tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28298876055560102822024-03-19T06:53:11.883+03:00Seeing ThingsThis is a platform for what we see in the world around us; it is an attempt to figure out what we are, and what can we do to have our little world better place.Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-52691719652108494702019-06-13T21:03:00.002+03:002019-06-13T21:03:42.726+03:00Refugee Week: rambling<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was thinking of the coming refugee week and somehow did not feel good about it. I was asked to deliver a Skype session to secondary school about Arabic language and culture. I felt excited about it because speaking about language and culture is one of the favourite things I like to do. When I learned that the session would be held during Refugee Week, I felt disappointed and angry. Why they connect refugees with learning Arabic or the Middle East? There are tens of refugee communities from all parts of the world who have settled in the UK during various times. Refugees are not just Arabs and they are not women only. <div>
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Too much attention has the same negative impact as lack of attention. So I decided to apologise for this session. When I first moved in here, I was happy with that attention given to me as Iraqi but when the same questions of how I managed to become me had been repeated by different people, I started to hear the questions which those people thought of but did not dare to ask. If these questions slipped off their tongues, they would try to hide their patronising meaning with more complements of how special I was. </div>
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Too much attention has the same negative impact as lack of attention when one knows they do not deserve it. </div>
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As I sitting in the train contemplating the moving images outside of trees, I tried to process my anger, my frustration and deep pain. I held my phone, my favourite writing device these days, and started writing whatever came to my mind. This is it. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">When you watch a circus monkey does smart stuff, you look at with so much admiration and give it the biggest applause you can. But in fact at the back of your mind you are thinking "how monkeys are doing that? They are animals and they are not supposed to be able to do that" and you continue clapping. Monkeys may fail to see what is hidden behind your clapping but people do. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Think of how refugees from what you know now as the Middle East have been put on display in all those events meant to "celebrate" refugees or make them feel "welcomed". Think that most of the attendants clapping their hands as one particular refugee speaks of her struggles, how she finally ended here and how she is restarting her life. You clap harder but at the back of your head you are thinking "how did she made it. She is not supposed to". You may mean well with your judgement and do not mean to harbour patronising thoughts. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">That refugee with a shy smile, the first welcoming clap was a tone of joy. Then she starts talking, struggling for words to express the rushing thoughts in her mind. She wants to give you the best show, worthy of the time, effort and probably money, you have spent to be there. She needs to play some smart tricks that makes you wonder "how can she do that?!" While approaching yourself for thinking "she is not supposed to be able". </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">She thinks she needs to be articulate, able to make sense of the very nonsense in her life, the unfairness of accidents in hers and her people's lives. She did not choose to be born in that jungle. She might have chosen to leave and restart somewhere else. The accidents of her existence in that place at that particular time allowed her one way out. It has its price. The smart tricks she needs to play to be welcomed and accepted. Otherwise she would be "wooed off the stage". Who wants to watch a dumb boring performer who can't master one trick! So she needs to do her smart trick of eloquence and articulation. The rest of us unable to master the same trick should be shipped back to the jungle they came from and allowed back here when they have something entertaining to say or do.</span></div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-305579062051538622019-04-06T20:42:00.001+03:002019-04-06T20:42:09.229+03:00Beauty and Body Image<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">A friend posted on
Facebook wondering if she was the only woman who never had manicure. I
commented that I never had one as well. Some time ago I would have said this
loud and proud and would never thought that I needed to change this
attitude. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">At that time, I was not interested in how I looked.
Back in Iraq, I never cared for makeup, accessories, or even fining colours
that suited my skin tone. I used to hate shopping. At that time, I had
unhealthy body image as all around me would highlight weight gain, urging me to
lose weight to be more attractive. I was unmarried and beauty standards in Iraq
recommended slim bodies. My family, friends and colleagues would always
highlight that over-weighted women were not attractive to men. Of course, nobody
cared for the health issues coming with weight, as most men there enjoyed
having bellies shaking as they walked. overweight was a health problem for men,
maybe, but for women it made them unmarriageable. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">Being stubborn and rebellious woman, I resisted any
attempt to make myself attractive. I felt that any attempt to make myself
beautiful meant that I was inviting men to check me out and consider me as
potential wife. I remember rejecting gold jewelleries as a neighbour advised my
mother that women who wore gold were more attractive to men. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">For years I rejected makeup, accessories and
body-shaping clothes. I wore Turkish-designed clothes for Muslim women like an
overcoat and was satisfied that it did not show any of my body features. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">When I moved to England, I had to change the way I
dress as my overcoats were not practical for London life. The stack of clothes I
brought with me did not make sense and were extremely uncomfortable for London
commute and the long walks I wanted to explore the city. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">I started shopping for jeans and tops. I was
comfortable with wearing jeans and body-fit tops as the notion that my clothes
could have sent unintended messages to bachelor men was not valid in England.
My continuous trips to Oxford Street for window shopping before selecting an
item to buy helped me develop a taste, consider what suited my body-shape and
what it did not. For the first time in my life, since I could remember, I
enjoyed shopping, in spite of the fact that I did it alone, with no girl
friends to ask for their advice. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">The joy did not only come from the variety of options
available or all body shapes and heights (I can't be more grateful for petite
jeans!) It was liberating to shop with my own satisfaction in mind. When I
started shopping, I was looking for my practical clothes, and gradually I built
a style that I was comfortable with. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">The most difficult job
was shopping for bras. In Iraq, in conservative families like my own, it was
recommended that the mother would do the shopping of bras and underwear for her
unmarried girls. When the girl got married, her husband would do that for her during
the first years of their marriage. This was because most of the shops selling
these items owned by men and had men to do the sales. Most girls would refrain
from working in such shops as it would damage their reputations. (This was
before building all the shopping centres where women could have better shopping
experience, but it is still the practice in the outskirts of cities where no
shopping centres are available). </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">Here, away from the
eagle-eye of judgmental men in Iraq, I could do the shopping myself. It cost me
several bras before understanding shapes and sizes, but it was worth it. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">This whole shopping
experience helped me to understand my body from the outside as much as from the
inside. The biology classes I took in school (yes, I studies science in
secondary school!) helped me to understand how my body worked. But the independent
shopping experience helped me understand my body and develop healthy body image.
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-52338494047852372452019-03-30T23:03:00.002+03:002019-03-30T23:03:24.339+03:00Company, the musical 2019<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhumUGyyk5QVdSRVv525RLNjlq3-W6j9vwMshujf7AmW102-xHIKlg2_oiGzv4Vw7irxUyVkAj1zA3wu4vAryNgspVuV4BAwM_GKEUSsWGkgg0bDxcLxf_kQzYlnYzzBXKY3J_cKn12sHQ/s1600/MV5BMTkxMzUxMjQ4MF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMTc4MzM2MQ%2540%2540._V1_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="352" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhumUGyyk5QVdSRVv525RLNjlq3-W6j9vwMshujf7AmW102-xHIKlg2_oiGzv4Vw7irxUyVkAj1zA3wu4vAryNgspVuV4BAwM_GKEUSsWGkgg0bDxcLxf_kQzYlnYzzBXKY3J_cKn12sHQ/s200/MV5BMTkxMzUxMjQ4MF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMTc4MzM2MQ%2540%2540._V1_.jpg" width="140" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The classical
American musical <i>Company</i> gets a gender-swap treatment in London
theatres. But does the play need this treatment? Some may think not really. But
let's think it over. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In an interview, Jonathan Bailey who played the anxious gay
groom Jamie, says that if the musical has been maintained in its old version,
nobody would care about a bachelor playing around with women in Manhattan. By
turning it to a story about woman hitting mid-30s, the story has made more
sense and can relate to women’s experience as they hit 35 when all their friends
remind them of the biological hour.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As someone who got married at the age of 40, I saw the play brilliant
in a different way. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimk-_s9rv9c2rZdwfSaxxY4_n9ZZ7F54e8HaHXDjl-bfztSYR7UyeD0BsZS-Mmx1R1wIabL60uEAoO9P8HgjmDMOEIESMBUnwl_xusRuoCbjEC8ResH-Hhy18NUv93oq3aXW4P3oV4eEE/s1600/company.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="728" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimk-_s9rv9c2rZdwfSaxxY4_n9ZZ7F54e8HaHXDjl-bfztSYR7UyeD0BsZS-Mmx1R1wIabL60uEAoO9P8HgjmDMOEIESMBUnwl_xusRuoCbjEC8ResH-Hhy18NUv93oq3aXW4P3oV4eEE/s200/company.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Company_(musical)" target="_blank">The 1970 musical</a> tells the story of a bachelor, Robert, who is afraid of commitment and searches
among his married friends for an answer why he should get married and settle
down. When the play first came out I 1970, women had been still struggling for
equality in the workplace, public life and also private life. The idea that women
might be living the life of a bachelor was not common. Art did not bring many examples
of female characters going through similar struggles as the one Robert were experiencing.
Society was still pressuring women, in spite of the second wave of feminism of
the 50s and 60s, to become housewives. In the musical the female characters did
not show the depth that males did. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the contemporary treatment of gender swap, Bobby, a 35
years old woman whose friends are urging her to settle down while she can't
find a reason to do so. She spends time with each couple and gets to see that
marriage is not really all happy time with another person around all the time. Bobby
tells her friends that she would like to commit and there are three men she is considering
them as potential husbands. The three girls of the original musical have been
turned to males in the contemporary Company: physically attractive flight attendant,
the serious and committed who gets engaged to someone else, and the worldly New
York’s lover. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In addition to Bobby, two couples have their characters swapped
as wives take leading roles in their marriages, which was unthinkable of back
in the early 1970s. Susan in the original play was southern belle, and Peter was
Ivy league. In the new treatment, it is Peter who is ‘southern belle’, showing
feminine traits while Susan looks more masculine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The play takes inclusiveness and diversity beyond the mixed-race
marriages to include gay relationships. The engaged couple become soon-to-be
married gay couple Paul and Jamie. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the night club scene, originally Joanne invites Robert to
have an affair which leads to Robert’s realising that he needs to commit; in
the contemporary play, Joanne offers Bobby a cigarette which she refuses. Joanne
tells Bobby that she needs to be brave and embrace life, instead of just watching
it. The scene ends with Bobby realising that she is ready to commit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The play does not end with Bobby settling down. It ends with
her knowing what she wants, wishes for it and the hope that her wishes come
true, as she managed to blow out all her candles. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nadia</span></div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-60230502826853145032019-03-25T01:42:00.000+03:002019-03-25T01:47:07.898+03:00BBC Arabic Film Festival 2019<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Finally there is distinguished presence of Iraqi films in a film festival. In the BBC Arabic Festival 2019, more than five productions (short features and documentaries) by Iraqi filmmakers entertained us today in the BBC festival, shedding light on a country in trauma, artists searching for platforms, and films articulate beauty amid ruins.<br />
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As an Iraqi, I was not only proud to see these films telling the story of where I came from, but I was also relieved to see Iraqi artists and filmmakers given enough space and receiving recognition for their works.<br />
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I could be wrong, but since leaving Iraq, I felt that Iraq had been excluded or its artists were not given the opportunity to participate in festivals addressing the Arab and Middle East art and cinema. It may not be intentional or that Iraqi artists did not promote films as Arab peers, but what I am certain of is that Iraqi literature, art and cinema does not often receive exposure equal to what other Arab countries, which went through relatively similar traumatic experiences.<br />
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But today I was happy. Short feature films about life in Baghdad, ISIS and the sex slavery business, documentaries about Yazidi fighter and artist who tried to create art in the aftermath of 2003, showed me today that Iraqi artists were reaching out and what they made was worth watching and is relevant to the overall picture of chaos and disorder in the region.<br />
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As happy and proud as I was with the participation of many Iraqi filmmaker, I found myself moved by Katia Jarjoura’s Only Silence, short film about a Syrian refugee in France. The film has simple storyline: a Syrian girl, Neda, was in the process of claiming asylum in France, while the rest of her family, her mother and young brother, were still in Syria. Neda couldn’t enjoy life, though she tried to find her place in Paris, because she was worried about her mother and brother. The last two scenes in this 30-mins drama were powerful and resonate, maybe, with the story of many refugees who had to leave their home countries on their own, leaving parts of themselves back to the dangers of war. Neda was skyping with her family when the family house was attacked by masked men, who took the mother and the brother away, while Neda was watching. The scene ended with one of the masked men staring at the screen and Neda was frozen in front of the laptop. The screen went dark, then Neda was shown, sitting in the immigration office, broken. A voice told her that her case was accepted, ‘welcome to France’ it said, but Neda was not giving a reaction. She couldn’t even show that she cared anymore. What mattered to her had been gone, taken by war and ruin. The country, the family and the man she loved, all were lost.<br />
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In the Q & A following, a man noted the melancholic atmosphere of the films about refugees, rejecting what he deemed as lacking hope and ‘depressing’. In another film festival a lady had made the same criticism about and Iraqi film addressing the issue of exile and being refugee in a melancholic way. Before the directors came to answer the comment, most of the audience had released sounds of resentment towards such comment and approved Jarjoura’s response that where we came from was depressing and sad; that our countries had been lost to wars and we might not recover that even we lived in Paris.</div>
Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-3578862573953353692019-03-09T12:47:00.002+03:002019-03-09T12:47:50.400+03:00On Women's Day <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">Here we go again on Women’s Day, misogynist posts, videos and
messages are circulating on social media, pointing out where women fall
inferior to men. ‘women can't drive’ memes and videos are everywhere; the cliché
of famous chefs are men not women, scientific contributions are mostly done by
men and not women and so on. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">Browsing through these posts, which get average hundreds of
shares, makes me feel that we are stuck in the 1950s when men lashed at women
fighting for their right to join the public life. For years I thought the time
had passed when we need to argue that we are equally capable and that we are
equally smart. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">Dear misogynist men out there, take out your hands out of your
pants and look around you. Things have changed. Yes, women, left behind for thousands
of years, have made it to the top. They are presidents, CEOs, scientists and mostly
much better drivers in spite of what these funny videos show. <br />
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Instead of spending the day to bring women down and make her day a joke you
laugh at with your buddies, who must share with you the same misogynistic
grudge, take the day to educate yourself about what your mother had been
through to raise you the person you are now. Educate yourself about what your
sister, daughter or girl-friend has to go through on a daily basis to find her
place in the world. Acknowledge the support, the kindness and love given to you
by the women in your life. And end it with a wish that your little sister,
daughter, niece will not have to suffer in her life because she is woman. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">If you have no woman in your life at the moment, think of your
female colleague and educate yourself about women’s struggle in the workplace.
