Reaping 2009

"I want to leave Iraq"
"I wish peace for my country"
"I hope to pass my exam"

I search for alternative comments throughout my journey here. I search for those who want to stay. For those who believe that the country is improving. For those who have more plans and hopes other than surviving.

Young boys and girls immersed in studies. I've never seen a nation so dedicated, despite the lack of an adequate education system and experienced teachers. They have no alternative to a choice in life. They aim for the highest available route. Then they graduate and move on to jobs that pay 4000 Dinars per hour (less than $4).

My hair has adjusted to the tight bun I force it into. "I must look older than them," I keep telling the mirror before I leave my house everyday. I always fail to live up to the common image of a teacher in Iraq. And although I trained my body to feel comfortable in jackets and shirts, Uggs never departed my cold feet. I still sit on the table rather than the chair when I mark essays. I still twist my legs in a knot when I try to gather my thoughts. And I bite my nails. Oh yes. Sorry mother, I still do. But if it's any conciliation, you are my first and last thought everytime I begin and end a chapter in my novel.

Speaking of which. Having made contact with an agent and a publisher, I hope I have possibly passed the first hurdle of making Mustafa (the main character of my story) reach you. I hope that in the coming months, Mustafa will be the subject of your conversations. I hope that you will imagine him carry his bag and head to school when you see your children. I hope you will think of him when you see Baghdad in the news. But I really hope that you will never forget him, like I never will.

There is one thing that puzzles me though. I see the entire story in black and white!

In 2010, I have those that promise to always be a heartbeat away, those that are thousands of miles away and those that are years away - if I may use time to measure space. I have laughter lines, and they specially appear when I am in the company of loved ones, or when I do an activity with my class, or when I read old friends' emails. They also show when I am angry. Thirty-something took me by surprise.

On New Year's Eve, I meet my laughter lines yet again as I spend the first New Year in Iraq. It only seems right to be in the streets with them, honking horns, dancing in Santa Claus robes, throwing boiled candy at random, flashing colourful lights and spraying foam. I longed to see their laughter lines. I saw them, and our laughter lines met. There was no room for sorrows in the streets, so families swarmed the city's outdoors.

And just like that, 2009 filed away everything I've done, and opened a new door. I entered, with a boiled candy in my hand; a heartbeat not far away.