So I Left
by chikitita
When it was time for me to leave the place where I have lived all my 28 years, I couldn’t help wondering what exactly am I going to miss. Now that it has been almost two months away from home, I think the picture could not be any clearer.
Maybe it’s premature for me to tell, but I can say my friends’ premonitions that the sense of security outside Iraq would be enough solace proved to be nonsense. On the contrary, it added up to my sense of guilt for leaving my loved ones, my whole life and past behind.
Everybody was telling me you should be thankful for the simple fact that you are in an Arabic speaking country, where it is easy to communicate. But the thing is communication has never been a problem. I found it pretty funny that I managed to talk to Europeans on their own turf, without using a word of their language or mine, or even English.
My background is supposed to have a lot of things in common with this new country. But why nothing is strong enough to wax the nostalgia! I felt sorry that I could only find Baghdad in my heart and head and tongue, but not in my surroundings. I was told I would bump into an awful lot of Iraqis here, so I started to search the faces, and listen hard, hopefully my affable dialect, which everybody makes fun of here, could find its way to my yearning ear, but I found nothing!
Our politicians are as stupid as theirs. Our people are as nice as theirs - though they smile more often than we do. I could almost relate to those people; they know how it feels to be under ruthless shelling or how to lose a loved one, but sadly still I could not feel home and I know I will not.
People want to break the ice, my accent seems to be the best thing to start a friendly conversation, “Oh poor you!” they’d say, not a friendly start I’m afraid but I let it pass and I go “No, poor YOU actually!”
A cab driver once told me, oh I’m sure you have fled your ravaged country and wanted a peaceful place. Our country is beautiful [not like yours]. This is when the evil aggressive me shows up. First off, I didn’t flee, had it not been my job I’d take the first plane and fly back home and would not be any happier. Secondly, trash-strewn or spotless, lush or arid, my country is more beautiful in my eyes than yours, because there in my country we spoke the same language, we all talked petrol, ration cards, car bombs, power outages, tomato prices, the greedy generator keeper, the scary commandos, the wretched phone company, water cuts, new killings, those stupid Humvees lurking nearby.
I have had some moments or maybe hours of depression knowing that my family, friends and compatriots will hear the sounds of gunshots and bombings but I will not be there with them to share their fears and prayers. I was so gutted when my friend said a new word; it has been barely two months and they have coined new words already. I hate the fact that back home I am somebody’s cousin, mama’s high school friend, co-worker, friend, classmate, but here… I’m the newbie from that crazy country you’ve seen on CNN.