Be kind and supportive in non-creepy way. Simply, don't be the other jerk she
has to deal with for the day. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">My husband is not a man of intellect; he basically hates reading
and listening to the news. He has a kind heart but considering he had never
been in serious relationship and came from a world teaching men to act superior
to women, I found it necessary to teach him about misogyny and what does it
entail for women. It started as a joke, but now he does not only know the word,
but he also can tell when he is acting like a misogynist. He became more appreciative
of his mother and sisters; he does not find demeaning to help around the house.
</span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">As for us women, we are not that great with each other either. It
is really sad that we are not helping each other as it should be. We have been
pushed aside for centuries, we are still abused at home and at work. Yet, instead
of supporting each other, we turn against each. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">Take the day, lady, and think why you are bitching about your
colleague, why she is so annoying to you. Is it workplace competition or has
become more of personal jealousy? </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">If you are in a place of your life where you have access to
everything you need, think of the million others who do not. Think of the little
girls and women around the world who still struggle to access the necessities
of daily life. Use your voice and platform to support their struggles. Not because
your personal battle has ended triumphantly for you, it has been the same for
others. If you have made it to the other side, look behind you and see the
millions who are still struggling to get there. If you can’t help, don’t be the
obstacle. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></div>
Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-68205046483505513702017-11-29T18:12:00.001+03:002017-11-29T18:12:27.649+03:00Gaining Back What is Lost: Back to Teaching<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When my father asked me to follow my sister lead and become a teacher, I firmly said no. I didn't want to teach. I didn't want to end up like the teachers I encountered in my school. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As a student, I had good teachers and bad ones, but the latter were the dominant type. They were not only bad in the way they treat students, but they were also uninformed, superficial and not quite the role model I wanted to follow. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tried to resist my father, but being at that time the good girl I was raised to be, I eventually followed my father's orders and joined the College of Education for women, to become a teacher, like my sister. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I was asked what department I wanted to join, I chose English. In school I loved this subject that opened the doors and expanded the limited conservative world I was chained to. I always excelled in it and to continue studying it, even for the purpose of teaching it, gave me some sense of freedom. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was good enough during the first two years of the university. Being excellent student did not make a sense for me at that time, when I knew I would end up teaching in secondary schools. My level of English was far better than what my teachers had. I didn't bother attending most of the lectures, especially those that aimed at training students to become secondary-school teachers. However, I loved literature and language modules. I was very good in them. By the end of the second year, when I realized that I could pursue different careers with my study, like translation, I decided to take my studies seriously. In the last two of my undergraduate years, I was the top student. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As I excelled in the department, when I graduated, I had the chance of joining Baghdad Observer, Iraqi newspaper published in English. However, as the top student, everyone, including my professors, advised me to pursue master degree in English literature. By that time I was deeply in love with the subject of literature. Between the lines of a poem, story or play, I found a hidden meaning of life, a lost passion I always looked for. I convinced myself that I would join Baghdad Observer when I obtain master degree, and then I would probably have the chance to become a writer in the newspaper, rather than just a translator. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Before the time I submitted my master degree, life changed in Iraq and post-2003 era started, after wiping off the life we knew in Iraq. Baghdad Observer was shut down, and the media landscape in Baghdad started to take different and unfamiliar shapes. By the time I received my master degree, I missed another chance to work in another newspaper, which was published in English, because it was not safe to join the field. My dream to become a writer, a columnist perhaps, who share her knowledge and experience with the world, was killed in the bud. Lacking the companionship of a listening ear or understanding mind at that time made me eager to communicate with the wide world through my words, and what was better than a newspaper that published in English, a language that most of the world can speak? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because of the security situation after 2003, I was left with no other career option but teaching. There was a need for lecturers in English and after searching for few weeks, I landed on teaching jobs in two different colleges. During the following years, I finished my PhD in contemporary American poetry, and established myself as lecturer of English and American literature in a university in Baghdad. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
However, deep inside I continued to hate the job. It felt like a wall separating me from what I really wanted to be, which was not a teacher. I felt conflicted. I knew what a huge responsibility it was to stand in front of a class waiting for me to enlighten their minds with the knowledge I acquired, while in fact I didn't want to do that. I felt that I was fraud. I felt that I was bad teacher, even when there were students who admired me and considered me as a role-model. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This even affected my relationships with my colleagues. I despised many of them for being fraud as well, being as bad and less informed as my teachers in the secondary school. Every year, my frustration with the job and disappointment with academia in Iraq grew deeper. I tried to resist but the system established in Iraq after 2003 was bigger and stronger than individual attempts of helpless academics like me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I came here, I was surprisingly disappointed to know that my fellowship terms did not include teaching. I tried to cheer myself up by repeating the thought that I cherished for many years: I hated teaching. But that was futile. I felt sad, because in spite of the fact that I hated this job, it was the only thing I had been doing since 2003 till I left Iraq in 2015. It was my career for 12 years. To stop doing it all of sudden left me impaired, not knowing what to do. Without teaching, I felt there was no purpose behind my research, which I did not give enough attention during the last two years. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For two years, I wrote and published articles related to my research, I participated in conferences, seminars and workshops as expected from any academic serious and passionate about their fields. However, nothing satisfied that urge to stand in front of a class and share with them a book I loved to read, or knowledge about literature I recently acquired. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I did several desk jobs in London, mostly research, translation and content editing. However, the urge for teaching again grew bigger, that I felt there would be no career satisfaction unless I was a teacher again. Finally, I decided to apply for teaching jobs, even if would be outside the university. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Last month, I was accepted in a part-time teaching job in Essex. For some reason, I felt extremely happy. Not because the job paid well, or will change my financial situation drastically. On the contrary, the job proved to be a burden on my budget. Yet, I felt excited to go back to teaching. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I went to my first lesson feeling proud of myself, excited to stand again in front of a class and share with them the knowledge I had been accumulating for years, but above all eager to regain that part of me I lost when I left Iraq. Teaching was the bigger part of my life in Iraq, it was my self-defining reality, which I lived for most of the day. When I stopped doing it, I felt that I stopped to exist, that I was no longer visible to the world. This was how I felt when I was in my way from London to Essex to start my first class. Though I had a long-day work in London, I was happy to start my class in the evening. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I walked to my first class, introduced myself to the new students and asked them to introduce themselves. I started teaching and tasted back that familiar air of teaching! First lesson was successful. I gained back what I lost. But, was that what I really wanted?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That night I couldn't sleep. I stayed awake in bed thinking and processing what had happened. The joy of victory, that I was doing something that was denied to me since I came here, no longer felt, but was replaced by exhaustion and disappointment. I realized that the urge to teach was an urge to gain back a lost life; a life that in exile grew ideal, simply because I was forced to leave it, rather was ready to end it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Nadia F Mohammed </div>
</div>
</div>
Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-58496110383607620722017-09-28T16:31:00.001+03:002017-09-28T16:31:38.576+03:00Ashura <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In few
weeks, London will celebrate Halloween, then the decoration will be put down
for Christmas. Premature Christmas decorations, though annoys some people who
are saying no to these commercial and marketing strategies, I find them to help
in setting the mood for the holidays season and add some warmth to the cold
city. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When
the Christmas lights brightens London's Oxford St or the Piccadilly, I often
think of my home town and a comparison becomes inevitable. London does not
waste any occasion to celebrate joy, life and love, starting with Halloween,
Christmas and Valentine. Baghdad, and most of Iraq, wastes no occasion to
celebrate death. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As if
the daily bombings and constant conflicts on the Iraqi soil are not enough to
remind Iraqis of their inescapable fate to die; as if it is not enough that a
new black sign is added to announce the death of a beloved. Iraqis dig for more
to mourn, more reasons to add more black flags in the streets. In this time of
the year, all Baghdad would be wrapped in black flag to commemorate the death
of Hussein. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After
2003, when Shia, who appeared to be the majority of Iraqis living in the middle
and south of Iraq, started to enjoy the freedom of self-expression denied to
them by the Baathist regime, Ashura started to feel and look different from
what it used to be in the 1980s and 90s. It simply became politicized and
identity marker that was unnecessarily emphasized. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I
belong to Shia family. I spent 6 years in Babel before we moved permanently to
Baghdad. in Both places, our neighbours were mixture of Muslims and Christians,
Sunni and Shia, Arabs and Kurds. But again, at that time these ethno-sectarian
identities were not part of any conversation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Before
I realized that my family were Shia, we used to observe Ashura, but so all our
neighbours in Babel and Baghdad. Ashura at the time was simple and warm.
Families would cook large amounts of food and distributed to around the
neighbourhood. Some would cook harisa <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2c7uMz5AWmYAC0FDNaUE3xF6ywvuO_8MNgcfj1mLcyepOVDjA7Qt7e9z9uH3a0dcftaEf6qRx4mAyZ9sMe0r6ZXbgQxEbUsHUoOhJbZH4V8JWqtfvl4S6DuYKN7UuSlJkpENmzb8GxEg/s1600/3128823346_1_6_jVaXKgwT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="286" data-original-width="600" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2c7uMz5AWmYAC0FDNaUE3xF6ywvuO_8MNgcfj1mLcyepOVDjA7Qt7e9z9uH3a0dcftaEf6qRx4mAyZ9sMe0r6ZXbgQxEbUsHUoOhJbZH4V8JWqtfvl4S6DuYKN7UuSlJkpENmzb8GxEg/s320/3128823346_1_6_jVaXKgwT.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Or they
cook qeema and rice<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy8zTZW3xKF4p2QAntscwDV6zVqhEw5lGDZD3GGDIBgFmBLtgj1M2gv5PSCC-bQVoxesnQiIF9PWghyV4eyDQGJza0_ldFkk6NgQAoFaXwkTJe2KucJaFwh_mEsKx2LvE0cVyzshyXFsA/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="751" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy8zTZW3xKF4p2QAntscwDV6zVqhEw5lGDZD3GGDIBgFmBLtgj1M2gv5PSCC-bQVoxesnQiIF9PWghyV4eyDQGJza0_ldFkk6NgQAoFaXwkTJe2KucJaFwh_mEsKx2LvE0cVyzshyXFsA/s320/photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Which
is my favorite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I used
to spend the 9<sup>th</sup> day of Muharam carrying a small pot, searching
which house in the street would be cooking. I wanted to be the first of my
friends to get a share of the newly cooked food.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My
favourite Ashura ritual was staying awake from 12 am till next morning between
9-10 of Muharam, which we used to call ‘hija’, pilgrimage. In this context, it
used to mean pilgrimage of the night. The exciting thing was that my sisters
and I would be staying in the street playing with other kids, while our mothers
would gather around one house and drink tea and cookies. The one who served
them the tea and cookies had vowed to serve this simple meal because she prayed
for something, either the return of a beloved safely from the battlefield,
which was a common prayer during the Iraq-Iran war, or a woman deprived of the
joy of motherhood would pray for Al Abas to have a baby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVKYTsQaSvlKzCrQM8tTyDhZFmoV12PjG-2eSum0tZKt-vrU2mhwkmtLqz-KNn8L6NppOKgAztuXodiErXXMAbwwEocruZvwLQFsHJuqmeULcIjJJ-KNg_6No4e7lKFjT-h9vMEdVjwU/s1600/x5IDRYtr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVKYTsQaSvlKzCrQM8tTyDhZFmoV12PjG-2eSum0tZKt-vrU2mhwkmtLqz-KNn8L6NppOKgAztuXodiErXXMAbwwEocruZvwLQFsHJuqmeULcIjJJ-KNg_6No4e7lKFjT-h9vMEdVjwU/s320/x5IDRYtr.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It was
the only night around the year where it was safe to go around. My mother would
not ask us even to be careful. She was pretty sure that we were safe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I never
associated Ashura with mourning, or sad event. For me Ashura was the time to be
free, too much playing and tasty food that we didn’t cook in any other
occasion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Today
this joy does not exist anymore. Ashura rituals start immediately after the
celebrating the New Islamic year. Black flags would shroud Baghdad; tents
serving tea and lemon tea would play poems recited through loud speakers for
everyone to hear, even if they don’t want to listen to; streets would be
blocked because apparently Shia like to march on foot to Karbala, where the
Martyrdom took place fourteen century ago. Life is disrupted during that week,
and the only activity to be done is mourning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Today
few people do ‘hija’, few children would stay awake all night playing and
exchanging stories the way we used to do. Food is abundant, but it is no longer
as tasty. Ashura has become those days of continuous mourning and wailing. They
are those days which heavily pass that they seem to linger weeks and months,
rather than just days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In
London, today, no one knows why they are celebrating Halloween, Christmas or
Valentine, but these celebrations become part of their cultures; celebrating
them has nothing to do with being devout Christian, but part of giving oneself
the time to enjoy the festivities. However, big companies profit from these
celebrations and thus they need to support and increase their investments in
these occasions. Every store in Oxford St has to hang on Christmas lights to
attract customers, or exhibit red teddies and flowers. It has become commercial
and politicized, but at least it is still joyful and warm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ashura
also has its own patrons, who like to keep the newly developed rituals
continue, and to have it as marker of identity. Politicians, Shia clerics in
Najaf, and even businessmen need to keep these rituals going and expanding.
