The plane tilted sharply, and my world turned upside down. My stomach lurched as the aircraft began a dizzying spiral, a corkscrew descent that felt less like flying and more like falling with purpose. I gripped the armrests, my knuckles whitening, as the horizon outside the window spun in a disorienting blur. This wasn’t the smooth, predictable glide of a commercial flight landing at JFK or Heathrow. This was Baghdad, August 2007, and I was plunging into a world I barely understood.

I had heard of these landings in hushed tones from colleagues—spoken with a mix of respect and inevitability. A corkscrew descent wasn’t a stunt; it was survival. In a city where danger was stitched into the very fabric of daily life, planes dropped steeply and circled tightly to avoid potential ground fire. The explanation was logical enough, but at the moment it was anything but reassuring. The horizon outside my window spun like a carousel, my chest tightened, and I found myself whispering: What’s happening?

A corkscrew landing (also called a spiral landing) is a defensive aviation manoeuvre used in high-risk zones. Instead of approaching the runway in a gradual, straight descent, the aircraft drops steeply in tight circles directly above the airport.

It was my first trip to Iraq, a journey born not of adventure but of purpose. I had been invited to lead a digital transformation for the Trade Bank of Iraq (TBI), a role that promised to be as challenging as it was meaningful. Banking in a conflict zone was uncharted territory for me, a far cry from the air-conditioned boardrooms of Dubai or London. But before I could even think about the complexities of financial systems or strategic planning, I had to survive this landing.

I glanced around the cabin, seeking reassurance. The other passengers—seasoned contractors, diplomats, and aid workers—seemed unfazed. Some chatted quietly, their voices low and steady, as if discussing the weather. Others flipped through documents or gazed out the windows with a detached calm that spoke of familiarity. For them, this was just another Tuesday. For me, it was a test of nerve, a moment where fear and curiosity collided. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that fear was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Not here. Not now.

Corkscrew landings, I later learned, were a necessity in places like Baghdad, where restricted airspace and security threats demanded unconventional approaches. The plane spiralled tightly, descending in a controlled vortex to make itself a harder target for any potential threats below. It wasn’t a stunt; it was a calculated dance with gravity, a reminder that in this city, safety was never guaranteed. The practical explanation did little to soothe my churning stomach, though. Each rotation felt like an eternity, a slow-motion plunge into the unknown. I closed my eyes for a moment, willing my body to trust the pilots, the plane, the process.

When we finally touched down with a jarring thud, a collective sigh seemed to ripple through the cabin—not audible, but palpable, like a shared release of tension. The plane taxied to a stop, and as the engines whined down, a new kind of anticipation took hold. What waited for me beyond those aircraft doors? I was about to find out.

Stepping out onto the tarmac, I was hit by a wall of dry, suffocating heat mixed with dust and jet fuel. Baghdad International Airport was unlike any airport I’d ever seen—more fortress than gateway. Barbed wire, armored vehicles, and military checkpoints replaced the usual duty-free shops and bustling crowds. This was not a transit hub; this was a threshold into a city on edge.

Customs was chaos: rapid exchanges in Iraqi Arabic, stern-faced officers, the shuffle of paperwork and security checks. For a moment, I felt disoriented, until my Iraqi colleague—who had flown with me from Dubai—guided me through with quiet assurance. His presence was a lifeline, a steadying hand in an environment where nothing felt familiar.

Soon, we were met by the bank’s security team. The Chairman and President of the Trade Bank of Iraq (TBI) was arriving from Beirut, and after a brief wait, he appeared—composed, purposeful, exuding calm authority. We moved quickly toward a convoy of bulletproof GMCs gleaming in the harsh sun, surrounded by heavily armed escorts. I was ushered into the Chairman’s vehicle while my luggage was sent separately under guard.

I’d seen political motorcades before in New Delhi, weaving through traffic with flashing lights. But this was different. This was Z-class protection. This was Baghdad.

As our convoy sped toward the city, I stared out the window, taking in the landscape of Baghdad. The scars of war were everywhere—crumbling buildings, pockmarked walls, the skeletal remains of structures that had once stood proud. Yet, amidst the desolation, there was life. Street vendors hawked their wares, children darted through alleyways, and the hum of daily existence pulsed beneath the surface. Baghdad was not just a war zone; it was a city of resilience, of people who had learned to navigate uncertainty with a quiet, stubborn determination.

The entrance to the Trade Bank of Iraq’s head office was a fortress in itself, guarded by towering concrete blast walls etched with the marks of past attacks. Military checkpoints dotted the route, manned by soldiers whose intense scrutiny spoke of a city on edge. Each stop, each inspection, was a reminder of the stakes. Yet, as we passed through those gates and into the heart of the bank, I felt a shift. This was where the work would begin—where systems would be reimagined, where processes would be rebuilt, where a vision for a more connected, resilient financial future would take shape.

That first corkscrew descent was more than just a landing; it was a rite of passage. It marked the beginning of my journey with Iraq—one that would test my resolve, stretch my imagination, and deepen my respect for the people who called this city home. Over the years, I would return many times, but no arrival ever equaled the intensity of that first spiral into Baghdad.

In that moment, suspended between sky and earth, fear gave way to purpose. And I realised: this wasn’t just about banking or technology. This was about stepping into uncertainty, about finding courage in chaos, and about answering a call to make a difference where it mattered most.