From Teahouses to Cafés: The Changing Nature of Public Space in Kurdistan Region

In the heart of Kurdish society, the teahouse—chaikhana—was once far more than a place for a hot drink. It was a cornerstone of civic life, a forum for spontaneous dialogue, and a silent witness to both everyday conversations and landmark moments in the region’s political history. Today, however, teahouses are increasingly ceding ground to modern cafés, establishments more isolating in structure and ethos, and unable to inherit the teahouse’s deeply embedded role as a social common.

The story of Kurdish tea culture is relatively recent. Tea was introduced to the Kurdistan Region of Iraq in 1895 by a trader from Iran, who had brought dried tea leaves to Sulaymaniah that year. At first, only wealthy families could afford it. They served it to guests in their diwans (reception rooms). Gradually, tea quickly gained popularity across all social classes as it was affordable and easy to make at home. Not long after, public teahouses began to appear throughout the city, offering a space for Kurdish men to socialize and talk politics.

By the early 20th century, tea had become Kurdistan’s most cherished beverage, second only to water in consumption. Today, the region imports up to 90,000 tons annually from countries as distant as India, Ethiopia, Vietnam, and the Philippines. Yet, more than a drink, tea gave rise to the teahouse: a public sphere in its own right. Here, farmers and laborers, poets and politicians, the leftist and the nationalist; each found a seat, a cup, and a shared space to engage in political debate

Teahouses in Kurdish cities in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq were, for much of the 20th century, informal salons of political exchange. They functioned as professional meeting spots, each trade had its own: the butcher’s teahouse, the tailor’s, even the bird seller’s. While they also served as a place for people to find job opportunities through word of mouth, this didn’t mean teahouses dedicated to a certain profession were not attended by others. Truly, every Kurdish man was welcome. They also mirrored ideological lines: during decades of fierce political contention, nationalists and leftists often convened in separate Chaikhanas. These spaces did not require invitations, appointments, or WhatsApp group chats. They were fluid and accessible, open to whoever felt welcome in them.

In Kurdistan, only mosques exceed teahouses in male attendance, underscoring their centrality to public life – and revealing how public space has historically been structured around male presence.. Like European coffeehouses of the pre-industrial era or Chinese teahouses before the Cultural Revolution, Kurdish chaikhanas served as vital nodes of civic engagement. Their walls often bore witness to whispered dissent, literary exchanges, and political organization.

Two of the most iconic teahouses exemplify this civic heritage: Machko in Erbil and Shaab in Sulaymaniyah. Founded in 1940, Machko has outlasted wars and regime changes. Once a haven for storytellers, artists, and activists, its walls today are lined with photos of the Kurdish well-known faces, mostly from the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, but also from other parts of Kurdistan, including Abdullah Öcalan and Qazi Mohammed.

Sulaymaniyah’s Shaab Teahouse, founded in 1950, has a history steeped in resistance. During the Ba’athist regime, it served as a covert headquarters for the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan (PUK), housing Peshmerga fighters, storing leaflets, and operating as a silent conduit between mountain and city. Iraqi intelligence knew its importance, raids were common, and many men were taken from its tables to prisons. Yet the teahouse endured. Messages passed in teacups, and political alliances solidified across dominos and glass tumblers of sweet black tea.

The stories of Machko and Shaab are not isolated; rather, they reflect the collective Kurdish memory of urban political life. But as Kurdistan moves toward Western models of urban leisure and individualism, these public spaces are fading into nostalgia.

Modern cafés now mark the streets of Erbil and Sulaymaniyah and small towns, designed less for dialogue and more for solitude. Unlike the open-table, communal nature of teahouses, cafés are characterized by personal screens, private tables, headphones, and high-speed internet. Here, patrons connect more with global trends than with the person at the next table. Coffee, not tea, is the drink of choice – a notable shift, given that coffee has a much older presence in the region than tea, though the café itself is a distinctly modern import. Smartphones and laptops have replaced backgammon and dominos. And while some youth still step into teahouses, it is largely the elderly who continue to frequent them. The teahouse, once a place of civic congregation, is becoming a relic.

Gender norms, too, mark the divide. Traditional teahouses have remained largely male spaces. Attempts to create women-only sections, as seen in the Shaab teahouse, have yielded minimal results. Women weren’t explicitly prohibited from entering teahouses; rather, social convention—much like in most public spaces in Kurdistan at the time—discouraged their presence.

In contrast, modern cafés, especially in upscale neighborhoods, are more inclusive, offering spaces where women and men can sit side by side. For many young Kurds, particularly women, cafés feel more accessible and cosmopolitan.

While today’s cafés feel more open to women and younger people precisely because they break from rigid traditions, they often lack the conditions that once made teahouses the heartbeat of Kurdish civic life. Teahouses thrived on simple, shared spaces where anyone could join a table, speak up, and linger for hours without feeling out of place. Modest prices and a culture of face-to-face exchange made conversation unavoidable, whether about local gossip or urgent politics.

In contrast, cafés create an atmosphere of privacy and individualism: screens replace strangers, and small, separate tables invite people to stay in their own bubble. This trade-off means that while cafés may feel freer for some, they risk turning public life into parallel monologues instead of collective dialogue. If new spaces are to revive any sense of public conversation, they will need to balance inclusivity with intentional design that encourages people to actually look up and speak to one another.

Still, some resist the tide. The owners of Shaab teahouse refuse to install wireless internet or modernize their offerings. They see their role not as keeping up with the times, but preserving the soul of the city.

But preservation alone won’t be enough. If teahouses are to survive, they must evolve.

In a time when Kurdish cities are undergoing rapid transformation, architecturally, socially, and politically, the decline of the teahouse is more than a change in beverage preference. It signals a deeper shift in how public life is experienced and enacted. The teahouse fostered a culture of community, spontaneity, and discourse. The café, for all its modern appeal, struggles to replicate that role.

Whether this transformation marks the loss of something vital, or simply the evolution of Kurdish public life, remains to be seen. But what is clear is this: Kurdistan’s public sphere is no longer steeped in tea; it now smells of espresso.