However, these rituals have become shrouded with death and
mourning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 6pt 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Nadia Fayidh Mohammed</span></div>
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</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-18094284473611866572017-09-16T18:34:00.000+03:002017-09-16T18:35:18.758+03:00Lifetime of War Trauma <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last Tuesday I was asked to participate in an event about living with war trauma. My participation was supposed to be an account of living a lifetime with war. I wanted to talk about what does it mean to pass through days and nights, waiting for my father to come back from the battlefield in the 1980s. The war was mainly on the borders. In Babel or in Baghdad, I didn't hear then the horrific sound of bombs or missiles falling on the border villages in the southern and northern borders withe Iran. The only terrifying memory I had of that war was waiting for my father to come back and the fear that I would lose him like many of my friends in school who were referred to as "daughter of the martyr". I didn't want to be one of the children who had to stand in front of all school on the first of December of every year, so that I receive petty gifts that were supposed to compensate me for losing my father. I wanted my father instead. I didn't want him to be a mere picture on the wall. I wanted my father to come home. My mother was happier when he was around; we all were happier. Waiting for him to come home was the worst times of my childhood.<br />
<br />
But in Iraq war was the reality of the last four decades. I hit my teen years with gulf war in 1991, when more than 36 country decided to punish one man by destroying and terrorizing a whole country. My father was home with us; all of us, five girls and one boy, all slept in his room. He was there but he couldn't even say "don't worry, it is far away, we are safe". The sound of bombs falling around Baghdad was louder than any assuring words my father would say. He himself was terrified that he asked us all to be in one room. If we would die, we would all die together. He couldn't make my 2 years old brother feel safe, when the siren started the nightmare. My dad wished that they would bomb without this awful sound, which rendered the little child speechless, frozen in his place covering his ears with his hands. My brother would playing in the street during the day, laughing and having a good time. When the siren set off he would stand still, look ahead with expressionless look, pale and frightened, he would cover his ears. He hated and feared the siren more than the bombing.<br />
<br />
My brother barely recovered this when 2003 war started. This time the war was more intense, for Bush Jr intended to finish his father's job. He didn't want a long war, but shock and awe that could end it once and forever. I was adult, had just submitted my MA thesis, but the bombing was something I saw in Hollywood movies. However, this time it was above our heads. The Americans were everywhere in the country, they were inside my city. We had to leave, my dad decided to take his family away from war zone. With the few families remaining in the neighborhood, we all headed northeast to Dyala. We stayed in tents in open lands or Palm-tree orchards. We were displaced for days and weeks and nobody believed that they would go back home at any time soon. It was freezing cold at night, the water had to be boiled before we drink and we took a shower once a week. I tried to read the book I brought with me then, Gone withe the Winds, but my father warned not to do that. The others would make fun of me.<br />
<br />
The story of war did not end with the fall of Baghdad, did not end when Saddam was hanged, and definitely did not end with American-made democracy. Till the time I left Iraq, 30 July 2015, my city was a war zone: political parties stepping down on our heads to achieve power, armed groups using our destitution to gain whatever selfish goals they have and desperate rebels sacrificing their fellows in the hope of changing what they reject. Meanwhile, the peaceful world I have dreamed of since early childhood has continued to be far-fetched, a non-existent reality for far-away lands, but not for ours.<br />
<br />
Apparently the horror is chasing us everywhere<br />
<br />
Nadia F Mohammed </div>
Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-56537055566978628812017-09-01T19:14:00.004+03:002017-09-01T19:17:18.922+03:00Obituary of the Aunt Who Walked Away <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Happy Eid, <br />
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I just knew that my (parental) aunt had died. Years ago, when she lost her husband, my aunt decided to walk away from family and tribe and live on her own to look after a house of another wealthy Iraqi woman in Karbala, which serves passing by pilgrims to the Shrines of Hussein and Abbas. </div>
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All blamed my aunt for her decision. It was not because her family needed her. All were grownups and already married and had their own families. She was a grandmother in her sixties when she took the decision. They just found her decision and choice in life disgracing their tribal honor, that she was walking away from her lawful male guardians after becoming a widow. They expected her to stay with one of her sons to the end of her life. She rejected this fate, and decided to lead a different life, free from family ties and tribal traditions. </div>
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When I heard about my aunt new life style, I felt ashamed that her children and her brothers (my dad included) let her do this. I thought she did this because she felt abandoned and none of her children agreed to look after her. My eldest sister, who lived with her husband in the tribe home-town in Kut and was more informed of our relatives latest updates, told me that this was not the case. She chose to this because she wanted to be on her own. In fact, I sensed a tone of envy in my sister's voice when she was saying that my aunt was now free to go wherever she wanted without the need to ask one of her sons, that she no longer tied to family responsibilities. After a sigh my sister looked at me and said that I was the only one who said no to this fate! </div>
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At that time I didn't understand my sister's position, or why the envy. Isn't every woman's wish to be married and have a family of her own? </div>
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My aunt had this; yet at one point in her life, when she was badly in need of the support of that family she devoted all her life to look after, she decided to walk away, and live free, even this meant abandoning a life of comfort for one that required hard work. </div>
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Today I understand my aunt better. I can feel why she had did that, living far away from her own people and community. She must have found in the new life she led during the last decade of her life a freedom she had missed in her old life. She probably didn't care how hard and exhausting to live on her own after living a life-time supported by family members. </div>
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Loneliness is bitter, my mom used to say. She always warned me against ending up on my own. She told me that I would grew up old one day and would need a companion, I would be in need of my own family to be around me in my old age. My aunt proved my mother was wrong. She had this but chose to walk away. She chose to live estranged from her sons and daughters, who wanted her to abide by tribal traditions. My mother felt sorry for my aunt, but I feel that it was my aunt who felt sorry for my mom, and all other women who would spend their lives in the prison of traditions till they perish. </div>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
Nadia Fayidh Mohammed </div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-70827027815660208862017-08-08T14:42:00.001+03:002017-08-08T14:42:56.254+03:00Two Years in London<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Two years have passed since my arrival to the UK. Every time I see my reflection in a mirror or a glass, I remember how I was like when I first arrived here. Not only my looks have changed, but also the way I defined myself. I look at my reflection and think that I finally dress like I would like to, without having tens of voices dictating what outfit I need to put on. However, the change runs deeper than that.<br />
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Feminists from the Middle East often talk about their expatriate experiences as liberating and how such experiences in the free west have untangled them from restrictions imposed by their cultures to set them free in the wide world. One feminist from Iran, Mahnaz Afkhami, who were exiled from her country after the revolution for being outspoken feminist, says in her book on Women and Exile, that exile in the stories of women collected in the book has been or can be perceived as liberating experience for women to step out of their cultural restrictions.<br />
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Her words did not ring a bell with me, as I didn't come to the UK to be free from my culture's patriarchy, nor I was interested then in experimenting with personal freedom, European-style. One the contrary, I deemed gender expectations as perceived by European men as demeaning to women as the ones we have in Iraq. Each try to pull women to one extreme version of what men wanted women to be and do, but neither are democratic enough to consider and accept what women really want.<br />
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The personal space, privacy and independence I have enjoyed in London since my arrival, went unnoticed and unappreciated because I did not leave my country to enjoy these. They were not among the list of things I wanted to achieve here. I wanted and sought for something else, related to my career as academic, rather than aimed at having a breathing space from my suffocating culture. Such perspective I know was shared by many of my colleagues, who came to the UK seeking an advanced degree in a UK university, but not a UK life-style.<br />
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In the name of preserving our cultural identity, resisting western thinking influence and resisting racial and cultural patronizing, I didn't appreciate, or I was not aware of the value of the personal freedoms, which have become available to me, as single woman moving to London on her own. I did not appreciate the freedom of movement which I had never access to back in Iraq. The fact that I didn't to take permission from my parents, nor I needed a brother to go shopping or having no curfew was not part of the things that I valued the most in London, though it was worth fighting for at home.<br />
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The available freedom, being unsought for, went unnoticed by me for most of the first year of my staying in London. The only change I had in my looks was to replace the overcoat, we call in Iraq 'juba', dressed by conservative Muslims, with jeans. It was more convenient and easy to move around with jeans rather than in the overcoat. I was at home before it got dark, even when the daylight continued till 9 pm. I did not make any effort to socialize or hang around. London for me was day-time city, where I can visit museums and libraries, but it did not exit after 7 pm.<br />
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Living as such how could my exile be a liberating experience? At the beginning of June 2016, I visited one Iraqi woman, who moved to the UK after 2003. She was not many years older, but her experience was much bigger and deeper than mine. We knew each other through mutual contact and we met once few months after my arrival when our mutual contact invited us to attend an event for Iraqi diaspora in the Arab British Center. I was lost and she showed me the way. I introduced myself and because we shared the same name, we hit off. It turned to be she was the person who helped in getting me my first part-time job. We friended each other on Facebook and started a friendship based on nostalgia for everything that is genuinely Iraqi, and missed in the UK. Then she invited me to her house.<br />
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She was not the first Iraqi living in the UK to invite me over. When I first came, a contact in Iraq asked his friends in London to invite me over and look after me. They paid their obligations by one lunch or dinner invitation and asking me to contact if I needed something, but such pleasantries were always preceded by the advise of relying on myself only to survive in London. Such invitations were heavy on my heart, as Iraqis would say, and I knew they were not enthusiastic about it either. However, Nadia's invitation was different. I was waiting for it. I was badly in need of a friend with whom I could connect with and Nadia's Facebook profile suggested that she could be what I was looking for.<br />
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In her house in St. Albans I met her two kids and her English husband. We shared fried tomato the Iraqi way and chatted a lot about our experiences. The few things she mentioned about her experience enlightened me, and made me aware of the freedoms that were denied to women at home but were available here. Such freedoms are taken for granted by Europeans, and I failed to recognize them and make use of them, but there were valuable and worth fighting for in our part of the world.<br />
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Starting from that time, I looked at myself in the mirror and asked myself how I wanted look like, with or without headscarf, in a dress, jeans, bare-shouldered top, or long-sleeve. I asked myself if I was to keep the headscarf, why I was doing it? Is it because I believe in it, or I was keeping it for my family? I questioned every definition I gave to myself in terms of religion, gender, sexuality, race, ethnicity, nationality, and whether I was who I claimed myself to be.<br />
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One result came of my questioning, that every definition I had given myself before was taught, imposed by outside power, be it religion, family, school, society, or political system. I realized I could not change the last 37 years of my life, nor the identity I had assumed under those influences, but I could refashion an identity of my own now. Then I understood the words of Mahnaz Afkhamy: exile could be liberating, when we realize we no longer belonged to the old world we left, nor did we belong to the new one, we just moved to. We has parted with our past, and our future was yet to be written, the only certainty we had was an open landscape of now moments.<br />
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My questioning and redefinition has not resolved yet. After two years I am negotiating what I am and what I want to be, but I know now that I am no longer the same woman who landed in London two years ago. I know I am no longer in a maze, and no matter how foggy the near future, I am definitely heading somewhere, where I can be who I truly am!<br />
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Nadia F Mohammed </div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-34730945337308138912017-05-05T10:40:00.000+03:002017-05-05T20:23:50.128+03:00Searching for light<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You were about to tell me your story<br />
How you crossed the world to land safe;<br />
But I stopped before you shape the words<br />
And went on relating your story and mine:<br />
How we left homelands for better lives;<br />
Struggling through dark woods and caves<br />
Searching for the light...<br />
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Fellow traveler, we both lost & found<br />
We both had to shed away old dreams <br />
Open space for new ones and more;<br />
Don't stop, ours journeys do not end here <br />
We have just crossed roads<br />
But in a moment we both again depart<br />
Follow the unknown, searching for light..</div>
Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-77777525125174561602017-04-09T17:40:00.001+03:002017-04-09T17:40:54.208+03:00Woman from Iraq<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In the last 20 months I have lived in London, I had the chance to meet many first-generation Iraqis, who settled in the UK during different stages of the trouble contemporary history of Iraq. Their diversity in matters of cultural adaptation and Iraqi identity, can only be explained by the diverse backgrounds they have back home. The first Iraqi I met was Tara, almost my age, came to the UK when she was 11. Because of some Turkish origin, I guessed she might be an Iraqi from her last name which sounded Iraqi; otherwise nothing about her looks was Iraqi. However, once I got to know her, hear her Iraqi Arabic and the use of Iraqi slangs that I had heard from my brothers once, I realized how Iraqi she was. Tara represents for me many first-generation Iraqi women, whether they grew up here or immigrated in their adulthood, who adapted to the surrounding culture, or they belonged to the secular-educated Iraqis who passed uninfluenced by the religious waves that hit Iraq in the early 80s or 90s.<br />
