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Dear pomegranate tree,

What if I were a meter shorter... ? Would you allow my little bones upon your frail branches? What if I let my untamed braids tangle with your young fruit? Would you bounce and wrestle me off of you? Would he be there to catch me before I hit the ground? If I scrape my knee and shed a few tears for the pain you cause me, would you have done so to see him lift me back up? Because, dear pomegranate tree, I long to climb you. I long to stand on the wall supporting you and pretend to fly. I long to have that sweet moment when I could reach your fruit, pluck it right from the heart of your core, and pass it on to him. Share the little green globes you secretly...knowingly, allowed me to have, with him. And we run. We run away from your falling dry leaves. The wind cutting through our wide open smiles. We couldn't care less what is behind us, or ahead of us.

But dear pomegranate tree, you knew he never existed. You knew, there would be nobody to catch me. You knew, it would be your responsibility to embrace me into your gnarled branches. You knew, that even if he existed, he wouldn't stick around long enough to watch the young ones ripen. I knew, it would be just you and I. Always.

You return my empty gaze, dear pomegranate tree, and you watch and laugh at how I sit; all fours drooping to the ground from a lonely chair at the cafe. The many times I described you to people...the many times I lingered beneath your shadows.
No coffee cup sat on my table. A modern-day device called a "mobile phone" kept beeping. You warned me not to move my eyes. Your leaves wrestled, blowing my locks off of my face. The sun tanned the wrinkles above my brow..my lips sealed. What is there to say, dear pomegranate tree? If you could talk, what would you say to the concrete wall you are mounting? Should we ask the neighbouring eucalyptus? Perhaps she would say: "He does. He exists. I sheltered his steps everyday."

But I guarantee it, dear pomegranate tree, that the bougainvillea blossoms drooping over me, know that the truth is subjective. I guarantee, that that man walking with his head hanging, also knows that the truth is subjective. I bet your sweet sun-kissed dusty green hue, dear pomegranate tree, that my nonexistent partner in crime will never realise that he walked beneath your shadows many times, passing my empty table by.

The drying up coronations in the broken pot by my feet, are reminding you of the countdown to the road that leads me away from your craving melodic nestle, and out of Iraq.

An interpretation of my journey in Iraq through verse. Written by my friend and colleague, Francis Owtram.

The only candle flickering in the vast powerless home threatened to blow out at any minute. I carved some wax off the edges surrounding the wick. The few trickling drops left inside the basin's tap tricked me into thinking that the water was back.

I was unprepared. I had no torch, charge-up light, or even tea candles. My fridge's content thawed away, and when I tried to wipe the dirty water leaking from it, a photograph fell from its door: My recently, resentfully-departed, friend and colleague. Her voice at the University of Kurdistan was ignored, too. Her voice, mine, and that of tens of others, were all ignored.

It takes a candlelit evening amongst nothing but empty walls and floors - in the apartment I am being evacuated from - to remind me of everything and everyone I miss. So I am using up what's left of my laptop's battery to write these words.

We spend our lives trying to forget people, but we forget - during the process of forgetting - that their presence in our lives is exactly what we need. With the ethical and the unethical, and the heartache they cause - we need them. And so years spin, decades move on fast, and although we manage to keep busy, we never forget. Although the mind is occupied, the heart still aches for their presence that cannot be replaced. And so, we submit to society's demands and set of ethical laws, and move on. And darkness crept into what used to be my home, I remember each and ever one I miss, and those I will miss. That feeling I have been holding in my throat claws its way out of my mouth, then my eyes, and then it settles back onto my chest for the rest of the inbreathing night. Nothing but still, silent darkness.

One day, I set out on a journey to find home. I wrote the word home in almost every piece of writing I produced. I came to establish the first English-language culture magazine in Iraq. I also thought I could easily finish my novel. And, one of the projects would be to produce a movie, too. I may, in the process, help a person or two. Change a life, or two. Inspire young people - maybe. What I found instead, were people that changed me. Inspired me. Helped me. And there were people who reminded me of emotions that I have long forgotten how to use.

And so a volcano erupted, and I found myself on a very, very different journey of what I thought I might take here.

One year following my arrival, an American lady, that is now one of my idols, became my employer. Being always unprepared for interviews, I sat there and poured out genuine feelings and plans, which she believed. So I began working for the University of Kurdistan - Hawler. What came next was beyond my belief.

