It must be summer in Iraq

While my personal details are being sold to email spammers - offering me electronic equipment, highly paid jobs, female lovers and social networking websites invitations, I only seek one email. I sift through them in an attempt to rescue a response to the latest literary event I attended before I mistakenly delete it. I receive one: A rejection. A spare copy of my manuscript sits on my desk. The first line; a message from Mustafa, the 12-year-old protagonist. His sun-beaten dirty face. His sister's face that holds his features in gentle form. His marbles, pigeons, best friend and the memories of his long gone parents. I love them all, all over again. I trust in them and continue working on making their lives, slowly, a living hell. Yet, I pray for them. For them to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Just as much as I pray it for myself and my loved ones.

As of recent, I abandoned Quzi (meat on rice) to eating burgers on a regular basis, hoping that the short walks I take between university campuses would burn them off. But I often find that it is my arms and head that burn. A tingling sensation gently drilling deep into my flesh; heat I'd forgotten the taste of many many years ago. Those back and forth walks to school were just a picture in my memory, until now. I stroke the tan around my rings and walk on.

Second wish on the list: Teach Iraqis seeking to learn: Tick.
Leaving the lecture room today, a group of beautiful young ladies follow me and hold my arm. They giggle as they ask to take a picture with me. They tell me they love my classes. Joy fills me, of course. My absolute wish is accomplished for this mission. Giving my all in non-airconditioned halls, cramped with 35+ students, for hours on end, was finally recognised. Zainab is a happy lady, despite the accommodation difficulties. But everytime I stand before those masses of dedicated learners, a strange feeling hits me. I feel that time has skipped a decade or two of my life. I feel that I should have been amongst them. Sitting there somewhere taking notes, complaining about the difficult exams and fitting them with family commitments. The file I'd kept for university to use one day, never got used. It remained collecting dust between the walls of the house my father built for us in Baghdad. And when I went to university in England, I thought files were unpractical. I opted for an A5 notebook and a laptop bag to keep my books in.

"Zanko" I tell the driver in Kurdish, university. "Student?" he asks. "Na, mamusta", a teacher. He smiles, feeling proud to have me onboard. Teachers, doctors, lawyers and engineers and such occupations seem to leave a good impression with the locals. In Iraq and the Middle East in general. I recollect memories of my big sister again. How she held herself with utter confidence and pride. I imitate her, spotting a mirror attached to the seat in front. I see my face holding more and more of her features. A few greys oddly stick out of my tightly tied-back hair. "You carry the world with you" the driver ironically gestured at my heavy bag, smart jacket, bottle of water and CD player. Ironic, I thought. I wondered if he'd looked into my eyes, would he have said that again with a smile on his face?

Is home where we put our heads down and sleep? Where we are most comfortable? Where we are most loved? Or is it where we were born? Is it the people that we believe we belong to, or the people that welcome us into their lives? Perhaps it is where the people we miss having in our lives. Is it about the people? Is it where we dream? A friend reminds me that home is "where the heart is", but the heart has a mind of its own. One day it promises, the next it gives ultimatums and choices in doubles. Sometimes I wish choices came in a single form. But then again, where would I have been now if I had not made multiple choices?

A modern building in the middle of a deserted spot of land is where I am having my lunch right now. Contemporary interiors sweep you in, away from the raging dust that continues to slowly murder my eyes. A lady sits in a corner with two children and a man. Her voice is loud. She tells him she wants a divorce. Not from him, I soon realise. He is her lawyer. "I love him and I love my kids but he needs to take medicine for his anger!" she pleads to the man. She hits her forehead with the palm of her hand repeatedly: A gesture of self-punishment in anger. Her children stare at her. The boy slightly distances himself from her, but the girl strokes her elegant headscarf. Tears stream down her young complexion and fall onto her sun-toasted red cheeks. She recalls stories of her husband. Of what "a good man" he can be. Her voice rise when she tells of his obsessive jealousy and mistrust. She tells of her yearn for him to feel her, to heal her. She begs the man for a solution other than divorce. "He is sick. I know it. He is sick but he doesn't know it." she wipes her tears with her long sleeve while holding on tight to her daughter's hand. Silent now, she listens to the man's suggestions, nodding. Her children start to eat their burgers. They spot my curiousity. Our eyes fix on one another. I see Mustafa in the little boy's eyes. Beside him is his beloved little sister. They yearn to have their family back together. Are they asking me something? Should I change their destiny? Could I change their misfortune? Could I rewrite my own? Would I want to?
My mind wonders, but my feet are ready to walk back to the university campus to meet more faces and become apart of their destiny, and they are of mine.