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When she invitd me to Chew & Glew event in the Arab British Center, where she gathered group of the Iraqi diaspora she knew, I met more exmaples who were more or less like her. Iraqi women and young girls who gave me a glimpse of what Iraq could have looked like if the Shia or Sunni hardliners didn't take over its cultural landscape. There I met Aysha and Nazili, young Iraqi girls in the prime of their youth, so involved and committed to their roots that they were keen to do anything to help. With modern (or European) outfits, they sounded so smart, so lively, but above all so free. The more I knew them, the more I felt sorry for my sister, Batool, who was almost their age, and my female students, whose potential and freedoms suppressed by the dominant religiously patriarchial cutlture. If my sister was raised in a free atmosphere, where she could dress what she wants, and express herself the way she wants, maybe she would have been happier than she is now, and more importantly, more creative and committed to make something of herself, instead of submitting to the dominant culture that defines her existence within the traditional framewrok of marriage and child bearing.<br />
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In the same event, a girl with hadscarf, wrapped in contradiction to her jeans and long boots, stepped up to thr front and talked about her dilemma as an Iraqi girl from religious family, but born and raised in the west. It happened that I knew her mother, who was working in an Iraqi charity that was active among the Shia community. That 20 years old girl's talk inspired me to do my research on the Arab and Muslim women sense of identity. Till now I haven't read writing so genuine as the words of that girl, who told group of strangers what she was going through as devout Shia muslim girl in multicutural society. Her words shattered away the ideal of tolerance and accepting the other, as well as giving voice to th dilemma which Muslim communities in the west dismiss and would like to keep it suppressed.<br />
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The headscrafed girl told us she was born in Holland for Iraqi parents, who were devout Shia Muslims. They moved when she was couple of years old to England, where her parents reconnected with the large Shia Iraqi community living in the UK. However, as a second-generation Iraqi born and raised in the west, she felt different from the rest of the Shia community in London, as the latter mostly consisted of first-generation Iraqis who left Iraq end of the 80s and 90s. The mixed cultural influences that shaped her identity made her fell between two worlds: she was neither the reserved Shia Iraqi girl nor she was European girl. Her appearance expressed that perfectly.<br />
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Straangely I felt she was talking about me though I never left Iraq till I was 2015, when I was already 37 years old. As far as my memory can go to my early childhood, sense of being different, unable to fit in, dominated my sense of being. I had asked myself many times why I was different from my other sisters, why I always wished for something different from what my mother wished me to have? Sometimes I blamed myself, believing that I was different for the sake of getting attention, or just to annoy my mother. When I grew older, the sense I wanted something different became stronger, but I just couldn't understand what was that I wanted. I had no more options to make me realize what I really wanted. As I had other 5 sisters, who mostly subscribe to the dominant culture, I often felt out of place among them. When one after the other followed what the surrounding world wanted and wished for a girl, I moved further away from them, and felt that I would end up the strange sister which no one would want to hang on with.<br />
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Once I finished my PhD, I tried to fit it, but my own way, but after 5 years of struggling to find my place in a world that I deeply rejected, it was apparent that I was not cut for that role, nor I belonge to that world. I was thrown out of it though I tried my best to fit in.<br />
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Couple of months later, I found myself in London, a world that I thought I belonged to, but after almost two years here, I still feel I don't belong to this world either. Now I remember the words of that girl: I don't belong to the world I was born and raised in, nor I belong to the new world I was so keen to join.<br />
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I tried my best to fit in here as well, but all my attempts didn't have satisfactory results. It is maybe too soon to judge, and perhaps in the future, when I further settle down, I would feel different. For now, I am falling between those two worlds: neither I can't go back to where I started, for I know I don't belong there, not any more at least; nor I belong to this world I live in now.<br />
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Iraqi women, whether they were raised here, or came later when they were adults, they managed to follow the path they knew would make them happy: stick to the religious conservative Iraqi life they left at home, or follow the westren style of living. I am standing between the two, unable to walk into either of them. <br />
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No doubt I envy those first-generation Iraqi women who managed to find their ways in the multicutural life in London. But, I know as well that I can't follow either road, or at least I won't be happy with either. I need to discover, or start my own. Till now I have no example to follow, no map to guide me through. I have my own sense of comfort that I am trying to test its limits every now and then. Once I feel discomfort, I retreat back to the usual zone.<br />
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-73753523245328172652017-03-24T12:13:00.001+03:002017-03-24T12:13:47.285+03:002003: ‘Bombing Us to Democracy’ <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-US">I frequently face questions about
2003 and what happened then. When people here in London knew that I witnessed
that war, they often ask me describe, give opinion, analyze the experience of
war. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Their questions came with expected
answers. Pro-war interrogators expect me to confirm that war needed to happen.
They wanted me to satisfy their belief that their uniform boys saved the
primitive Iraq from its demonic dictatorship. They saluted their troops as
saviors of the world and they wanted me to concur. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">On the other hand, there was the
anti-war activists, who stormed the streets one month before the war, calling
their politicians to stop the war, not to push their pretty boys into a war
they did not need to fight. They wanted me to assure them that before the war,
Iraqis were fine and had everything under control. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Both camps seek simple answers to
validate what they think is right. For me, no answer can sound right. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">By the time of the war, Iraqis had
suffered 13 years of sanctions, barely surviving after the destruction of the
country’s infrastructure in the first Gulf war 1991. Appalled by Saddam’s
overnight invasion of Kuwait in August 1990, the international community in the
form of the UN security council decided to punish Saddam for his recklessness
by depriving his people from their daily-life necessities. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Even after storming the country
with barrage of bombs, and destroying every aspect of life in it, even after
withdrawing from Kuwait, the international community still thought Iraqis were
dangerous and should be kept in check and starve. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">While we were hardly living, the
world woke up into the terror of the 9/11. For some reason, Saddam was to
blame, and Iraqis should pay. George W Bush’s administration started its move
to topple Saddam and “liberate” Iraqis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The world decided what was needed
in Iraq was democracy, American flavored democracy. They prepared their bull,
and directed it toward our china shop. Operation Democracy started. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">During the first hours of Thursday,
March 20<sup>th</sup> 2003, I woke up to distant bombing approaching slowly but
steadily. I went downstairs. One of the civil defense tips we learner in 1991
war was not to stay in the upper floors. But security procedures aside, i
wanted to seek refuge in my parents room, the way I did in 1991. With every
step down the sound of bombing grew stronger. My mom had just finished
praying and dad was awake as well. I asked him for assurance that it was war
again but he dismissed the bombing as far away, and wouldn’t continue. Was he
trying to brush off my fear or he did thought that these would be just like
Clinton's brief efforts in 1998? Against the evidence of the growing roars, I
believed my dad, and tried to get outside and see what was happening. Naively I
thought that I would be able to see colorful glares in the sky like fireworks.
My mom panicked and shouted at me to stay in. My mother was less calm
than my father. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I waited the sounds to get lower
and die away but they didn't. I thought like 1998 when the daylight would come,
the bombing would stop but it only get stronger. Finally the siren was set off
warning us into doomsday. (I always hated this sound; since the first time I
heard it in 1986. Couldn't they come up with better sign of warning than this
frightening sound that trumpets the apocalypse more than the barrage of bombs
falling on our heads). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The siren asserted the situation
of war. The US decided to bomb us to democracy. Apparently many of us did not
to be ‘liberated’. Iraqis were resisting the ‘liberation’ drive of US and its
allies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Few days later, the liberation
façade was pulled down, to allow the face of invasion and destruction to show
its real spots. Infrastructure was targeted: no electricity, no clean water,
and civilians were randomly shot. The US-led coalition probably thought that
Iraqis would simply welcome them into their country, but were surprised when
they found, instead, that Iraqis were ready to die for their own country. We might
have hated Saddam, we might have wished him to leave, but definitely we didn’t
want foreign occupation. It was too complicated for the Americans to understand.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">When they started to approach
Baghdad, ahead of them spread the news of the atrocities their bull committed
in every place they democratized. Most people started to leave Baghdad to
protect their the vulnerable members of their families from the coming horrors.
We left one week before the fall of Baghdad, when rumors of the approaching
tanks warned the families in our street of what might happen if these tanks
invaded the place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I remember that day we left our
house, heading east toward the unknown. I thought I would never come back
again. That morning before we left, I saw airplanes bombing the surrounding
areas. I was mesmerized in the garden watching the glare of rockets hitting
somewhere nearby. For me this was the end of times. I left all my books, my
diaries, everything I liked in the house knowing that I was not to see them
again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">We spent a week displaced, in palm
tree orchard in Dyala, east of Baghdad. I thought this was going to be my life
till we heard the news of the fall of my city, the fall of Baghdad. The
liberation process was complete. Iraqis should go home. We were squeezed again
in my father’s small car and headed back toward home. In the way I saw the
first glimpses of American democracy: people looting their own country. The
American marines stationed at checkpoints watched smiling: operation democracy
was complete. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-65699459073990940122017-01-28T18:48:00.002+03:002017-01-28T18:48:17.421+03:00Trump Bars Iraqis from Entering the US<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">During the first week of January, I
travelled to Philadelphia, US, to participate in the MLA 2017 Convention. I was
happy and excited to take part in this international activity that decided to
celebrate this year the theme of ‘Crossing Borders’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">It was not my first visit to the US.
I visited New York, Boston and Iowa in 2013, flying from Baghdad to Amman, then
directly to JFK airport in New York, while in March 2016, I flew from London to
Virginia. Applying for a visa for each visit was a piece of cake for me, and
every time I tell my Iraqi colleagues about the positive experience I had in
the application process and the interview at the embassy, they felt amazed that
getting a visa to the US sounded so simple! But this was a fact, rather than
mere optimistic exaggeration on my part. Every time I applied, my interview
would end by being informed that I was granted one-year tourist visa and I
would have my passport back within ten days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">When I applied the third time, last
November, nothing changed. However, the interview took longer time than usual,
and the interviewer asked me more questions about my educational background,
which I had never been asked before, even when I applied from Baghdad in 2013. I
answered all questions and was finally granted the visa, so I thought nothing
really changed, and having Trump a president would not really change how the US
treat citizens from Iraq. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">Once I got to Philadelphia airport
in the 4<sup>th</sup> of January, I was proved wrong. Something did change.
When I arrived to the immigration office, the officer looked at my passport,
asked me why I was there. He did not show a friendly face, like he did to the people
before me. He was particularly serious. I showed him the invitation from MLA to
attend the convention, which lists the activity I was to present there.
However, the visa on my passport (which was the third visa I got to
the US), the invitation letter from MLA
and employment letter from KCL in London were not enough to convince the
officer that I had the right to enter the US. With stern silent face, he put my
passport in red plastic envelop and took to secondary inspection room. I found
four young men waiting for secondary inspection as well. All looked Arabs: not
very dark or brown skin, black hair and black eyes. I sat waiting for my turn
to be asked more questions, wondering what was wrong with my visa, passport, to
trigger suspicion on the part of the US immigration authorities?! The only change between my visits in 2013,
March 2016, and now January 2017 was that Trump was the president of the US! However,
I dismissed this explanation as Trump didn’t start his office yet, so he didn’t
change any policies at that time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">Finally I was called to the desk and
the immigration officer was extremely friendly, as if not convinced why all of
us he had to further investigate their right to enter were there. He asked me
the same questions about the purpose of my visit, but with a smile that gave me
a bit of relief. I told him about MLA and told him he could check my name on
the website of the convention, which he immediately checked. He gave me back my
passport with smile and “welcome to Philadelphia” greeting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">I tried to forget this little
incident as being random, but the decision of Trump to ban people from my
country to enter the US, even if they have visa reminded me of it. Something
has changed in America to require second inspection of my visa. The reaction of the second inspection officer, his facial
expression and his friendliness , in comparison of the serious face of the
first immigration officer tells me that it was personal decision on the part of
the first to send me to the other room. Nothing was wrong in my visa or
passport, but that officer was not comfortable letting in Iraqi woman with
hijab to enter the US without double check. The fact that she was academic in a
UK university, with proper invitation to attend a conference was not convincing
enough. The Iraqi passport triggered his caution and he needed double checking.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">Trump’s barring Iraqis is only a
response to this groundless fear growing in Americans’ minds about Iraqis. It is
groundless because no Iraqi has ever been involved in any terrorist action
against the US or even the world! Yes Iraq is a war zone, where different
factions are fighting against each other, but we haven’t imported any terrorism
to the world. Actually none of the countries that Trump intend to bar did that.
