis’  historical tradition will no longer be prolonged or get passed down to the next generation. All of the men now work different jobs and live in the hope of creating a different future.

Kak Irfan’s last words are a glimpse of hope for the preservation of the rich history of the Kurachis “We didn’t want to forget our roots, that is why we created this divan 6 years ago. We have created and maintained it ourselves, without getting funds from anywhere. We are well-liked people, never had trouble with anyone.  Even during the rule of the Baathist party, no one has ever bothered us.”