It was a sweltering summer afternoon in Baghdad, not long after I had begun to feel the pulse of this city—its chaotic charm, its haunting resilience. I wandered into Al-Mutanabbi Street, that legendary artery of Baghdad’s literary soul, where bookstalls spilled onto the pavements, their pages rustling like whispered verses from forgotten centuries. Somewhere between the musty scent of aging paper and the hushed debates of poets deep in thought, a friend’s words echoed back to me:

“If you want to understand Iraq, don’t just read about it—drink it.”

And so, like a traveler following a cryptic map, I made my way to the famed Shabandar Café—a living, breathing time capsule nestled in the heart of this intellectual boulevard.

A Revelation in an Istikan

The steam from the chai spiraled up from delicate istikans—those elegant, hourglass-shaped glasses that Iraqis somehow hold without flinching, even though the liquid inside could scald the untrained hand. I picked up mine gingerly. The aroma alone was enough to wrap around my senses like a velvet shawl.

It was jet black, impossibly strong, and sweet enough to make your eyebrows lift involuntarily. That first sip was unforgettable—bitter and sweet, bold and smooth, a paradox in a cup. Much like Iraq itself.

A Drink, A Ritual, A Cultural Keystone

Back in India, I had grown up on the creamy, often spiced concoction we call chai. But here in Iraq, tea is an altogether different entity. No milk. No cardamom unless you’re in the Kurdish north. Just pure, black tea—brewed patiently over two pots: the top for the concentrated infusion, the bottom for simmering water. This method ensures a strong, dark brew.

What surprised me the most, however, wasn’t the taste. It was the ritual. Every time I’ve sat down at a chai khana in Iraq, I’ve seen how the simple act of pouring tea becomes a performance. The angle of the pour, the glint of sugar crystals stirred with grace, the silent moment before the first sip—it’s not just refreshment. It’s almost spiritual.

From Empire to Istikan: Iraq’s Journey to Tea

I delved into its history. Iraq wasn’t always a tea-drinking land. Coffee, introduced by the Ottomans, reigned for centuries. But as the British gained a foothold in the early 20th century, so did their influence on beverage choices. Crates of Assam and Ceylon began arriving via Basra. Over time, tea edged out coffee in daily life—cheaper, communal, and perfect for conversation.

Today, tea is Iraq’s social adhesive. No meeting, gathering, or discussion truly begins until the chai arrives. Even during the darkest days of war, sanctions, and power outages, people clung to their tea rituals. In those fragile glasses was a quiet defiance, a collective whisper: “We endure. We sip on.”

Shabandar Café, Baghdad: Where Time and Tea Collide

Few places encapsulate that spirit better than Shabandar Café. Established in 1917, it has seen wars, coups, uprisings, and poetry nights. Named after a family of printers, it became a sanctuary for thinkers, artists, and seekers. On Fridays, the street outside transforms into a carnival of books.

As I sat sipping tea and watching the interplay of arguments, laughter, and card games around me, I felt something shift in me. There’s a strange comfort in the fact that amid all the tectonic shifts of Iraqi history, this little glass of tea has remained constant.

There, amidst the hum of conversation and clink of istikans, I experienced a strange sense of stillness. A retired professor, seated nearby, noticed I was alone and asked, “You like tea?”
“I do,” I smiled back.
“You’re lucky,” he said, “Baghdad’s tea has stories. Some people taste them. Some just drink.”

That line etched itself deep into me. I’ve carried it ever since.

Machko Chai Khana, Erbil: Between Stones and Steam

Later, in Erbil, the Kurdish capital, I found myself at Machko Chai Khana, perched on the walls of the Erbil Citadel. It was a surreal blend of old and new. The scent of brewing tea mingled with the whispers of Kurdish history. Unlike the storied grandeur of Shabandar, Machko held a quieter, contemplative charm.

Inside, the hush was different—not reverent, but reflective. Here, tea was more than a drink. It was an identity. Kurdish, Iraqi, human. The humble glass, the steaming liquid, the communal silence—each spoke of endurance and belonging.

On the Streets: Where Tea Breathes Freely

Some of my most cherished chai moments didn’t unfold in cafés, but out on the streets—on quiet evenings in Baghdad or sun-drenched afternoons near the Erbil Citadel. I remember sitting on benches by the roadside, near the bustling bazaar, watching life unfold around me as tea was poured and stories exchanged in murmurs. In Al Mansour, Baghdad, I sat beneath a generous tree at a modest roadside chai khana. Plastic chairs, low tables, and the gentle clink of tea glasses created an unspoken rhythm—a humble symphony of everyday life

Vendors passed, children played, and a distant car horn broke the calm. But amidst all that, there was serenity. Around me, men debated politics, smoked shisha, and shared jokes, each punctuated by a sip. In that moment, I felt I wasn’t just observing Iraq—I was part of it.

Tea in the Malls: A Modern Twist on Tradition

Even in the glitzy confines of Erbil’s malls or Baghdad’s malls, tea remains ever-present. Sleek interiors, neon lights, and fashionable crowds form the backdrop, but the ritual remains unchanged.

At a stylish tea corner, I sat down, surrounded by a fast-paced world. And yet, the tea—strong, sweet, and familiar—was a time machine. With one sip, I was back on the streets, in the cafés, under the trees. That taste held memory, comfort, and continuity.

What I Learned Over a Thousand Cups

My years in Iraq taught me resilience, diplomacy, and the delicate art of cultural nuance. Yet, some of the most profound lessons didn’t unfold in boardrooms or strategy sessions, but over humble glasses of tea—just as they often do back home in India.

Whether on a pavement in Delhi, an alley in Ranchi, or a café in Baghdad, I’ve learned that tea is never just a drink. It’s a bridge. A pause. A shared silence that speaks volumes.

That something so humble—a handful of leaves steeped in boiling water—can teach patience, presence, and profound connection.

That warmth, real warmth, rises not from the cup—but from the company.

Postscript: From Baghdad to Ranchi, A Common Thread

Back home, when my son brews me tea, the flavour is gentler—perhaps more tender than bold—but the emotion is the same. There’s love in the way the steam rises. Memories steeped in every glass.

Across places and moments, I’ve come to realize that life’s most meaningful experiences are often not grand or dramatic. They arrive quietly—like a humble glass of tea, shared with a stranger, steeped in silence, and remembered forever.