The terrorists who attacked the US in different ways were from countries Trump
didn’t bar, which provokes the question: why the Americans, why Trump fear
Iraqis? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">From political perspective, since
2003, Iraq is in friendly relationship with the US. Our politicians, who are
weirdly silent about the bar, have arrived to power through the support of the
US government. Most of them still actually express their gratitude to the US invasion
of Iraq in 2003, and quite dependent on the continuous support of the US in
suppressing any attempt to undermine their authority in the country. So, why Trump
all of sudden decides that people from Iraq can be of threat to the US home security?
Is it a precaution step to a future initiative on the part of Trump, which can
make Iraq enemy of the US? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">Trump’s decision has no
justification and it is quite groundless. But again, Trump is not really
interested in explaining his decision, is he? But, it seems to be welcomed by
those Americans who find Trump the protector of their security! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-18051186191391635162017-01-12T02:54:00.000+03:002017-01-12T02:54:59.875+03:00How can we end the suffering of the homeless <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am not a socialist, nor have left-wing vision of world economy. I don't subscribe to any communist, Marxist or liberal economic views. I simply lack the education to qualify me to involve myself in any conversation in that field. The only conversation I was part of was when a friend of mine, who was doing his PhD project on labor market, and we used to discuss labor market here and there in the world. I was much of listener actually, rather than active participant in the conversation.<br />
<br />
However, it doesn't need an expert in economy, nor in politics, or any field in that matter, to realize the irony in having more than 15 people sleeping homeless in snowing night with freezing temp that went down to -9, under a tower that is worth billions of dollars. It doesn't even require any level of education to realize that there is something very wrong in this view.<br />
<br />
I am not an idealist, but something tells me that it is wrong and quite beastly ironic to organize a convention that may have cost each of the more 500 scholar attending at least 500 dollars to attend (some have paid between 1000-1500), to take part and participate in a conversation about crossing borders, while tens of people live homeless in their own city under the blizzard of Philadelphia nights.<br />
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Last week I went to Philadelphia to attend the MLA convention 2017. When the taxi took me from the airport to the apartment I shared with my colleagues from Kings, I was impressed all the way with the tall buildings, the fancy lightening of the towers. It seemed to me a city for the rich. There was the Marriott, with at least 130 $ per night, and there was Macy's with its fancy prices. The convention center where most of the sessions took place was quite elegant and expensive place. But the night came, and in our way back to where we enjoyed the warmth of hot drinks in luxurious beds, the homeless retired to their usual spots under the tall buildings, the bridges and any structure with some shade to hide away from the snow storm. The scene was particularly disturbing. As a group of highly educated academics, most of us enjoy well-paid jobs, houses, and cars, we spent all day engaging in conversations about people who were dispersed in the city unnoticed, waiting for the night to fall, so they could retire back to their usual spots.<br />
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One of the panels made the irony more pressing. A panel that theorize on the suffering of refugees, while some of these homeless who sleep underneath the building were the refugees we were discussing their pain. How the panel helped? how our convention helped? We spent four days in that huge city, from Thursday to Sunday. By Monday, we all retreated back to our comfortable places in different cities and different worlds, unconcerned but about the papers we have presented, whether we made good impressions, whether our presentations would help us secure better-paid jobs! Many of us tried their best to challenge the presentations they attended, engaging in a game of "who is the smartest now!", unaware that the real challenge for whatever we do, say, or write, is those people who fell out of the ship, and we were too busy with our selfishness to notice their cries for help.<br />
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What is the use of ecocriticism, what is the use of a theory and discussion of empathy, and of finally naming our contemporary era as the anthropocene, what is the use of all the intellectual endeavors we engage in, starting from our graduate studies till each one of us enjoys being called a doctor, if our brains can't solve the problems of the homeless, of the fleeing refugees, and the millions of people who live under poverty lines?<br />
<br />
We go about using every cell in our active brains to discover the history of humanity, past and future, horizontally and vertically. We killed all kinds of gods and made jokes of all the myths that defined our universe. However, even the best mind of minds failed to end the real problems of our existing reality, or probably we haven't been concerned enough about them?<br />
<br />
Our words, our intellectual talents, turn hallow and useless for the homeless in these cold nights in Philadelphia as the thin sheets they were using to protect themselves from the snow storm. The sight of them surrendering to the snow storm, hoping to wake up alive the next day, mocked desperately whatever smartness we think we have.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
Nadia </div>
</div>
Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-765266133646466312017-01-01T18:56:00.000+03:002017-01-01T18:56:14.969+03:00Why we don't have healthy academic life in Iraq<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
2003 marks the end of my life as student and the beginning of my life as academic in the University of Mustanseryia, as teacher of English literature. It was unfortunate beginning for a hard journey through the rough route of Iraqi academia from 2003 to 2015.<br />
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As undergraduate and postgraduate student before 2003, I was eager to join the academic world, and follow the example of the amazing teachers who made me passionate about literature. For me, they were the elite, the true leaders of society, the ones who shaped our young minds and implanted in us plans for happy future. Even the bad teachers who didn't give much to our eager minds were kind and just enough to leave impression of their humanity in our hearts, if not in our minds. Under their impact I decided to do master degree, rather than just be satisfied with a bachelor degree. I wanted to join their wonderful world of insatiable quest for knowledge, the infinite world of books, and reach out to the stars with increased intellectual power.<br />
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My master thesis was accepted in August 2003, when the universities had just wrapped the academic year 2003 amid lots of chaos, and destruction. All assumed that the next academic year, the first in democratic Iraq, would be a beginning for a new prosperous era for academia in Iraq, after overthrowing the Baath regime and its censorship. The 2003-2004 was a new a beginning no doubt, but it was a new beginning to the ultimate end of academia in Iraq, to the quest for knowledge, and detour toward what proved the abyss of intellectual life in the 'new', 'liberated' Iraq, thanks to American democracy!<br />
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I started teaching in the university as instructor of English in 2003-2004. I was passionate about the subjects I would teach and took every opportunity to share what I had learned so far with the young minds, hoping to leave an impression and inspire students as much as my teachers inspired me. However, the environment had changed drastically from the one I knew before 2003. I came to the University of Mustanserya to find students had already decided to liberate themselves from the power of their lecturers and to become the power that should rule university affairs. It got to their minds that the academics who were teaching them were representatives of the Baath power that they hated so much. For some reason, the new Iraq created by American democracy meant lawlessness and no to all kinds of rules. The chaos in the streets were strongly expressed in the academia, where students were determined to be the controlling power in the world of knowledge.<br />
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Before 2003, students used to have their Union, which was one of the Baath organizations, but most students thought of it as means to control and spy on them, especially in such place as Mustanserya. After 2003, the students' Union was replaced by another organization. This time it was called Students Association, al-Rabita al-Tulabya. Most of the leaders of this organization were Sadrists, members of Mehdi Army, whose jobs was to make sure that no university teacher would practice any "repressive" power over students. If a student exceeded the limited absence days and was suspended, the association would interfere on their behalf to stop the suspension and return the student to their studies. If a student got a low mark in a class, they would interfere as well to change that mark. When I heard of this, I thought this was exaggeration and there was no way academics would yield to extortion and betray their ideals. But when this happened in my department, I realized that these were not rumors, but the new reality of academia in Iraq.<br />
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I learned from my professors and mentors when I was a student that work ethics should not be compromised, education should not fall in the trap of nepotism, and degrees should be earned by hard work. Thus, when I started teaching, I was "strict" as some students described me. They wanted me to take into consideration the chaos of the country when I assessed their papers and answers. I contended that I was assessing their English and knowledge rather than their person, I wanted them to understand that we were living hard times and in bad need for qualified youth to build our future, but my words fell on deaf ears. They had lend their ears and all their senses to another narrative, a narrative that turned them against hard work and study, against respecting the rules, promising them easily earned degrees in English, even if they would not be able to write or speak the language.<br />
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Soon, under the influence of the new reality, and the popularity of students' associations, which were facade for militia, universities in Iraq turned to be stores that provide degrees, all students had to do was to join! Soon evening classes expanded to become very profitable business for all and every year new private universities that subscribe to no ethics or ideals were acknowledged by the ministry of higher education, to become more fancy stores for degrees in different majors, even such critical disciplines like medicine!<br />
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Chaos and corruption were not limited to undergraduate studies; postgraduate studies had its share, as more professors either yield to the dominant culture of extortion or pay through the nose for resisting the widespread practice in the new-Iraq academia. Most of the good ones, who found it hard to adapt left the country, choosing to live retired refugees in foreign countries, rather than to compromise. Those who decided to stay and to resist soon discovered the futility of their efforts when one after another lost their lives, or the life of family member.<br />
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With the continuation of draining Iraq of its talented academia, there was a need for new academics to fill in the gaps in the expanding higher education institution. The new generation of academia were those who received their postgraduate degrees after 2003. I was one of them. I joined the PhD program in 2005, when I realized that sickness of the upper branches had already ruined the roots: even master and PhD degrees were completed under the influence of the same culture. It was the personal responsibility of the candidate to work toward deserving the title that came with the degree, or be satisfied that the degree was given to them, without any standards considered, as part of the gift American democracy decided to give to Iraqis.<br />
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Soon we all realized the change, when we, the new academics, realized the web were entangled in: religious militancy repressing free pursuit of knowledge, nepotism and extortion killing all efforts to build fair education environments, and corrupted administration preoccupied with their political rivalry to pay attention to higher education. The previous generation of good academics already left the country, or were pushed to early retirement and excluded from policy-making because of their membership in the Baath party, which all Iraqi knew was imposed on anyone wanted to have a career in the academia when the Baath ruled. Most of the senior academics were not those who worked in Iraqi universities prior to 2003, when Iraqi universities were top ranking in the region, but were those who fled the country in the 70s and early 80s. During their period of exile were detached from the academic world where they took refuge, to resume it decades later in a country that had changed drastically from the one they had left. They came without updated knowledge, without developed tools of teaching, in the hope of teaching for couple of years so they would qualify for pension. None made a significant contribution, while most harmed the higher education institution.<br />
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Most of the laws passed by the parliament in relation to higher education in Iraq were just one nail after another hammered into the coffin of academia in Iraq, which lie today with dead brain, that no life support can revive its lost glory.<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">
Nadia </div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-55980135372992869582016-12-22T17:47:00.002+03:002016-12-22T17:48:21.275+03:00Reminiscing with new acquaintance <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was lucky to meet in London, an Iraqi with whom I can share all the memories, views and the life we lived in Iraq during the 80s and 90s. Most of the Iraqis I have met in London, either belong to the generation who left the country before 80s, or were second-generation immigrants, whose idea of Iraq is inherited from their parents. There was no shared memory to reminisce about, nor a shared experience to discuss. But this new acquaintance provided me with what I needed. Yesterday was our second meeting, and for the second time we spent hours talking about the life we lived in the 80s and 90s. We shared cultural references that other Iraqis in London would never have understood, or realized its significance. For the second-generation young Iraqi, who was with us, we were speaking a secret language, she was unable to decode its references.<br />
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But the real exciting factor for me was the space of freedom to discuss Iraqi politics since the 80s without fear of offending someone who was hard-core enemy of Saddam, or someone who thought Iraq was done when Saddam ascended to power in 1980. It was refreshing to be able to breathe out thoughts that nowadays are considered forbidden sentiments that betray the Iraqis who suffered under Saddam.<br />
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I grew up in a family that was not interested in politics, nor religion. I was one of millions of Shia Iraqis who lived unharmed under Saddam's rule. My only grievances against Saddam was the endless wars we lived, growing up to the sounds of bombing and women and orphans wailing the loss of their loved ones. I am not minimizing the significance of these, but through my readings I can't toss it all to the shoulders of Saddam and the Baath and blame them for the increased number of widows and orphans in the country. There were two countries fighting in the 80s, and Iran had a big share in the Iraqi blood shed for this war. I also remember very well how the Kuwaiti delegation was indifferent when Saddam gave his speech in the Arab Summit in May 1990, where he warned them against trespassing on Iraqi's bordering oil well. Was it right for him to invade the country and allow the army to commit all these atrocities? Definitely no. However there is another side for the story, in which the ugliness committed in Kuwait was not totally Saddam's fault, but had to do with individual human conscience.<br />
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When the Iraqi army controlled Kuwait, many Iraqis went their and robbed and blundered the country, Yes, there were not stopped, but they should have never done that. My uncle used to drive a lorry there to bring different second-hand goods and sell them, but my dad warned my mother not to buy one single thing coming from Kuwait. I still remember the fight when my dad became mad at my mother for accepting a gift from my aunt, which was Kuwaiti dresses. He told her she would not stay at home if she would bring another thing from Kuwait to the house. <br />
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During the 90s, all Iraqis suffered because of the sanctions, and Saddam's started a phase of self-adulation, considering himself as the hero of Arab Nationalism against western imperialism, a postcolonial rhetoric as a feminist from Iraq I refuse to subscribe to. However, the US determination to invade the country, and their dirty game with the so-called Iraqi political opposition give some credit to this rhetoric.<br />
