Ten months on

By Zainab Radhi on Nov 22, 09 09:52 PM

Soon enough, the zest of oranges will infuse the bitter-cold air. Mothers have already packed away summer's clothes and out came the cardigans, scarves and those never-out-of-fashion legwarmers. The cold air drove people back into their houses, tucked in front off oil heaters, impatiently awaiting the return of their daily power allowance. The big great park is deserted and the swan boats floated empty in the manmade lake. Scorpions retreated back to the bottoms of the mountains, and thankfully, lizards have also gone.

In the 'mamostayan' room (the teachers room in Kurdish), my two colleagues and I observe those ever hardworking ants. Relentless, seeking the last drops of crumbs, storing away what they could. Armies and armies of them: Big ones, winged ones, ginger ones, tremendously fast ones. They would suck your blood if they couldn't find dinner for the night. Even ants have adapted to the Iraqi lifestyle.

I have new groups of students. We're currently studying 'strong' and 'weak' sentences in academic writing.

Weak: 'I live in Iraq' - Problem: No main idea.
Idea 1: 'I live in Iraq. We are at war with the world' - Problem: Broad topic.
Strong sentence: 'We live in Iraq where we are at war with the world as well as ourselves' - Good use of a connecting word to link the topic sentence with the main idea.

That was an example given to me by the students. I couldn't argue the validity of the last statement. I couldn't patronise them.

I also have a group of TV channel newsreaders, presenters and crew. A mix of hope and dismay often looms the atmosphere of this class. There are those that are passionate about what they do and others that feel trapped in their self-limitation, and often blame it on 'being in Iraq'. Then there are those that beam with life, want, hope, will, could...but even those, often tuck under dark spells from time to time. A nation that became accustomed to self-pity, and who am I to judge! I barely witnessed the beginnings of it all, but they have lived it all their lives. The only thing that worries me is that their despair is extremely infectious.

"I want to leave Iraq. What am I waiting for?" A young actress that couldn't be more than 23 years old tells me. Her age is just a little over the first Gulf War's time.

Have I been down that road before? Yes I have. I remember it well. Would I advise her to do it and leave? Must I tell her how much Iraq needs her and that she could pave the way for many others like her? Would it be fair to interfere in someone's destiny? She looks up to me so much as if I am this celebrity that came from the UK. As if every step I take in my life is a successful one. Every decision is a correct one. Every dream comes true for me. I peregrinate earth on a magic carpet; the wind is in my hair. Everything that I am, what I have seen and what I have done, is how life should turn out to be for her.

Foreign investors have certainly noticed the lack of the Iraqi presence in the field of development and construction so we would often hear of Lebanese restaurants opening, offering top quality food and service. Shopping malls are at competition and huge buildings with bold English writing are starting to fill up the empty lands. There are new streets, parks and hotels but vastly separated by empty land that awaits more entrepreneurs.

I am blessed to have gotten to know a few people here that I never thought I could meet in Iraq. I have a particular friend who I love sitting and listening to her for hours telling me stories she witnessed during the war. She is also a writer and I love the way she tells them. Her eyes sparkle and her youthful face beams as she digs deep into her memory and shares it all with me. I could never tell those stories the way she could. This is why there are so many writers all around the world, writing about what they know in their own individual voices.

In less then a month's time, round about the time you guys gather around Christmas trees, I am supposed to hand in my novel to a reputable publishers in London who has shown interest and promised to read the reminder of my novel. So amongst all of my work duties, my emotional journey in Iraq, my fights with the university to pay up my extremely delayed salary...and that killer procrastination, I am writing about Mustafa. I am digging deep into my own memory. Digging deep into Internet sites to research my facts. Digging deep into the days' hours. Pushing my fellow Iraqis' dismay out of the way and bringing in images of my mother, holding her youngest daughter's novel in her hand.

'To my mother', the first page will read.

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