Dana Mohammed – activist
Across the globe—and especially in countries blessed with vast reserves of oil and gas—natural resources have often served as engines of national development and prosperity. From Kuwait and Saudi Arabia to the United Arab Emirates, Qatar, Bahrain, and beyond, leaders have used these assets as tools to transform their nations, elevate living standards, and provide their citizens with a measure of security and comfort.
But in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, the story is one of paradox and betrayal.
This land—mountainous, mineral-rich, and soaked in history—is no less endowed than any of the aforementioned nations. One cannot walk across a hill or dig beneath a barren field without encountering signs of immense natural wealth: from fertile soils and minerals to substantial oil and gas reserves. Yet, despite this abundance, Kurdistan’s rulers have consistently failed to convert these riches into collective benefit. Not due to misfortune, but due to a chronic absence of selfless leadership.
For nearly a decade, the region operated its oil sector autonomously, selling crude on the open market independently from Baghdad. This was celebrated as a stride toward economic sovereignty. But in practice, it yielded not progress, but regression. Billions of dollars flowed through the pipelines, but little trickled down to the people. Instead, the region accumulated over $30 billion in debt, much of it incurred under the banner of future oil-backed loans. Who benefited? Not the schoolteacher, the hospital patient, or the unemployed youth—but the elite circles of the Kurdistan Democratic Party (KDP) and the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan (PUK).
Matters deteriorated further after March 25, 2023, when international oil exports via Turkey were abruptly halted. This led to the freezing of official revenue channels—but unofficial ones thrived. Smuggling networks expanded rapidly. With the KDP and PUK each controlling different zones of influence, they began extracting and exporting oil independently, off the books. The resulting profits—millions of dollars monthly—were not reinvested into public services. They were absorbed, once again, by the financial empires of the Barzani and Talabani families. These transactions, entirely unaccountable, only deepened public distrust.
In this context, one political figure began to dominate headlines: Bafel Talabani, head of the PUK. Ahead of the parliamentary elections, he appeared regularly in the media, making lofty promises. One of his most emphatic declarations was:
“I will never surrender the gas! Never! This gas belongs to the Kurdish people—it does not belong to any individual or family!”
Yet, not long after, the very gas he had vowed to protect was handed over to private interests. Monthly revenues—reportedly upwards of $35 million—were redirected into the same opaque channels as the oil money. The language of resistance quickly gave way to the mechanics of corruption. In Kurdish slang, many mocked this betrayal as nothing more than an elaborate excuse to cook a pot of “Herîsa”—a humble dish now turned metaphor for political deceit.
And gas and oil were not the only casualties of this kleptocratic order. Vast tracts of public land have been seized, privatized, or quietly distributed among politically connected firms. Entire mountains, forests, and valleys—once part of the commonwealth—have disappeared behind barbed wire and company gates. The dispossession is not hidden; it is routine, systematic, and observable. One does not need deep investigative skills to witness it—only a conscience and the courage to look up.
Amid these escalating injustices, a darker irony has taken hold: the regime that promised “Ronakî” (light) has delivered nothing but darkness. Consider the infamous 24-hour electricity project, long promised as a symbol of progress. Years later, the region remains literally and figuratively in the dark. Blackouts are constant. Infrastructure is crumbling. Yet citizens are billed monthly, religiously, for electricity they often never receive. The people pay—while the profits vanish.
This is the business model of modern-day Kurdistan. A land of extraordinary wealth, governed by a logic of extraction, exclusion, and entitlement. Its rulers speak of patriotism while profiting from privatized resources. They invoke national pride while systematically looting the commons. And all the while, the everyday Kurd faces rising costs, decaying services, and the creeping realization that no political party speaks for them.
In a region where democracy has been reduced to dynasty, and governance replaced by greed, one cannot help but ask: When did public service become private inheritance? When did national gas become a family asset? When did hope give way to this elaborate illusion?
And perhaps most hauntingly:
When did the business of governing Kurdistan become indistinguishable from the business of exploiting it?
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