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Millions of Iraqis have rediscovered their history after 2003, under the confusion of the hundreds of media outlets that give different accounts of the 80s and 90s, and draw different pictures of 2003 aftermath. We were told of how Saddam's tortured and killed Iraqis who were opposing him, or suspected for opposing him. His sons emerged as sadists enjoying the atrocities they committed against Iraqis. Horrifying stories started to spread asserting the beastly nature of Saddam and his family, that we no longer think of them as humans, but more of mythic monsters that could have existed only in ancient barbaric times. But these stories did not conform with the kind of life we used to live in the 80s and 90s. At least, they didn't match the life I have lived.<br />
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Do I want Saddam back? definitely no. Do I have nostalgic feelings toward his rule. Yes, to certain extent. Any one of my generation, who grew up in the 80s and 90s, can't escape comparing between Iraq then and now. Even if their comparison ends illogically in favor of contemporary Iraq, at least there is something that provokes their thoughts to compare.<br />
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After 13 years of new Iraq and democracy, Iraq is living in worse conditions than what it used to be during Saddam's times, and this is enough to change the balance to his side. The number of Iraqis killed in those 13 years can be compared to 8 years of war, 1991 bombing and the sanctions years.<br />
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If those who rule Iraq today were the opposition Saddam was fighting and tried to isolate his people from, then hats off to Saddam, for they proved him right. These people are too incompetent to be rulers, to be given the power keys to my country.<br />
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Those who rule Iraq today have no vision, no plan for the country they rule. They are inconsiderate of the sufferings of Iraqis. They have turned our country to an abyss we just want to escape. Their only achievement which they take pride in is the religious militancy, and the spread of religious Shia rituals. Yes, marching, chest beating and wailing the religious leader who died 1400 years ago is far more important that the hundreds of Iraqis dying every week just because they decided to go to work, study and live a normal life. Religious parades, and loud commemoration of the Taf battle that happened fourteen centuries ago are more important than the millions of displaced Iraqis living in destitute in and outside the country.<br />
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They claim to fight ISIS because they reject their militant Islamic state, but they end up banning whatever goes against Islam, forming Islamic armed forces, whose loyalty is torn between Iran and Iraq.<br />
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I admit that I miss that solid firm rule, when my country was safe, secular to a certain extent, and when education was rewarded. I miss having an identity, a culture. I miss having a life that doesn't involve wailing and mourning for almost third of the year.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
Nadia </div>
</div>
Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-57686323653566606902016-12-14T18:04:00.002+03:002016-12-14T18:04:20.229+03:00Woman on a Journey <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Do you measure the extent of your struggle by whether you die or not?"<br />
"In my country? yes we do. The living are accused; the dead are pure, innocent. Death liberates them from accusations, accountability and self-doubt"<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">
Haifa Zangan, Women on a Journey (2001)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
When I was in Iraq, I had no interest in Iraqi literature, nor in Arabic. My sole interest was literature written in English, whether British or American. Since I was young, I was eager to read anything that came from worlds unknown to me, giving my imagination the freedom I was longing for. However, when I arrived to London last year, my reading, and literary interest started to have different turns.<br />
<br />
At the beginning I resisted people's expectations that I would be excerpt of Iraqi or Arabic literature, sparing no effort to prove that I am capable enough to read and scholarly investigate English or American literature. For some reason, it hurts my pride to have people asking me about Arabic literature, feeling that their inquiry came with the assumption that as an Arab, I would never be as good as the native English in reading their literature. Thus, during the first months, I resisted the demands to read or research Arabic or Iraqi literature. Due to some complications with my fellowships and a pressing of feeling of isolation, I worked hard to have my world acknowledge me as scholar of multi-ethnic American poetry, the genre that I focused on in my PhD, and the projected I proposed for my postdoctoral fellowship. After couple of seminars and conference presentations, my agitation calmed down, motivating me to think practically of my future.<br />
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As I started my second year in London, and a tick-tack sound in my mind keeps reminding me of how much time I had left before my visa expires, I urged myself to think of my next step. I needed a plan, I needed to become employable. Yes, I tried my best during the first year to fill in the research gap I had in my CV, signing up for couple of criticism projects that resulted in couple of forthcoming publications, besides establishing good networks with scholars. But, it would be years before I achieve what my peers have achieved so far. The fact I was from Iraq would not really help me to consolidate my CV, and I didn't want to play the victim in my application statements. I needed to offer potential employers much more than the victim scholar from Iraq. Thus, instead of a victim, I am a feminist from Iraq. But how can I claim to belong to that country, which nothing connects me to except for my passport?<br />
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I know the most important history of the country, the last four decades, because I have lived them. I knew the intellectual environment because I was university lecturer. All I needed was to find my game, the pitching offer, which came from that rich knowledge I had. I am a scholar of literature, why not bring my feminist interest into the Iraqi literary landscape?<br />
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I admit my interest started as academic venture that can change my credentials. I investigated and laid hand on Haifa Zangana's "Women on a Journey". Fortunately, I didn't struggle with Arabic, which was the main reason that drove me away from Arabic literature. I found a translated copy of the novel, which made it easier for me to read and work my scholarly way through its content.<br />
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The novel sets in London, tracing the present and past of five Iraqi women refugees as they navigate life in the foreign lands, away from the home they knew and left. All the characters speak to me in one or another. I found myself like Om Mohammed, who is always conscious of her foreignness. Back at home, I was pretty fluent and articulate in English. I used to give my lectures in English, making few mistakes. Students used to record my lectures and listen to them, admiring my fluency and always asking me how I have acquired this semi-native level of English. However, I came here and found myself incapable of producing sound sentences. I always use the wrong tense, the wrong verb and stutter when I speak as beginner learner of the language. In my mind, I am very fluent, but as if my mouth resists this fluency and prefer to interrupt the flow of words that come from the brain. When I speak to non-natives I recover my fluency, but against the staring eyes of the natives I lose my self-confidence which is replaced by overwhelming feeling of foreignness and alienation.<br />
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Because of the growing feeling of alienation, I find myself like Sahira and Majada, indulge in the past, that probably never existed to me. I spent many days retiring early to my room in the top floor of the house, contacting no one, and indulge in self-pity for what I lost in Iraq. suffocated by the sense of estrangement from everything around me, I recovered that lost relationship which brought me nothing but pain in the near past. I received that skype call when I was in the library, feeling lonely and incapable of making sense of what I was reading, as if I lost my English reading skills. I answered the call, and retrieved all the feelings that I had lived for the last five years in Iraq. I was familiar with these feelings, I knew how to navigate that world of desperate love. Instead of feeling guilty for abandoning the sinking ship in Iraq, now I can indulge again in self-pity for my broken heart.<br />
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The sense of guilt I continuously feel was common between me and Adiba. We both chose to survive, to live, than stay and die in the abyss of Iraq. But unlike Adiba, I didn't want to live in denial of my exile. and resurrect a dead past. I was reading Adiba's character, and can relate to her search for her husband, while she knows he is dead. She lives in denial of her trauma, denying the death of her husband, blocking herself from moving on. I did the same when I answered that call. I was abandoned, humiliated, deeply hurt, but instead chose to go back to the darkness so I wouldn't see the reality of my present situation: 38, alone, no future prospects in foreign land, cut off from everything familiar. This reality was too much to handle, and the past sounded more safe with its familiar darkness than the piercing sun of the present. <br />
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Like Iqbal I tried to move on, and establish a life in London. I met people, outside the university and library. People less skilled in English, to redeem my self-confidence. I went out with men, became part of the social life in England, even if it was pretentious and unreal. But it was better than the state of self-pity and victimization. I went out with Portuguese man, Indian, Spanish, and Kurdish Iraqi. In a word, I lived.<br />
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By the time I finished the book, I realized that I was on a journey like these women, a journey of exile. Like them, my real journey in life started when I landed in London, a journey that is still going. I have no idea where I am going to land next, for I am on the move. However, like Om Mohammed, when I go back to my small room I have been living for the last 14 months, my little home; like Sahira and Iqbal I have decided to move on from my past and embrace my independence and freedom and be open to future adventures; unlike Majada I won't allow my past to compromise my sanity, gladly embrace my identity; unlike Adiba, I faced my trauma, and walked toward the light.<br />
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The Journey continues<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">
Nadia </div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-82222296339601503712016-11-29T14:35:00.000+03:002016-11-29T14:35:10.613+03:00Boundaries of Intimacy <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
we meet, we talk<br />
we start a connection so alien yet so at home,<br />
extends beyond our estranged souls, yearning for the life we have left...<br />
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we meet, we chat<br />
You push the boundaries of intimacy, neglecting the cries of my enclosed being,<br />
taking a strong hold of my virgin soul...<br />
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we split to reconnect again,<br />
I found myself drawn to you like a moth attracted to fire,<br />
burning herself in a glow of ecstasy </div>
Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-82370310572526567472016-11-21T15:41:00.001+03:002016-11-21T15:41:14.537+03:00Away from Home <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
to ask yourself every day, how does it feel at home now, to check the weather page of London and Baghdad, though you are not going back, not any time soon! but something deeply rooted in fathomless thoughts tells you to check on your country: cold or hot at this time of the year..<div>
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to long for familiar breeze of cardamon tea and some white cheese, while smelling your fancy cappuccino; to miss the early morning noise of family waking each other up, while enjoying being left to your own thoughts in London quiet underground.</div>
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to look at the Thames and think, "How dijla is now? if they only add some colorful lights! if only we celebrate.." and then suddenly you become conscious of escaping tears, crying loud your alienation with a deeply exhaled sigh, "If only..."</div>
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to be divided between here and there, to split thoughts between London and Baghdad, observing "this is not the way we do it back home!", to yearn for some good old days that never existed at home, till you became an immigrant! </div>
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to be conscious at the end of your day of how strange your bed feel, how alien was the air of the day; to fold yourself like embryo, wishing to crawl back home! </div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-75721596063475188602016-11-16T03:07:00.000+03:002016-11-16T03:07:47.873+03:00Women of Iraq<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In a seminar today I talked about the situation of women in Iraq and I mentioned the tribal culture and medieval frame of mind in relation to gender expectations in Iraq. After I finished, I was approached by a woman who pointed out that I should have mentioned the glorious history of women in Iraq, and that my speech was totally biased. Biased? against whom? I am Iraqi and I am woman. I am not a white English woman who is undermining the role of Iraqi women, or biased against women in the Middle East. I didn't grow up in highly privileged family, to be biased against the poor people in Iraq and dismiss them as tribal people. To be bias, to be prejudiced out of ignorance. I came from that world, I lived that world I talked about.<br />
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The history that I was asked to mention, the half-full of the cup, was those years when Iraq became or was moving toward being a secular state under the influence of communism which became gained so big momentum during the 1950s and 60s. However, during these years, the group of women who enjoyed the privileges of the secular state were women of middle-class families, who had access to education, and job market. Yes, they traveled, gained postgraduate degrees from the US and UK, came back to the country to occupy advanced positions in the government offices. These were the women who led the feminist movement in Iraq: received an education in the west, or educated in western schools in the country and through this cultural encounter, they developed a feminist voice. </div>
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However, the question I am interested in is what is the percentage of these privileged middle-class girls in comparison to girls from working class, rural backgrounds? Definitely not much. Most of women in Iraq, if they didn't belong to working class families, they belonged to rural Iraq, in which tribal culture was, and still is, prevalent. Under tribal rules, women did not have access to education, and when they did, they were allowed basic education. Probably, if the Baath didn't take over power in 1963, we would have had better world for women (or probably we would have had a dictatorship like the one in China and Russia?!). But the golden days of secular Iraq didn't last long, and soon the Baath took over, and then the communist party was banned. In consequence, most of the Middle class families left, as most of the educated Iraqis were followers. The ones who remained, they had to submit to the patriarchy of the state, which was created by Saddam. </div>
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Anti-illiteracy campaign helped a lot of women to have basic reading and writing skills, among them was my mother. It was mandatory for the illiterate to attend evening classes to learn reading and writing. Education was mandatory till the age of 15 under Saddam's rule, especially during the 80s. The main reason was to create a female workforce, as men were in the battlefield. Feminist ideologies were drawn by the general federation of women, a Baathist institution, which soon to adopt a religious discourse, when Saddam decided to go religious in the 90s. </div>
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While many Iraqi and Arab feminists like to adopt postcolonial rhetoric, asserting the glorious feminist culture we must have had and blame the colonizing powers for destroying this wonderful past, I prefer to face the reality. Yes I believe colonial powers, especially UK in the 20th and the US in the 21st cc., have enabled tribal customs, but they haven't invent them. They were there, functioning strongly in the rural areas and south of Iraq. </div>
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Unless we are ready to see the truth about tribal culture and medieval religious dogams, then we are not going to move out of the abyss we are in. Postcolonial discourse didn't help us in the last half of the 20th c. and it is not going to help in the future. We don't need to be afraid of facing the truth of our reality and the backwardness of the prevalent frame of mind. Engaging in fruitless debates to prove what has been an exception as the general rule, won't help. To have some hundreds of women privileged with education doesn't mean we dismiss the plight of the millions who suffered and still suffering medieval tribalism. </div>
