In Paris, a catwalk model trots in her silky cut-off dress down the runway, and in Banghazi, a father is loading his gun, the mother gathers the food while the children cellotape the windows. In Iraq, I sit on my desk and write. I find creative ways to avoid writing about my current life. I hide old blogs I had written and never posted. I wonder about the legalities, security, and the consequences of whistle-blowing. My words often came in the shape of an anagram; agglutinated morphemes, afraid of spelling out the truth.

A friend of mine told me that I have developed a habit of taking the absolute longest route between the start of my sentence and my actual point. They're right, and this blog is proof. I have to learn how to be honest in my writing all over again.

In time, I discovered that home is a time, not a place. A time that I longed to recapture during my stay in Iraq, but failed miserably. Social erosion quickly took over the few spots available for those who seek to contribute to Iraq.

Amidst my despair and choosing the right path, a group of extraordinary people showed me how to survive. People who enthusiastically - and against all odds - face their realities and fight for their future, though, not yet ready to confront their fear. My students are the people I continue to draw inspiration from. Young individuals who shared trust, love and life stories with me. A bond that no threats will ever break, we set out together on a journey. Perhaps not their first journey of this kind, but it was certainly my first. A journey that taught me things I never knew existed in me, and strength that I didn't know I had, facing people I only read about or cringed while watching them on TV.

Recently, my feelings have been accumulating in my throat. A feeling of revulsion, love and despair. Living in the storehouse of my most treasured childhood memories has become the reason I loathe it. Then I meet faces that remind me of me, only slightly younger, and about to go through similar journeys to mine. They too, share their unconditional love with me, and entrust me to keep it safe forever. A promise that could potentially finally break me free from the storehouse of memories. I examine their youthful faces and those relentless infectious smiles. I return them, taking more inspiration. More than the inspiration they believe I offer.

"We love you," they say. An overproduced sentence that I heard plenty over the course of my life. But here and now, this sentence touches my heart more than I ever imagined. "We miss you," they also say. But I have missed them all my life; even before meeting them. A connection without its existence, my trip to Iraq would have been an absolute squander.

Maybe my journey in Iraq is coming to an end soon, and I feel sad that I may not get to find out what will happen to many of my students as they get older, and lose touch. Nevertheless, I am thankful for what they taught me, for what they shared with me, for their patience in long lessons, and for their innocence. They are forever etched into my memory.

Thank you, for my most treasured memories.