Let me share with you my memories.
I remember once when my dad was driving in downtown Bagdad and we passed a narrow street that led into a larger square. I was in the front seat of the car and pointed up toward the demolished building and asked him, “What happened?”
There was a foggy air around this once-tall building—now half its size—that made me recall the many dust storms that occupied the city every now and then.
“It is because of the Iran-Iraq War,” he said with a low voice, as we turned the corner.
That was the first time I had seen destruction of that magnitude.
I remember clinging to my mother in the basement of my uncle’s house in Suleymania in northern Iraq. I remember my relatives curled around candles, waiting for the loud noises outside to stop. Despite my fear, a sense of solidarity prevailed: I...