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The situation of women in Iraq today is not different from what has been before. To have most of the workforce in Iraq made of women doesn't mean women enjoy freedom, or they have been liberated. Women started form the majority of employees in the public sector during the 80s and 90s, when most men would quit, as government-paid salaries were less than $5. Men preferred to work in the private sector, and women were employed to replace them, even if they didn't have proper qualifications, nor skills. </div>
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We need to think of the majority, rather than see things through the bright lenses of the privileged few </div>
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Nadia </div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-5744397524185035622016-11-08T03:38:00.001+03:002016-11-08T03:38:16.727+03:00The Refugee Crisis <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today I attended in SOAS an event called "Forced to Flee" about the globally and internally forcibly displaced people. The director of operations in ICRC talked about the Middle East and the fact that more than 20 states in that region are actors in the current crisis. After the end of the discussion, while we were having drinks in the reception afterwards, I had the chance to talk to the panel and asked them about the issues which they had raised in the seminar hall. When the director talked about the Middle East, I thought of the Gulf countries, with abundance of wealth to accommodate the refugees from Syria, Iraq and other war-torn countries. Instead of fleeing toward Europe in a deadly journey, in which many lost their lives, refugees could have easily escaped to neighboring countries, with whom they share language and culture. It is only convenient to everyone to accommodate refugees in these countries, instead of having one or two European countries welcoming those who survived the deadly journey, while the others grew creative in closing their borders.<br />
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The gentleman was reluctant in giving me an answer but he told me that the Gulf countries were ready to pay every refugee a ticket to send them away, rather than accommodate them within their borders. I was not shocked by the answer. I actually expected it, but was searching for confirmation. It was one of the observations that bombard the social media upon the breakdown of the refugee crisis. Many users in these websites asked similar questions, as it is still a mystery to the public everywhere why countries rich as Kuwait Emarat, Qatar, Suadia Arabia and Oman abandon their fellow Arabs in times of crisis, while they could have easily accommodate them?! Is it because these countries are involved in a sectarian cold-war in the region, and considering people are fleeing from Shia dominant countries, the sunni-dominant countries don't want to accommodate shias from Iraq and Syria? It is a possibility, but considering the fact that many of the refugees have fled from Sunni-dominant areas in Iraq as well in Syria does not support this narrative.<br />
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While many European countries have lost the higher moral ground after closing their borders and showing xenophobic and Islamophobic policies against refugees, it does not mean they can't point fingers and question the attitude and policies of the gulf countries! But apparently what these countries are paying to keep these refugees away from their borders is enough to silence any protests. However, the reasons why they want these refugees away are still unknown, and there is no sound explanation for gulf countries silence and passivity in this crisis. The weird thing is that there is not much questioning about it.<br />
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The other issue raised in the seminar is that a representative from the UN said that there was no sound penalty for the countries which didn't abide by the refugee international laws and regulations. She also mentioned that the UN often supports governments they shouldn't support in the first place. She brought the example of Sudan, but everything she mentioned applied to Iraq, where state-system was dysfunctional since 2003. I approached her and asked her about my country and what could the UN do to make things better. Apparently, there was nothing much to do to make the Iraqi government eliminate the militias functioning intact in the country with no seeming objection from the government. She told me the problem was that my government needed these militia in fighting ISIS and thus, it wouldn't be easy to disarm and dismantle these armed groups, even with the fact that everyone knew that they actually terrorize citizens in the middle and south of Iraq!<br />
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She told me that the UN was aware that half of the displaced Iraqis were not escaping ISIS, but the terror of the militia in the middle and the south, the Islamization of the country and the corruption of the government. However, the UN would not be able to stop that, and continue to support the government that caused these displacement. She mentioned, though, that if Iraqis would speak in one voice in opposing the government, there would be hope to convince the UN to step up and do something, maybe!<br />
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She also referred to the role of security council to observe global peace; however, the security council decision were often in the hand of the five permanent members in the council. These five members often pronounce different views over crucial issues, as they did over the Iraq. (Apparently the mess they caused with military intervention in Iraq taught them not to repeat the same mistake with Libya, but have they done the right thing there?!) Today, the US and Russia are divided over Syria, meanwhile millions of Syrians are displaced, dying or living in humiliation around different European countries! Millions of Iraqis, since 2003, lack any sense of security and 30% of 30 millions of them live under poverty line!<br />
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To add insult to injury, next week there is a possibility that the new leader of one of the strongest country in the world, a permanent member in the security council, is going to be Donald Trump! The disaster we call Trump is not going to affect the destiny of the US, but because of the role the US play in global issues, a man like Trump will have a say in the most urgent issues worldwide, a man like Trump will have a say in the affairs of Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya and the rest of the war-torn countries.<br />
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After what I have heard today from the panel, the world picture is only getting grimmer. With Brexit, motivated mostly by xenophobic sentiments, and one of the strongest countries cheering a man like Trump as their new leader, I don't think there is light at the end of the tunnel.<br />
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Nadia </div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-57234518208274259212016-11-04T19:55:00.002+03:002016-11-04T19:55:26.881+03:00Fragments of the so-called Iraqi Identity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I met fellow Iraqis in England in an event organized by a former colleague. The event title was a bit strange in English, or thus sounded to me, "Chew & Glue", but the intention of it was interesting to me: to bring Iraqis in diaspora together and work something out of this meeting. I attended because I felt lonely in London; it had been only few months since I arrived and didn't form many friendships. Through the same colleague, I got the opportunity of volunteering in an Iraqi Charity in UK, for one day a week. However, discovering the religious atmosphere and ideology of the charity, I started to feel uncomfortable going to a place which felt like what I had escaped from in Iraq. "Chew & Glew", for me, was another opportunity to connect with the community, hoping for better associations.<br />
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There I met group of young Iraqis, who grew up in UK, whose idea of Iraq was romantically nostalgic inherited from their parents who left the country in the good 70s or early 80s. At that time, Iraq was a beloved country to its people, who lived the "good old days", or what we say in Iraqi ايام الخير 'Ayam al-Khair'. When they knew of my recent arrival from the country they were eager to visit, they showered me with questions about the country they were so excited to visit and live in. Their excitement sounded weird in my ears and my brain couldn't understand why anyone would be eager to know about a country that, in my view, had been a residence of all evils.<br />
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I went home after the event, happy that I made good impression, made contacts with people who found me a potential of some sort. But that night I couldn't sleep, as I was conflicted over my hatred of the place that everyone I met that day was so excited to visit, support and probably live in it. I wanted to dismiss their excitement as romantic nostalgia and eagerness to belong to the land their parents they belonged to, but instead I was blaming myself for not sharing the same feelings, for being happy just because I managed to escape that abyss. I was overwhelmed with guilt that night for not wanting to belong to Iraq, for wishing to be born any other thing than Iraqi, and enjoyed different life than the one I experienced in Iraq.<br />
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Through the contacts I made in "Chew & Glue", I became part of Iraqi Transnational Collective, a grass-root organization of young British Iraqis who were trying to bring the Iraqi community together and promote solidarity between Iraqis at home and in diaspora. The first even we organized was about Iraqi women and their experiences at home and in diaspora. I was there to talk about being Iraqi scholar in a major university in Baghdad. All I could contribute through my presentation was to add darker colors to Iraq's image in the minds of those young Iraqis longing for the country they never knew, and add to their parents' frustration over the country they escaped years ago!<br />
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What captured my attention again is the optimism, the ready-made postcolonial arguments of the first generation Iraqis, which were also repeated by their sons and daughters, who were trying to overcome their hyphenated identities by over-leaning to side of the hyphen: their so called "Iraqiness". Iraqis, first generation or second-generation immigrants, were vehement defenders of their Iraqiness, that I started to wonder what was meant by this identity they defended so much! What was the mental image that occupy their brains while their tongues rolled in defending their Iraqi identity?<br />
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Through my reading on hyphenated identities and the nostalgia that accompanies this hyphenation, I became more and more interested to discuss the subject within Iraqi context. For me, Iraq is the worst place to live, we Iraqi are lost in different ways depending on what generation we belong to: the elder generation that grew up in the 60s and 70s adhere to a traditional Iraqi society (not religious in the strict sense), but believe in the ideal of "glorious Iraq" of the good old days; my generation is lost in the rhetoric of the Baath which usurped all patriotic emotions to represent its so-much hated ideology. My generation lost their childhood in the 80s war, to become a teenage and young adult in the sanctions and grew to adulthood in the ethnic-sectarian conflict following 2003. The younger generation lost their childhood in the deprivation of the 90s, and their early adulthood is shattered in the blasts of the 2003. Voices that tell us to be optimistic because they have witnessed better days are deaf to our frustration, to our sufferings, and the fact that their "good old days" is only a myth, or اساطير الاولين.<br />
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To speak of our loss and frustration seems to be taken as high treason against the beloved country. The Islamists at home find in any note of frustration a direct criticism of their "Islamic" vision of Iraq. Thus we need to be happy, proud of being Iraqis, to belong to the land blessed by Allah, Mohammed, and his progeny. To be thankful that we are born in the land in which many Imams were buried, as if the couple of these blessed lives killed on this land, more dear to their creator than the millions of Iraqis losing their lives for no choice of their own since 80s!! Iraqis in diaspora find in our loss and frustration a treason to the dream, a justification of colonization, selling out the country to the west that rejected them (though accepting them in their lands). Both ask us to love and shed more blood to keep what is so-called Iraq one land, ignoring the fact that what we have suffered in Iraq is far more serious than keeping this map intact!<br />
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The same arguments of Iraqi diaspora were repeated in a yesterday's even on Iraqi identity in diaspora. Instead of discussing how Iraqis are integrating and conceptualize their identity away from home, the attendants turned to a platform to repeat postcolonial arguments, to blame outside forces for making Iraq the terrible country it is today, for making it the worst place to live in!<br />
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I was reading Evelyn al-Sultani's views on her multi-ethnic identity as half Iraqi and half Cuban living in the US. While she feels she is all of the fragments that constitute her multi-ethnicity, she is also frustrated at the attempts to fragment herself so she can belong to all the components of her identity. Her revelation is one honest account of being what we are, without the attempts to engage in postcolonial rhetoric of fragmentation imposed by the evil colonizers on the innocent and united colonized.<br />
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None of the Iraqis gathered yesterday can answer what they meant by their Iraqiness: the speakers referred to certain identity denominator, like language and food. I don't like many of the traditional Iraqi dishes, does that make me less Iraqi? I think it does, as I have been told many times by enthusiasts of these dishes. I like Indian food and certainly love Indian music and songs which I grew up listening to them, does that make me Indian? I have read English literature all my adult life and can't force myself to read one book of Arabic since, does that make me English? Maybe the fact that I can't write self-expression in Arabic support my Englishness, and hyphenate my identity at home as well as here!<br />
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I find in Al-Sultani's final note on identity a relief to my inner conflict:<br />
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"Identity must be re-conceptualized, so that we can speak our own identities as we live and reinterpret them in multiple contexts".<br />
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Identity is not a static concept exists in fixed conditions. It is dynamic, changes, shifts, develop and evolve over time, through places, and between contexts. The ready-made rhetoric of postcolonial discourse over the evil role in fragmenting the concept of identity in their previously colonized countries have become out of date. There a need for new conceptualization of identity, but in stead of each trying to do it on behalf of a nation, or community, let's each individual try to understand why he/she thinks they are Iraqis, British, Indians or Canadians. Language, food, music, religion all are global commodities now, and people from everywhere can buy them and make them part of their day-to-day reality without visiting the place they originating from. I love Indian food, passionate about their music and understand hindi, but have never been to India and definitely I am not Indian! or Am I?<br />
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Nadia </div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-84227369357405542492016-10-29T13:35:00.001+03:002016-10-29T17:49:29.756+03:00What would I do with a master in physics in Iraq?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I didn't realize the picture is so grim in Iraq, till I was telling my colleague about my sister who is doing now her master in physics and how she is eager to get married, as if it is the only option she has. While I was expressing my shock how someone was studying such advanced science and yet still maintain a way of thinking that is considered today as medieval, my colleague found it quite normal: "what she would do with master in physics in Iraq? would she be put in a lab or something like that?" Then it hits me: Iraq is not a developed country that is concerned with scientific research, we don't have advanced research labs or centers and definitely we are hospitable environment for any kind of science. Our patients would rather do pilgrimage and other religious rituals when they develop any serious sickness, rather than go to hospitals. When there is sun or moon eclipse, all mosques call for prayers, because it is such a miracle to have the sun or the moon disappear. All Muslims would be praying for Allah for one of his glorious "miracles"!! Even if those Muslims know exactly how and why the eclipse happens, it is still for them such a mystery and should not be trifled with.<br />
