Book Review: Fundamentally by Nussaibah Younis

 Nussaibah Younis’s debut novel Fundamentally follows Nadia, a young Iraqi woman navigating questions of faith, sexuality, and identity amid the turbulent social and political fabric of post-war Iraq. Running parallel to her story is that of Sarah, a British woman whose decision to join ISIS and travel to Mosul stems from her own misguided search for belonging and meaning. Through these intertwined stories, Younis explores the human need for purpose and the dangers of seeking absolutes in uncertain times.

What strikes me most about Fundamentally is Younis’s ability to balance serious, painful themes with gentle, ironic humour. Her writing captures the absurdities of daily life in Iraq in a way that feels both sharp and forgiving. She writes in a tone that is deeply Iraqi, wry but compassionate, bruised but unbroken. Having lived in Iraq until 2015, when a third of the country was under ISIS control, I found her depictions uncannily familiar. The checkpoints, the bureaucracy, the flicker of hope in every conversation, they all feel true, drawn from life rather than imagination.

Younis treats Nadia and Sarah as mirrors of one another, both seeking to define themselves in worlds that offer narrow paths for women. Nadia’s gradual awakening, questioning what it means to be a good Muslim, a good daughter, a free woman, feels painfully authentic, while Sarah’s journey serves as a distorted reflection of similar longings taken to a tragic extreme. In both arcs, the author refuses easy answers, allowing readers to see how faith and identity can be both sources of strength and prisons of expectation.

Her portrayal of international efforts in Iraq, especially UN programmes, resonates deeply. The portrayal of well-meaning professionals hampered by bureaucracy, miscommunication, and political compromise felt uncomfortably accurate. It reminded me of the years when UN agencies tried to impose solutions on a reality they scarcely understood. Younis writes of this dysfunction not with bitterness, but with weary clarity, as one who has witnessed the failures of good intentions firsthand.

What keeps the novel from sinking into despair is its narratorial rhythm. The prose flows naturally, textured with humour that glimmers even in dark moments. Younis has a gift for dialogue, her characters speak in a voice that feels lived-in, even when grappling with philosophy or faith. The result is a story that feels both intimate and universally human.

Fundamentally is not only a compelling debut but also a document of cultural self-examination. For readers who have known Iraq’s contradictions, its beauty and pain, this novel feels like a mirror held up to memory. For others, it opens a window into the personal struggles that survive beneath headlines and history.

#UN #Iraq #BookReview #Fundamentally #NussaibahYounis #fiction

                                                                                                                                Nadia Mohammed 

Book Review: Fatma Aydemir’s Djinns. Migration, Identity, and generational memory

 

A friend recommended and lent me her copy of Fatma Aydemir’s Djinns . Once I started, I was struck by how powerfully the novel was capturing the inner struggles of Kurdish-Turkish immigrant who was at the end of his migration journey in Germany towards permanent return to his home country in Turkey. Djinns presents multi-generational family novel that pulls readers into the intimate lives of an immigrant family in Germany, weaving together themes of displacement, identity, belonging, and generational memory.

The story begins with Hüseyin, the father, whose sudden death in their adopted home city forces his family to reckon not only with loss but also with buried histories and unspoken tensions. Each chapter shifts perspective to a different family member—first Hüseyin and Emine, the mother, and then their four children: Ümit, Sevda, Peri, and Hakan—before circling back to Emine, where a long-suppressed family secret is revealed. The structure allows Aydemir to paint a layered picture of how immigration, cultural hybridity, and personal trauma ripple through lives in distinct yet interconnected ways.

Characterisation and Voice

Aydemir’s narrative strength lies in her richly textured characterisation. Hüseyin embodies the older migrant generation, torn between the sacrifices of factory labor in Germany and nostalgia for a homeland that, politically and socially, never truly welcomed him. Emine, resilient yet weary, is the silent anchor of the family, balancing tradition with survival. Each of the children embodies a facet of the immigrant experience: Sevda clings to the conventional expectations of respectability, Hakan resents and mismanages his marginalization, Peri grapples with intellectual independence and estrangement from family, while Ümit explores his homosexuality in a community where such identity carries both danger and shame. By giving each child their distinct inner voice, Aydemir underscores how a single migratory journey splinters into diverging individual paths across a new cultural landscape.