A journey that I feel one article would do no favour to. I plan to write about it in several parts here. What's left of Saddam Hussein's shadow will no longer silence Iraqis.

I fear you, not.

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.

Highways between cities are closed off. The country may come to a stand still, or even enter a civil war, in the next few days. We hope that protesters and police will not resort to violence. We are being advised to stock up on food and remain indoors.

My next blog will be much more comprehensive on what has been going on - personally and nationally - as well as what will be happening in the streets, all over Iraq.

Once again, I find their cries amplified into my head and my heart is trying to claw its way out of my mouth. Their blood was no longer in their veins, and had streamed down into the nearest puddle of overflowing sewage. Their murderers now come at night, creeping up the dark alleys, adjusting the straps around their chests ready for launch. Their breaths rise, against the number of seconds left to breathe for Abu Omar, the café's waiter, Um Najat, the corner shop owner, Salman, a student who went to do his homework with his friend, Abulwahid, the neighbourhood's senior counting hid praying beads outside his house door, Sahar, the bride to be who was trying on a wedding dress at the neighbourhood's shopping area, Yaseen, a 5-week-old newborn resting in his mother's arms in the foyer of a church, Mahmood, a mechanic who was doing a favour to his cousin who had a flat tyre in Shaab quarter, Abbas, a chain smoker who'd just had a fight with his wife over moving out of Sadr City into a safer neighbourhood, Um fadhil, a late night chit chatter who had urgent news to tell Um Sabah, Karzan, he's just finished school and was heading towards the sands to play football, Rana, the teenager with the weakest heart when it comes to love, and was hoping her crush was outside to share a smile with, Dawood, he just gave up on finding a job, Mohammed, he was trying to help Dawood find a job, Qasim, a split second before his flesh flew into pieces, was strolling down the street, wondering, if he should sell the house, take his family and leave Iraq.

You decide, how much of the above was fiction.

It's cloudy, and windy - far too cloudy and windy for this part of the world, at this time of year. It's supposed to be warm, but instead, I shiver. I rock my chair and deny myself the luxury of a cup of coffee. My mouth tastes bitter and my palms dry up. I cut my fingers as I run them through my rough hair. I try to walk, but I can't. I can barely stand the view outside my window. More under-construction buildings, reaching high, blocking the view to the city beyond. A woman walks past, or maybe it was a man. I don't care. I try not to succumb to my failures, and think of my successes. Or I could just surrender. Outside, I try to push through the crowds. Words I think of slap my face. Too little, but maybe, not too late. I try to find a face that will give me a sign. Just one more curve. I keep going. On the crest of the hill, I see broken bottles and dead daffodils lying on the ground. I lie beside them. I can lie as long as I want here. The daffodils won't complain, they're dead. Weeds are free to slip up through the cracking earth. I brush them with my unbending fingers. It gets dark, and I'm still there. The city below disappears beneath dark clouds. The voices of children are drawn out. I am alone. I have been here before. My veins bulge. Now, all I hear is the wind whistling, strengthening, often carrying dead daffodils on its rushed travels. It's pitch black now. My mind is blank, and I start to hear a voice. It's coming to take me. It treads on my chest. The air I gasp tastes rusty, and my fingers dig into the earth beneath me. Pressure crushes my ribs and I choke, but I hold the pain in. I let it hurt me.

It's the end of the world. It's the day I remember my purpose in life. It's the day I remember my unfinished novel.

A hundred and fifty university students had their say on Iraq's archeological sites in an exam last week. The below was my take on the subject.

LOOTED: The recovery of Mesopotamia's treasures

After thousands of years as a hunter, man built the first city 7,000 years ago on the banks of Euphrates in Southern Iraq. Civilization began. Human life transformed with the glorious cultures of Mesopotamia. Plundered, disfigured and destroyed; how much of it endured centuries of wars?

It's been a while since I last wrote -- for many reasons. At first it was hard to write about a year-long journey. Changing jobs was a transitional period that required all of my energy. Then it was hard to write about spring in Iraq. Elections is a frustrating topic I did not want to approach. Then came Mothers' Day... and I did not succeed to write more than one line for a whole week. It was never perfect enough.

If you go to www.blog.com, and search for Tuesday 29th December, at about 1pm GMT, you will find a bunch of blogs written in broken English by Iraqi university students. I watched as they wrote their new year resolutions, hopes and plans.