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In a country where women are still used as ransom for tribal disputes, and children at the age of 14 and 13 are happily married off to either equally child husbands or 30+ adults, there is nothing that tells Iraq will welcome physics or any other science. The scientific research environment needs a critical mind to mentor this research, and this critical mind is not going to develop in a country where the majority are waiting for a 'hidden' imam who is assumed to be alive for almost 1300 years. Among this majority are people who have postgraduate degrees in different scientific fields and have come across different scientific developments and achievements across the world. However, they still maintain the same kind of thinking that created the myth of the hidden imam 1300 years ago. It is definitely not a world for science, not a world that a master in physics would mean anything beyond being a fancy degree that give its holder a fancy academic title, as well as prestigious social status. If the holder is a female, though, how fancy the degree sounds does not really help in attracting equally fancy marriage proposal, because a master in physics may reflect on her as being "woman who reads", which is not a very attractive label for girls in Iraq.<br />
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I remember when I was telling my colleagues in the department of English that I was admitted to the PhD program in University of Baghdad. I was over the moon for doing the PhD was my dream, but instead of getting congratulations from all, there were female colleagues who expressed their skepticism over this academic honor. One of them told me that she wished to congratulate me, but having PhD and in English would not reflect nice on me in the marriage market for I would be intimidating to men. She was right! My male colleagues, though express their admiration of scholarly females, but when they choose a wife, they would choose a wife whose priority was family life. A woman who seeks postgraduate degrees in English or any other subject deemed "complicated and advanced" in Iraq is definitely someone into family life!<br />
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One would argue, could this be individual cases and there are other people more interested in advancing research and development in the country. If the case was like that, we won't be till now a third-world country, we won't score the highest in so many social and political problems. Again, research and economic developments need an environment that encourage critical thinking, which leads to advancement in research and discoveries. The critical thinking won't sustain most of the social and religious cultures that dominate life in Iraq. The fact that we have so many universities does not make Iraq a developed country, nor it makes a hospitable culture for research. Our universities are not research institutions, but teaching centers, where students are given degrees to make them employable for jobs, which are remotely related to their training in the university. Most of my students graduate with bachelor degree in English language and literature, but instead of working in related fields (journalism, publishing, and editing), they become teachers of English language without being trained for the job of the teacher. In Iraq being a teacher is not such an important job, and basically anyone can do it. Having no proper job markets for all the graduates from Iraqi universities, it becomes a phenomenon worth studying that most of these graduates seek postgraduate studies. It becomes trendy to do master and PhD to seek a job in the university, because teaching in the university gives prestigious social status (specially to men) pays well to both men and women and with the advantage of less working hours. Actually the last two privileges are what make a teaching job in the university so attractive to educated women in Iraq. Rather than worrying about the social status (which is mostly a major concern for men), female graduates care for the good payment (specially if they are already married), but the most important point is the less working hours. In addition to two months summer vacation and two weeks spring break, a teaching job in the university require 2-3 working days during which lecturers give all their teaching loads. The more they are advanced in the academic hierarchy, the less teaching hours required from them. The promotion process may seem to encourage innovative research as it depends on the publications of the scholar. However, most of the research is published in Iraqi or international journals which charge publication fees. These are not usually the highly esteemed journals in their respected fields, but they are popular among scholars from countries like Iraq, whose institutions only ask for publications, rather than investigate the quality of this publication. As a result of this process, I have met so many professors in English and other fields who do not reflect well the academic title they carry so proudly. Besides, this is how we have so many professors in scientific studies, while Iraq is still among the underdeveloped countries.<br />
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In few words, an academic is required to teach in exchange of the all the privileges they enjoy under the title. As they hold big titles, but few merits to show for it, their students think it does not require much effort and smartness to be in the position of their lecturers. I have heard it over the years, that our students wonder how Dr. X or prof. Y get to be in that prestigious position! I used to wonder about as well, when I was a student and could tell that I knew of English literature more than the one who was standing on the stage claiming to be "knowing all". My wondering waned off when I became involved in the process and became first-hand witness to academic reality in Iraq. There is no wonder how all these half-illiterate people running the academic institutions in Iraq, as they are made by the same system that still runs the country.<br />
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In conclusion, 50% of the population who will find themselves privileged enough to reach university education, will actually enroll in a system that care for quantity rather than quality. Eventually, they will be the new leaders of the country, to maintain the same system that bring them to the country leadership. One may suggest new leaders, imported from abroad, who are the product of more advanced academic institutions, to help breaking this dominating system. Well, this solution have been thought off obviously, as most of the few elder generation are aware of the problem and work on solving it. As the country is too dangerous to attract foreign academics, it was thought that sending postgraduate students through government sponsored scholarships to do their master as well doctorate studies in the most advanced countries in the world: US, UK, Japan, Germany and many others. As a result the government sent hundred, if not thousands of Iraqis abroad since 2009 around the developed world in the prospect of building rich pool of academics who would come back to Iraq and work, each in their university, to change and advance the academic reality of Iraq, which may lead to better educated generations of Iraqis, and eventually break the rotten system of Iraqi reality. Their goals proved to be too ambitious, because they disregarded the fact that rotten system in Iraqi academia or other workplaces come from the frame of mind dominating Iraqi consciousness, rather than vise versa.<br />
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Many of the scholarship students were my colleagues and I had the chance of meeting them while they were doing their studies in UK. Couple of them turned to be more religiously strict than they used to be in Iraq, thanks to all the media presentations about Islamophobia, which helped in creating an environment of hate and intolerance in both Muslim and non-Muslim communities. One of them appeared to spent most of her time in Islamic center because she felt quite un-welcomed among other PhD students in the department where she was studying. Without regarding factors of cultural and age differences, she thought the reason was mainly because she was a Muslim woman with headscarf. When I told her I had different experience in King's, she just dismissed my observation as exception to the rule. Another one, who was studying biochemistry thought it was necessary to ask whether the hot chocolate served in a costa cafe is halal (as if you need to kill a cow for milk!)<br />
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Most of the Iraqis who came to UK to do their postgraduate degrees didn't really integrate in the academic or social cultures to change their mindsets and acquire new life skills. Most of them moved in Iraqi social circles, always applying for positions in universities which were known for hosting Iraqis, so they could find comfortably familiar environment when they move from their own country to UK. Cardiff, Bangor, Sheffield and Leicester, Manchester and many other universities in UK have welcomed for years Iraqis, Arabs and Muslims that one can find small familiar communities there that bring the sense of home. No sense of alienation or estrangement was felt to push these students out of their comfort zone, to motivate them to think outside the box, or urge them to change. When I was planning to come London, many people told me that I should try to change the university (assuming that I could) and to try to find another position in different city where I could find other Iraqi scholars. As London deemed expensive for Iraqis, they always refrain from applying to universities there and preferred to live in remote cities to the north, where life was cheaper, so they could save money from their stipends which was quite generous if the student would live outside London. For me, London itself was the advantage and staying away from familiar worlds was just a bonus!<br />
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That does not mean that the almost four-years time, which Iraqi students spend in UK do not leave an impact or change something in them. It actually does. After going back to their country, and claim all the social and material benefits of the newly-acquired degree, the reality bites and they start to compare between the last years they have spent in one of the most advanced countries, and their current reality in Iraq. They won't be able to hold the comparisons their minds draw based on their experiences and observations during their years in UK or any other western world, and the way of life in Iraq, which is becoming more medieval every day. Whether they will try to change their reality or not, this is not the question, but whether they would be able to change it. Many people tried, among them are the masterminds that sent them to the advanced countries to change the system, but all failed.<br />
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The prevalent culture needs more than hundreds of westernized academics to be changed and exchanged with more liberal one. It needs fathers who raise their sons and daughters to think for themselves and be more in charge of their lives, than forcing them to follow their footsteps. It need mothers who motivate and support their daughters toward realizing their potentials as human beings, rather than convincing them of their dependency on males. It needs stronger law enforcement on the part of the state, which takes the best interest of the people, rather than submit to the corrupted policies of low-level politicians. It needs people conscious of the abyss the country is running into, and strongly willing to push their country back upward, because they know that it is their only home in the wide world.<br />
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829887605556010282.post-65016391173803532852016-10-06T15:25:00.001+03:002016-10-06T15:25:44.468+03:00I am out<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I come first to this country, they thought I have come escaping IS, that I whatever I have suffered in Iraq was related to that Islamic beast occupying Mosul and other western town in my country. When I explain to them that I come from Shia family, living in Shia dominant area and never came across IS, or never suffered any abuse from them, I can see in their faces question marks, wondering why I would escape my home if I lived a peaceful life. Why a university lecturer, having a good job, would uproot herself and choose to live the life of a refugee in far away land. For those who think that life in Iraq suffers only from IS, I would say IS was the least of my concerns.<br />
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Having survived the last four decades in the country with all their wars and sanctions, IS seemed to me just another chapter of an awful life in Iraq. It was not news to me, nor to many Iraqis living in middle and south of Iraq. Our nightmares consist of some other beasts. As a woman, I have more to fight against and struggle with, as secular scholar I had my battles in the university and in the family. If Is had to do with what I had to struggle against, then it was the polarization of religion that IS increased during the last three years. </div>
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Coming from a religious family, I had to practice religion, without truly believing it. I read the holy book hundred of times, and every time I tried to convince myself that there was a miracle and message to all humanity. I tried to persuade myself to take pride in being Muslim woman and wearing hijab. I remember that I for sometime when I was 11 years old, I hated to pray but the peer pressure I get from sisters, I resumed my five-times prayers. I remember that during the 1991 war, everyone was saying that this war because Allah was angry with the Iraqis, and everyone started to look into their sins in their daily acts; I was one of them and decided to come to terms with hijab, intensified my prayers and read the quran constantly. I even memorized its first five chapters, which are the longest when I was 18. But all that didn't make me believe, nor convinced me that I have the grasped the essence of knowledge through Islam. I thought I was too angry to bring myself to believe and always blamed myself for not being able to overcome my childhood anger, when I hated the gender roles and expectations imposed on me as a girl, in the way I should act, dress, and look. </div>
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My education increased my doubt and nourished my skepticism. I studied English language and literature, through I was introduced to many great thinkers who changed the world with their ideas, but they were not Muslims. They were infidels who drink alcohol, had their affairs and many were actually homosexuals. In my master study, I wrote my thesis about an American poet, Hart Crane, who was homosexual. As a Muslim, I should have hated him, or feel disgusted with him, which was the reaction Muslims show toward homosexuality, if not anger and call for killing whoever is involved in the term. For me, I sympathized with the man, and loved his poetry. Because I touched his humanity through his words, I decided to read about homosexuality, away from religious texts, and found out its scientific explanation. I came to terms with that and started to question why their creator would torture them for being something he cause in them? Then, the same questioning included everything: why we would be punished for doing something our creator deemed so awful but then he could have stopped us from doing it in the first place. What is the purpose of this sick game where you place people in painful situation and when they choose to relieve themselves from pain, you punish them because they chose to end their suffering? I couldn't understand the twisted mentality that this creator had. But I couldn't say anything about my doubts, my questions because I was surrounded by religious family, and society that couldn't accept the mere term of atheism. </div>
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When I started teaching in the university, my lectures were the only platform where I could have raised these questions, but then I needed to be careful then as I started immediately after 2003, when religious tides started to sweep all over Iraq. One day a student who couldn't accept his failing in learning English, snapped in the class and questions the importance of learning the language of the infidel west! It became part of the teaching discourse then to question the west and their real motives in doing anything in the Middle East. Even learning their language was considered a step of blasphemy. Reading their literature was considered even worse. </div>
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But English literature opened my eyes to my worth as a female. In these English texts of different writers I realized that I didn't need to be fair to be pretty and desirable. That I am human and smart even if I was a female. I realized my humanity in a way that I couldn't achieve the same through all the books of religion I have read. With every text I read, my wish to escape increased. I failed to communicate with my own family, my colleagues, and my students. My prayers became a routine I had to do, my hijab was just convenient way to save time and trouble before going out. My feminine self was put asleep, my intellect is suppressed and my whole existence was waiting for the ultimate end of death. If I talked to God, I would simply tell him, you should have given me the choice to live or not, because I would rather not exist at all than live this miserable life which I hated every single moment of it. </div>
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Religion was imposed on me and made me miserable because I had to believe in it, rather than choose it. Now, I wonder why anyone would choose to convert to Islam or any religion in their adult life? I can talk about Islam and it is honestly not a very attractive religion, whether it is Sunni Islam or Shia Islam. It is simply a repressive religion that ask humanity to keep suffering so they will be rewarded after death. It tells homosexuals, Allah punished people in ancient times because of this and you are next! it tells men you will satisfy your sexual desires with white women and beautiful young boys (no idea what is the purpose of the boys!). I am sorry for all Muslims who are still waiting for a man whom they is still alive for more than 1000 years and still think that humanity didn't suffer enough yet.. For me, I am out.. </div>
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Nadia Mohammedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03462355780396120620noreply@blogger.com0