Pop Culture and Everyday Life

German and Turkish pop culture weave in continuously across narratives, grounding the characters’ inner struggles with markers of their social setting. The recurrent references to music, television, fashion, and youth culture show how second-generation immigrants carve out identity by choosing—or resisting—the dominant cultural codes around them. These details enrich the story, situating questions of belonging not only at the level of language or religion but also in the banalities of what one watches, wears, or listens to. They provide an atmospheric counterpoint to the weightier reflections, revealing how cultural hybridity is lived day by day.

Themes of Freedom, Identity, and Belonging

At its heart, Djinns examines the negotiation between tradition and personal freedom. The novel humanizes dilemmas immigrants and their children often face—torn between collectivist family expectations and the promise of individualism offered by Western culture. Issues of gendered expectations, sexual identity, and generational misunderstanding recur, highlighting the invisible but palpable presence of “djinns,” or unspoken burdens, in the family’s shared life. The revelation of the lost child—invisible yet always shaping family dynamics—mirrors the suppressed traumas of displacement itself, suggesting that every migrant family carries similar hidden wounds.

Through elegant prose and shifting perspectives, Aydemir avoids reducing her characters to stereotypes of assimilation or alienation. Instead, she presents them as complex, flawed, and painfully real individuals negotiating survival and selfhood in a Germany that offers both opportunity and exclusion.

Djinns is both intimate family drama and sharp social commentary. It is a novel about silence and secrets, about pop music and political trauma, about the private costs of migration and the resilience of those who live it. For readers interested in immigrant narratives, intergenerational struggles, and the intersections of culture and identity, Aydemir’s work offers a poignant, intelligent portrait that lingers long after its final page.

 

Keywords: Fatma Aydemir, Djinns, book review, Kurdish-Turkish immigrants, Germany, immigrant family, intergenerational trauma, pop culture, identity, homosexuality, belonging, personal freedom, cultural hybridity, migrant literature. 

The Importance of Hiring Cultural Consultants in Film: Lessons from Controversies in Netflix’s Arab Character Portrayals

Hiring cultural consultants in film production is more important than ever. These experts help ensure that different cultures and identities are represented accurately, respectfully, and authentically. By involving cultural consultants early in the process—be it in script development, casting, or production design—filmmakers can avoid common pitfalls such as stereotypes, cultural inaccuracies, and portrayals that could offend or alienate audiences.

Misrepresentations not only perpetuate harmful biases but also deepen misunderstandings about the communities depicted. Cultural consultants enrich storytelling by offering nuanced perspectives and helping films resonate with diverse viewers. Moreover, their involvement prevents costly backlash and damage to a production’s reputation by identifying sensitive issues before they reach the screen.

Recent controversies in Netflix films featuring Arab characters highlight why cultural consultancy is essential. Over the past five years, several productions have drawn criticism, illustrating how important it is to approach cultural representation with care:

1. Mary (2024) – This film about the Virgin Mary caused upset for casting mainly Israeli actors, while not including Palestinian representation. Many criticised the film for “Palestinian erasure” and questioned its historical accuracy regarding Arab Christian heritage. Given the ongoing political tensions in the region, this casting decision was viewed as insensitive, underscoring the need for filmmakers to be acutely aware of cultural and political contexts.

2. Perfect Strangers اصحاب ولا اعز(2022) – An Arabic-language Netflix film that sparked controversy in the Arab world for tackling themes such as homosexuality and extramarital relationships. Many viewers felt these topics clashed with prevailing conservative social norms, leading to strong backlash. This case shows how cultural consultants can help navigate delicate subjects respectfully, fostering dialogues that consider the values and sensibilities of the affected communities.

3. King the Land (2023) – Although this is a South Korean drama available on Netflix, it featured an Arab character whose portrayal drew criticism for reinforcing stereotypes. The character appeared as a partygoer wearing traditional Arab clothing while drinking alcohol, which many audiences deemed an offensive cliché. This example emphasises that even productions from outside the Arab world benefit greatly from informed cultural input when including diverse characters.

These examples demonstrate clearly that without cultural consultants, films risk misrepresenting peoples and cultures, alienating audiences, and inviting public criticism. Cultural consultants support filmmakers in crafting stories that are not only more truthful but also more meaningful and respectful, helping to break down simplistic stereotypes and foster inclusion.

