Life in Iraq – as witnessed by my uncle

Abu Omar looked exactly the same to me. He was the same height, the same weight, wore similar aviator sunglasses, a white skull cap on his round head. My favourite uncle, whom I had not seen since I was six years old, even smelt the same.

And here I was, a grown woman more than 20 years later, running towards him through a park in Baghdad overlooking the Tigris to jump back into his arms for one of his big hugs. Reunions on TV always make me cry, but I was too overjoyed to think about tears. Abu Omar was my most favourite uncle and I was in his arms again. I felt as if I had turned a corner.

He arrived with his younger brother’s family – people I had never met before but who embraced me as warmly as though we had been apart just a few months. We all walked along, arm in arm, enjoying a quiet, sunny Friday afternoon near the Green Zone, all of us with a barrage of questions for each other. They wanted to know: how is your mother, their younger sister? Your sisters? Your nieces? Your dad? Why are you in Baghdad anyway?

I wanted to know how they were surviving. My uncles didn’t waste any time telling me about their experiences.

One time a bomb exploded in Abu Omar’s neighbourhood and blasted a hole through his flat. He was very concerned about a bird he kept in a cage. “It just broke in two, the poor thing,” he said sadly. Another time he found himself sitting drinking tea with a friend in front of a shop next to his flat when a man carrying a gun parked in front of them and walked right out. My uncle sprang up and hid behind a broken fridge. When the shooting stopped, he peeked out and saw his friend had been killed in the attack. He sold his apartment and moved to a different part of the city shortly afterwards.

My uncle’s wife was shot in the leg at a predominantly Shiite market. She said people were too scared to help her and left her to bleed on the street. She had to crawl to a shop, where she hailed a taxi to take her to a hospital. She pulls up her trouser leg to show me a scar.

I can’t believe the stories I am hearing. My teenage cousins giggle to each other when they see how shocked I am at each senseless act of violence. They tell me it is normal to wake in the morning and hear that the baker or the butcher or the grocery store owner has disappeared – killed, his body found, or lost.

Talking with others during my stay in Baghdad, Iraqis as well as the reporters who are trying to cover events in the country, I realise that these experiences are the way of life here.

It pained me to see that the man who once spoiled me as a child had to go through this. Even after listening to these harrowing tales, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of hope. My uncles said they felt safer using public transportation in the city these days. They were able to go out in the evenings and take their children to parks. And as we sat outside enjoying the sun, we were able to laugh more than mourn. I also heard about my mother – how she behaved as a child, her relationship with her siblings and how much they loved her. I also heard stories about my father, their brother-in-law.

I later talked to my parents on the phone; I was eager to tell my family back in Canada about my meeting. It was an emotional moment, but after hanging up, I was overwhelmed by the realisation of how much closer I felt to my parents now that I have seen where they come from. After years of explaining to friends that I am originally from Iraq, I finally know what that means.

I travel back to Cairo tomorrow, eager to reach my flat and my friends. I look forward to walking the city’s streets at night and taking a taxi without a chaperone. But I also look forward to coming back to a changing Iraq. I believe the country will have a lot to offer the world in the years to come.

Hadeel al Shalchi is a writer for the Associated Press based in Cairo.