The Persian Gulf War ended in February 1991, and by early spring, half a million Kurdish refugees had fled into Turkey to escape the wrath of Saddam Hussein's army. But these Kurds were still dying by the hundreds on both sides of the Iraq-Turkey border from starvation, disease, and the hazards of war. This set into motion one of the largest relief efforts in American military history. And I was in the midst of it as a United Nations volunteer.My job was to transport medical supplies, food, and clothing from an airdrop in the Turkish town of Cukurca to a Kurdish resettlement camp called Zahko in Northern Iraq. I had already made several trips to Zahko without incident, and I didn't expect any problems when I set out again one morning in late April. But this time I was alone. The Turkish-speaking British missionary from Istanbul who usually accompanied me was laid up with diarrhea back in Cukurca.
The journey wound over a rugged mountain pass and normally took about three hours, but heavy rains during the night had turned the original path through the mountains into a river of slimy clay. I was re-directed at a military checkpoint onto an alternate route. Bad luck.
Twelve grim hours and something like 25 checkpoints later, it became obvious to me that I was lost. The fact that I was in danger still hadn't sunk in. Up until then, I had been wandering around the region feeling completely safe, confident that I had nothing to do with the war because I was Canadian and Canada was neutral.