Cultural consultants play a vital role in the filmmaking process, especially in portraying complex and often misunderstood cultural identities such as those of Arab communities. The controversies involving Netflix’s Arab characters over recent years serve as a powerful reminder that thoughtful, informed cultural guidance is essential to creating films that honour the richness of real-life experiences and contribute positively to cultural dialogue.

Book Review: There Are Rivers in the Sky by Elif Shafak

Elif Shafak’s There Are Rivers in the Sky is impressively researched, connecting the lives of three characters—Arthur from the 19th century and Zaleekha and Narine from today—through the recurring theme of water. The story moves between the deciphering of cuneiform and the recent Yazidi massacre, aiming to tackle two major moments that have changed our world.

Shafak’s writing is often poetic, sometimes beautifully so, though the constant focus on water as a symbol can feel a bit forced. The plot can be slow and, at times, a little tedious, much like a river that winds its way forward with no hurry, which some readers may find frustrating.

The novel seems to favour Arthur’s story, probably because there’s so much information available about him and the whole idea of Western explorers in the Middle East has a certain romantic pull. Zaleekha’s character, on the other hand, doesn’t sit easily alongside Arthur and Narine; she feels out of place, neither fully connected nor as well-developed.

It’s also hard to ignore the confusing handling of Zaleekha's background. Her name, supposedly given by her Iraqi mother from Nineveh, actually isn't Iraqi or common in the region, which feels off for anyone who knows the culture. Her personal story is murky, too: her separation from her husband is meant to be about her loving another man, but the book skirts any mention of queerness, leaving questions about her true self.

The sudden romance between Zaleekha and Nen comes from nowhere and feels unnecessary—it wouldn’t matter if Nen were a man or a woman, and it doesn’t affect the plot. The moment where Zaleekha blames her aunt for organ harvesting, and accuses her uncle of ‘dirty work’, is also confusing; we’re told there was more involved, but never find out what. That lack of clarity is frustrating.

It also feels clichéd that the British character is made out to be the main villain behind these terrible acts, which seems like an easy way to appeal to anti-Western readers rather than exploring the real complexity behind these events.

All that said, Shafak deserves credit for the serious research and for wanting to keep Mesopotamian stories alive. While the novel doesn’t always succeed in bringing everything together, it’s a passionate effort to remind us of the layers of history and the importance of not letting them fade away.

Refugee Week: rambling

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. 

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. 

Too much attention has the same negative impact as lack of attention when one knows they do not deserve it. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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". 

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.

Beauty and Body Image

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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).

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.

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.

Company, the musical 2019

The classical American musical Company 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.

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.

As someone who got married at the age of 40, I saw the play brilliant in a different way.  

The 1970 musical 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

Nadia

BBC Arabic Film Festival 2019

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

On Women's Day

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  

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.

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.

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?

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.

Gaining Back What is Lost: Back to Teaching

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.  

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.  

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. 

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? 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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?

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. 

Nadia F Mohammed 

Ashura

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.  

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. 

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  

Or they cook qeema and rice

Which is my favorite.

I used to spend the 9^th 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.   

Nadia Fayidh Mohammed

Lifetime of War Trauma

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.

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.

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.

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.

Apparently the horror is chasing us everywhere

Nadia F Mohammed        

Obituary of the Aunt Who Walked Away

Happy Eid,

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. 

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. 

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! 

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? 

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. 

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. 

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. 

Nadia Fayidh Mohammed 

Two Years in London

 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Nadia F Mohammed 

Searching for light

You were about to tell me your story
How you crossed the world to land safe;
But I stopped before you shape the words
And went on relating your story and mine:
How we left homelands for better lives;
Struggling through dark woods and caves
Searching for the light...

Fellow traveler, we both lost & found
We both had to shed away old dreams
Open space for new ones and more;
Don't stop, ours journeys do not end here
We have just crossed roads
But in a moment we both again depart
Follow the unknown, searching for light..

Woman from Iraq

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

2003: ‘Bombing Us to Democracy’

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. 

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.

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.

Both camps seek simple answers to validate what they think is right. For me, no answer can sound right.

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. 

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.

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.

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.   

During the first hours of Thursday, March 20^th 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. 

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). 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Trump Bars Iraqis from Entering the US

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’.

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.

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.

Once I got to Philadelphia airport in the 4^th 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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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!