What People Drink in Iraq: Traditional Alcoholic Beverages and Where to Find Them

Iraq’s drinking traditions reflect a deep history, a hot continental climate, and diverse communities. Dates thrive in the marshy south, barley and wheat cover the plains, and vineyards climb the cool foothills of the Zagros in the Kurdistan Region.

While alcohol is not central to public life, it persists in private homes, licensed restaurants, and Christian neighborhoods such as Ankawa in Erbil. From aniseed arak to rustic grape and date wines, what people drink is shaped by season, agriculture, and family ritual.

Arak is Iraq’s signature spirit: a clear anise-flavored distillate typically made by fermenting grapes or occasionally dates, then redistilling with aniseed. Small producers use copper pot stills and a slow, multi-pass distillation to concentrate aroma. When diluted with cold water and ice, arak turns cloudy—an ouzo-like louche—and lands around 20–25% ABV in the glass (40–53% ABV in the bottle). The nose shows licorice, fennel, and fresh herbs; the palate is clean, slightly sweet, and bracing, ideal for Iraq’s summer heat.

Culturally, arak accompanies leisurely meals—grilled fish, pickled vegetables, salty cheeses, and mezze—especially in Baghdad restaurants and in Christian communities of Mosul and Erbil. It is common at weddings, Easter gatherings, and family celebrations, where a bottle is shared slowly over hours. In Ankawa’s licensed bars, arak is poured over large ice cubes and topped with water; at home, it is set out with nuts and fruit on cool evenings. Though industrial brands exist, many Iraqis prize artisanal arak, valued for a smooth finish and a lingering anise aroma.

In southern Iraq, where the date palm is an agricultural backbone, households have long transformed surplus fruit into a rustic wine known as khamr al-tamr. Pitted dates are rinsed, soaked in water to release sugars, and fermented with wild yeasts or a pinch of bakery yeast. After several days to two weeks—depending on temperature—the liquid is strained and sometimes refemented for clarity. Bottled still and typically unaged, it reaches 10–14% ABV.

The result is amber to chestnut in color, with aromas of caramel, dried figs, and a faint resinous note from the date pits if any remain. On the palate, it’s off-dry to semi-sweet, with gentle tannins and a warming finish. Historically associated with rural areas around Basra and the date-growing belts of Qadisiyah and Maysan, it is consumed privately during cool winter evenings or shared after meals during family gatherings. While you won’t find it widely in shops, travelers sometimes encounter small-batch versions at farmsteads or through local contacts; it speaks directly to Iraq’s date economy and the ingenuity of preserving a perishable harvest.

Northern Iraq’s elevations, cooler nights, and terraced hillsides foster vineyards around Amedi, Duhok, and villages near Erbil. Families press field blends of local table grapes—often sun-ripened to boost sugar—using hand-cranked crushers or simple presses. Fermentation takes place in food-grade tubs or neutral containers; some producers allow spontaneous ferments, while others pitch wine yeast. Wines are bottled young and may be stabilized with a touch of sulfite if available. Typical strength ranges from 11–14% ABV.

Expect bright red-fruit aromas (strawberry, cherry) in lighter reds, with a rustic, sometimes lightly oxidative profile; whites lean toward melon and pear, occasionally showing a muscat-like lift. These are truly home wines: unfiltered, seasonal, and meant for the table rather than the cellar. They appear at family lunches, harvest celebrations, and community feasts in Assyrian and Chaldean villages, and in Ankawa’s shops you may find locally made bottles alongside imported labels. Beyond pleasure, these wines mirror the region’s geography: vines trained on stone terraces, summer droughts mitigated by winter rains, and a tradition of hospitality where a carafe sits permanently within reach.

Beer has deep roots in Mesopotamia, and modern Iraq has seen a modest revival of domestic lagers since the 2000s. Contemporary breweries in and around Baghdad and Erbil produce pale lagers brewed from barley malt with small adjunct additions, fermented cool with lager yeast, filtered bright, and packaged cold. Most clock in at 4–5% ABV. In the glass, they are straw-gold with a foamy head, offering cracker-like malt, light herbal hops, and a crisp, dry finish.

The climate dictates the style: in summers that routinely exceed 40°C, Iraqis reach for ice-cold bottles or cans. You’ll find local lagers in licensed restaurants in Baghdad, rooftop bars in Erbil, and hotel lounges that cater to travelers and oil-sector workers. While imports are common, the appeal of a fresh domestic lager—often marketed under heritage names and brewed to be thirst-quenching—has grown. Pair it with masgouf (river fish grilled over open flames), grilled lamb, or spiced mezze. For visitors, local lager offers an accessible window into Iraqi drinking culture without the higher proof of arak.

Ancient Sumerians brewed barley beer thousands of years ago, a fact preserved on clay tablets and in the Hymn to Ninkasi. The process—malting barley, baking part of it into a hard bread called bappir, then rehydrating and fermenting the mash with wild yeasts—produced a naturally cloudy drink consumed through reed straws to avoid husks. Historical estimates place the strength around 3–6% ABV, with a bready aroma, light acidity, and gentle sweetness sometimes enhanced with dates.

In today’s Iraq, this beer survives primarily as cultural memory, though historians, homebrewers, and educators occasionally recreate it to demonstrate Mesopotamian foodways. Small-scale experiments in Baghdad and Mosul academic circles, or among culinary heritage groups, use locally available barley and dates to approximate ancient methods. These brews are enjoyed privately, often alongside discussions of cuneiform, agriculture on the Tigris and Euphrates floodplains, and the deep continuity of Iraqi cuisine. For travelers, encountering a demonstration or tasting is rare but memorable—an edible link to the world’s earliest urban societies.

Baghdad’s once-large Jewish community developed raisin wine—yayin zibib—especially for religious use when grape wine was scarce or impractical. Dried grapes are rinsed, soaked, and fermented with water; sugar may be added to adjust gravity, and the wine is strained off the skins after active fermentation subsides. The result, at roughly 10–13% ABV, is a tawny, gently sweet wine with aromas of sultanas, honey, and tea. A related tradition is date wine, made similarly with pitted dates.

Historically, families prepared these wines at home in Baghdad, timing batches for Sabbath and Passover. Production methods were transmitted orally, adapting to climate and ingredient availability. Though Iraq’s Jewish population is now tiny, the technique survives in diaspora communities and in historical accounts that document daily life along the Tigris. Within Iraq, echoes of the practice remain in private kitchens and among collectors of culinary heritage. For the curious traveler, learning about yayin zibib offers a window into the city’s plural past and the resourceful ways communities adapted to local agriculture.