Mahmoud And The Mint

How a man and his plant became a symbol of hope in battle-weary Mosul.

- Trish Newport ​​​

LAST SPRING, as I planted mint seeds in the Yukon soil, I thought of Mosul, Iraq.

Eighteen years ago, when I moved to Whitehorse after graduating from university in Thunder Bay, my dream was to live sustainably in the wilderness without electricity or running water. I pitched a canvas tent in the bush and cleared land for a large garden. I envisioned growing a bounty of vegetables, but that first season introduced me to the harsh realities of gardening in the Canadian North. I struggled with the cool, dry climate, the short season, the constant risk of frost and the incredibly long summer days.

After a few years of yielding minimal quantities of kale, cabbage and carrots, I hung up my gardening gloves. Humanitarian aid called to me, and I began working for Médecins Sans Frontières/Doctors Without Borders (MSF) as a nurse and, eventually, as a project manager.

For the past nine years, my projects with MSF have placed me in Africa and the Middle East. My time in the Yukon has shrunk to only a few precious months a year—not long enough to get my hands dirty planting anything.

But in March 2017, in the depths of the ugly Battle of Mosul—a military campaign to take back the city from the Islamic State (IS)—one Iraqi man and his mint plant brought gardening back into my life.