Bordering Life

'The place: Iraq. The time: Iraq. The aim: Iraq.' A local mobile network wrote as their slogan.

Indeed it is.

In your local news, you hear about a lost and found dog, a youth attacking an elderly or at worst, a knife stabbing. In our local news the word bomb occurs between every other word. Which reminds me of a thought that always comes to my mind: Why Iraq in particular? Why my home? And this reminds me of a conclusion some people in some part of the world have not realised yet. Terrorism is just a well-paid job, end of.

Talking of jobs, I have successfully completed the first course at the university, and under my instructions and testing (partly), two hundred and forty students will get to wear their black gowns and graduate from their chosen colleges, or get on with their post graduate studies. The most interesting bunch of students I have ever come across are right here. You can only miss so many Rs in 'irresistible' and Ss in 'assistant' in front of an audience like mine. And remember to always clear the misunderstanding between the American 'center' and the British 'centre'. My female admirers aren't shy to show it. Our group photos show passionate individuals who are trying, and should be rewarded for their efforts to learn in those conditions. Sometimes people carry it more on the inside.

Doctors, lawyers. sociologists, agriculturalists, vets, musicians, psychologist, teachers etc. Two hundred and forty dedicated individuals fought their way through a tough syllabus and a test that is (for my subject at least) devised by myself, specifically deigned to fit in closely with Cambridge University standards. Then I absolutely stunned my own self by testing each of these two hundred and forty students individually in 3 days. So let's go through that together again: That's teaching them, putting together a test paper, recording sound clips for their listening test, 1-1 interview them and record the results on paper. All done in three days of thirty hours, twelve of which are unpaid (not including working from home and photocopying the papers externally because the poor photocopier had bitten the dust).

My colleagues in England would know exactly what that means.

Goodbyes are said to my first students and first colleagues in Iraq. Being the only woman in a male dominated environment, they truly made me feel at ease, sharing with me their experiences, laughs and stories, and intrusting me on to getting them past that step in their lives.

Three months on and my salary remains unpaid. In order to get that, I have to start with a single piece of paper signed by my supervisor. Then when this gets to the main university site and in the hands of the Laws and Regulations officer who will freely dispute any item on the contract that he does not like, delaying the process to get that piece of paper to the university president to sign. Then, after several weeks, the paper - along with a few more now - will be sitting at the desk of the accountant and his crew. So it would be better to go there yourself to collect that signature from them and take the papers yourself to the Higher Education Ministry. Once there, the several papers will become a file with hundreds of signatures in it and will have been on tens of desks and then finally to the high chair that will decide whether your salary is suitable to your qualifications. After several weeks, you will then need to go there yourself again and off to the Finance Ministry, and the same process again. They say my request is somewhere between the Higher Education Ministry and the Finance Ministry. It reminds me very much of Snakes and Ladders. I'll update you next year.

A friend tries to show me how to count big bundles of money in preparation to receiving my salary. Everything is in notes, thousands of it. One thousand and eighteen hundred ID equal one dollar. Iraqis deal with cash only and cash only you shall buy with.

One thing that always cheers me up everytime I step out of those university gates is an olive tree faced by a pomegranate tree across the street. The number of times that pomegranate tree tempted me, but a lady that is AKA as a professor with a smart jacket cannot stretch her hands up to a tree and steal a pomegranate from government property. I never asked to grow up. It just sort of happened.

I'm not going to go through the education system in Iraq just yet, but I have one observation to point out: You have experience, talent and passion? You won't reach high places and get to sit on those high chairs. You have friends? No not those that you have a cappuccino with at your local cafe? Those with benefits... If the answer is no, then pack up and go home. There is no place for you here.

But amongst all of this happening, combined with the hunger and worship atmosphere of the holy month of Ramadhan, a tiny little girl in a black headscarf strikes me. Unlike other street beggars, she stands back, right outside the car window during red traffic lights and bats her lashes while holding up a packet of chewing gum. I call her in and offer her some money, but she insists I take the chewing gum too. She speaks ever so little and ever so quietly and she never smiles, cries or pulls those pitiable faces other children did while they smothered you with good prayers. Mine and her road crosses almost everyday, and I made sure the driver waits until she walked past us. No adult accompanying her was in sight. I never understood that. She isn't at the age of school yet, or perhaps she is ready for school this year. Everytime on my way to work I find myself wondering about her safety, her future, her sanity and what she would grow up to be or feel or be under the control of. Since Ramadhan finished the little unsmiling girl with the black headscarf has vanished, replaced by a set of foreign beggars.

I seem to come across children and feel affected by them everywhere. Just last week I saw a man and his wife leave their little boy in the car and go shopping. Well, they did give him a mobile to call them in case anything happened. He waited for them inside their battered non air-conditioned car for at least 45 minutes; just as long as I waited. He finally decided to set himself free and just like that, he opened the car door and disappeared into the bazaar's bustle. I wondered if he knew where his parents were or if they had found him later.

Signs of Autumn are finally here and the scorching sun has weakened. Very much welcomed by the locals after a long summer that left everyone gasping for air. The more you try to breathe the less goes into your lungs. And just as you reach your oases (aka air conditioned rooms), you are told to wait outside in a non air-conditioned waiting room. You cling at the doorstep of the air-conditioned room for as long as you could then you start to feel silly, so you leave and join the heavy-breathing crowds at the waiting room. The sand storms on the other hand took a whole new level. Tornados twirled and span the entire city; an entire country. It never stopped stray cats from hunting nevertheless, although they didn't get lucky in Ramadhan until after dark. I once heard them salvage a bin bag outside my house door.

That said, I dropped my usual 'weather' Smalltalk and replaced it with 'how is the electricity where you are?' Several hours a day that serve an entire country. The luxury of hearing an angry washing machine on its final spin is blissful, although I often mistake it with the thudding of low helicopters.

How am I, you ask? I feel tired. I feel no longer underweight. I feel like a paper boat in the sea. And knowing me, I can never feel content; until I see Her smile again.

Life is happening all around us, all the time. Non stop.