Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 76 Page 77 Page 78 Page 79 Page 80 Page 81 Page 82 Page 83 Page 8456 Plough Quarterly • Winter 2017 to cry, but I was afraid the other kids would make fun of me. Holding back tears, I walked to the front of the classroom and held out the peanut butter sand- wich with one hand and the banana with the other. I was trying to ask the teacher for permission not to eat the sandwich. I motioned with both hands, trying to ask if I could have the banana without the sandwich. The teacher thought I wanted the sandwich but not the banana. So she took the banana and left me with the peanut butter sandwich. I went and sat down, tears streaming down my face. The internal turmoil of those years has never left me. It has shaped me and informed how I view human identity and immigration. Soon after arriving in California, my parents found jobs. With no close relatives or family friends nearby to watch us, my sister and I became latchkey kids. During the summers, the library was our nanny. In the fourth grade at Raymond Elementary School, I struggled to understand the teacher and my peers. One scene is burned into my memory – the teacher sitting in the front of the classroom on a stool and reading from a book. For a few moments, time stood still and my soul rested from its turmoil. I didn’t under- stand a word that was read, but I memorized the picture on the front; it was Charlotte’s Web. I devoured it as soon as I could read English for myself. Reading saved my life; it continues to do so. My Country My Enemy? When the Iran hostage crisis happened, my father lamented that the problems of the Middle East had followed us to America. My parents warned us not to say we were from Iraq, lest people would think we supported what was happening, which we obviously did not. “Just say you’re from Greece if anyone asks,” they told us. When the eight-year Iran- Iraq War broke out in 1980, my parents were relieved that we lived in America. My father had been spared from being drafted into the army. Another family member, however, was sent to the front lines. Phone calls for updates were brief and carefully worded – you never knew who was listening, and everyone in the country lived in fear of Saddam Hussein’s gov- ernment. We heard reports of schoolchildren tricked into informing on their parents, and anyone who spoke out against Saddam could be imprisoned or killed. In 1990, Saddam invaded Kuwait. And then came January 16, 1991, the day my naturalized country, America, invaded the country of my birth and heritage, Iraq. It was the most dis- sonant moment of my life. I wept. I prayed that my beloved family members would survive. I felt my dual identity being tested. Once again, my family became fearful that others would judge us if they knew we were Iraqis. We tried to avoid saying where we were from when in mixed company. Yet, even among other people from our homeland, we weren’t free from conflict. Every time we gathered with other Iraqi friends, arguments would break out: “It’s Saddam’s fault, he deserves it!” “No, it was the Americans who made him their pawn in the A US soldier frisks an elderly Iraqi during the 1991 invasion. Photograph © Johnny Saunderson / Alamy Stock Photo