There was a mother, a sister and seemingly a brother. They cocooned one person, a young man in my age. Next to him were two huge black suitcases, a hand bag and a line of dozens of people waiting to be checked in. It was August 23rd, but the year was 2006. The place was the gloomy Alia Airport in Amman, Jordan. Time was moving slowly, like a turtle wrestling to reach its destination. Standing two feet away from this young man, Omar and I looked miserably sad. Resting our heavy luggage on the floor, I needed to lift them again and take them back to where I bought them. That was it, time to leave. Time to soar high. Time to leave twenty years of happiness and sadness behind.
We were alone. Tow Iraqis standing alone. No one to hug them. No one to tell them good-bye. No one to wipe their farewell tears. What made it harder was the man’s family farewelling him. His mother raised her hands towards her son’s head. He bent down to kiss her cheeks and mix his tears with hers. How I envied him at the moment. How lonely I felt for not being able to wipe my lonely mother’s tears in Baghdad. How hard it was for me to leave without having her hug me and kiss me good-bye. I looked around. Nothing was clear. My tears created a filter, like a zigzagged glass we put for the bathroom windows. Everything became dark, nothing but seeing myself alone in a railway road. A scary night, a black sky without a moon, a severe whistling wind, an owl screaming in the darkness to reach her prey, a wolf on a mountain edge, and a desert breeze chilling my spine. Then a cell phone ringtone, a vibration. Abu S’s name appeared on the screen. Without a second second, I pressed the green headset-shaped answering button, and said “Abu S. That’s it. We are leaving.” These were the last two sentences I recall saying all the time on the phone. I felt mute, unable to function. I thanked God he called. He is not only a friend. He is family, a brother, a father and everything. His love, passion, brotherhood embraced me when we worked together at the newspaper’s office. His voice compensated my feelings. Unable to look at me in this shape, Omar turned his face towards the crowd. I passed the phone to him. His face was red, with tears cutting his cheeks like a bomb-broken piece of glass.
We passed the line, checked in and walked towards the gate. With every step I walked, I recalled lurid memories of twenty five years of my life: running away from the Baathists who wanted to force my father join the people’s army, years of prosperity, years of sanctions, wars, years of hardships, of success, years I spent at work writing, covering news, talking to people on stretchers, watching piles of bodies, cut legs, burned and smashed heads, years of elections, referendum, polling centers, slogans, demonstrations, freedom, torture, loss. I recalled Baghdad and every street in it, every building I saw, every car I passed by, every child’s smile, every elderly’s wisdom, every woman’s struggle, and every man’s will and strength. What would your fate be, Oh Baghdad, I said. Would you restore your beauty? If not for me, for the new generation? She never betrayed me. She was my Baghdad. Mine, my everything. She was the city that surrounded me with love, happiness and success. How fair was it to leave her like this? I farwelled these memories, my entity, my roots and looked forward. That past I good-byed made me stand on my feet, made me look onward to the future.
An entire new chapter of my life started when the plane landed. A brand new chapter, an ambiguous one, but a hopeful one. As my feet cleaved its way towards the airport gate in DC, America’s own doors were opened. A tall, sharp, and dangerously beautiful woman was waiting for me. As tall as and as quintessential as the Statue of Liberty, wearing a beautiful white dress with stars and red stripes flowing on her beautiful body, America stood in front of me. A bona fide smile, a big one and a hug followed. “Welcome to America,” she said. “Come to my folds.” With confident steps, I walked. Faster and faster and faster. Until we became close. “Make yourself home,” she said as she hugged me. “Thank you America,” I said. “I came seeking your help.”
“You’ll find here, my friend. You’ll find it here.” She said.
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