In the 5th grade, I remember having a picture of Saddam Hussein on the door of my room. It was covered in pen marks, made during my moments of anger and frustration. Alongside the picture was an article on an atrocity, one of many, committed by his brutal regime. It was my way of showing the hatred I felt towards the monsters wielding power in Iraq. I did not quite understand the dynamics of Iraqi politics, let alone Middle East politics, but I knew the lives of Iraqis to be one of no political openness and no freedom of speech. A constant fear emanated from Iraqis who knew the consequences of relating their opinions of the government.

The frequent visits to my grandparent’s house in Laguna often included me spending the night, asking my grandmother to “goolee qusa haqiqia,” tell me a true story! I would always ask to hear about the country I was originally from, but never had the chance to see for myself. She would always tell me of her childhood in Iraq, how hot it would get at night and, on those particularly hot days, how she and her sisters would sleep on the roof. She told me happy stories, as well as an equal amount of disturbing ones. One that really kept me up at night was the story of a little girl who was in preschool. Saddam Hussein was visiting the school and, when he approached the little girl, she told him that her dad spat on his face whenever it appeared on TV. The following day, Saddam’s secret police were at the door of this little girl’s house; they shot her father in front of both her and her mother.

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