It was a narrow and dim place
his hand and arm brushed
skin over my skin

familiar and pleasant
as my love's:

how foreign is a foreigner
in an unguarded moment?

How many people could I
be intimate with if...

What differences turn people
into enemies, if it's not a problem
to be loved

by someone you don't know –
as if your eyes were closed

to prejudices, obstacles
and complicated circumstances

that don't stop anyone
who is young and in love

High above the horses' corral, the sun
Cutting in the deserted streets
Shutters closed
No fighters and no smugglers
no silver diggers, no luck

Only angry eyes that have seen her
Men go around with clubs
they comb out all the houses
That angel has to leave

I pull her inside, next to my pounding heart
she kisses me until it is over, the dog is alert
and licks her hand, mama is working
dad drinks all day

We wait for the night
I will go with her
away from here, this is not my home
it is a grave, a hollow stone
on which my name never will be written

You can, just do it

out of fear: welcome strangers –


into your own home.

It is a fact, not a favour, to be born
outside a ghetto, wasteland or slum town:

no one should reprove me
for not having cultivated the field myself
not having paved the roads and eating fruit
from trees that I have not planted

It is a fact, no a fault, to be born
inside a ghetto, wasteland or slum town:

no one should reprove me
for having come here
on roads that I haven't paved
to work in other people's fields

and to eat the fruit
of trees that I have not planted

We swarm across the border
where the threshold was a wall
the guards are large-sighted
the farmers plow on

We push our way out of the cold
through the roses on the right, the lilies on the left
red and white the leaves
swirling behind us

We are many
more tomorrow
thunder rolls through the clouds
the children become restless

the parents get them home
on the way, they still glow
with freedom, at home
they close the doors

with infected hands
there is not enough soap
and not enough stock
to keep us at bay

We escape time and time again
nail open new houses
dive inside
and unleash a flood

A stranger passed by,

we had to watch him: he went –


where we dare not go.

A friend asked if my mother had a brogue.
She was forty when she landed here,
She probably did. She must have.
What does a child hear?
I was accustomed to it.
I only heard her voice.
Others no doubt did. Liked the lilt.
I  heard the voice,
Not the accent.

We were like aliens
From parallel worlds
And used to communicate
More through kisses than words.

Made of our hobbies
Fetish of each other.
Nobody could stops us
Not even sisters
Or brothers.

We used to do
Odd customs and professions
And shared the same
Gray melancholic
Music taste.

Oh!
Those eyes had exquisite precious
Like a flying green bird in a cage.

We were on a road trip , on our way to meet the cousins of my father for the first time. I couldnt help but be curious about how they looked like. What they were like.  Year by year I'd discover more family members that I never knew about.

"Mom, they lived in Basrah?"

"Yes , they had."

"Huh..Basrah" I said sarcastically.

"Are they good people?" I asked.

"Yes they are, why wouldnt they be?" She said with a confused look in her eyes.

"When was the last time you saw them?" I asked, not ignoring her question quite much.

"Years ago." I was still confused because she did not number the years.

"How come I didnt meet them when i went to basrah with dad 2 years ago ?" I asked.

"Last time I had seen them myself was before we came to this country." She said.

"8 years." As I realized.

"I dont think so mom. People of iraq changed. A lot. From my latest visit." And perhaps the last visit it would be, I thought.

"Trust me on this dear." "Their father is as elegant and as royal as the head of ministry. He used to manage the biggest hotel in Iraq before he had retired." She said.

Suddenly the old images of iraq flashed in my head, and along came the current image of iraq, The comparison in my head between how great iraq used to be, how rich and beautiful the land Basrah was and how it is all gone. No admiration left, it's all an intricate matter.

The stories I hear about Iraq and the wars and the people of iraq, are close to infinity if you saw the destruction that occurred. The beautiful past, is all we have.

Sometimes, I feel like home doesnt even exist.
"Iraq". Those four letters , it's like thy dont mean anything to me anymore.
A home is a place that holds you, that keeps you warm. When did iraq ever hold me? Other than holding me backwards not forward. Other than leaving the poor cold and the rich hungry too. Where did all the blessings go? Where are the beautiful green lands? The River Tigris and Euphrates ? Helicobacter ?

It's hard to IMAGINE a country with such power, such good , such greatness , such grandeur,  magnificence, fall. But it's even harder, to WATCH it fall , and having nothing in your hands to do about it.

Such blessings, that got destroyed , on the hands of those who envied it once. The enemies destroyed the only thing that I had to believe was home.

"You know mom.. Sometimes I hate Iraq."
"Why?"
"Because it ruined our lives."

Silence filled the car for a couple of moments before anyone spoke. It was true, Iraq did  destroy us along. Iraq ruined our lives and everywhere we went our identiy was exposed but not lived by others. We once had a wealthy country, now the country is dying and the people are shattered. Mother knew it was true, even more than me, because i was just a child who couldnt remember and didnt live half the events mom had to go through. She witnessed it all.


"No one can hate their country dear, it is still your country."

It was true too, wherever I shall go, I will make my country proud, and not just a maybe, one day,Iraq will rise again, and I will have enough faith in my country that it will.
My country is not destroyed, my country lives peacefully in my heart. The people may ruin it, but it will always be as great as it used to be in my eyes.