by Noor Alhuda Aljawad

I was born in Southern California in late August 1991, a year and a few weeks after Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait. I say Saddam’s invasion, and not Iraq’s, because every Iraqi person I have ever known, be they family members or friends, opposed what my great aunt Raja’ described as اعتداء, an act of aggression. Community members I grew up with, largely anti-Ba’ath middle class professionals who migrated to the United States throughout the 1980s and 90s, never take ownership of Saddam’s decisions when they are discussed; it was him, unhinged and stupid, who forced the Iraqi people to undergo one catastrophe after another. And in this particular catastrophe, he took the United States' bait: an economic war on Iraq by Kuwait, per US counsel, and an official representatives’ word that the US had “no opinion” about this “internal” affair.

It was this internal affair-turned-multinational warfare that stripped my paternal grandfather of any remaining hope that he and his family could continue living in Iraq. He preferred to stay, as he enjoyed his life there; he was passionate about serving his community as a pediatric doctor, treating 60 patients a day, often pro bono. But just when he thought he and his family could be at ease in the homeland, with the end of the eight-year-long war between Iraq and Iran, Saddam plunged the people back into combat. My grandfather became one of many professionals who left the country in what is referred to as a “brain drain,” reducing the country’s long-term prognosis for recovery.

The narrative among family and friends today continues to reflect a dire cynicism: the Iraqi people are oppressed, enduring one tragedy after another, and it never ends. First it was the Ba’ath regime, followed by the war with Iran, the invasion of Kuwait, the thirteen-year-long sanctions, the US invasion in 2003 and subsequent occupation that arguably endures today. Consistent across these conversations about these various events was the conclusive analysis: “كله صوج صدام” (It is all Saddam’s fault). Indeed, I grew up on that, that it was Saddam who prevented us from being where we were supposed to be. This made it feel all the more painful that we were here, in the United States, instead.

I was nine when 9/11 happened and twelve when the US invaded Iraq in 2003. Until I left for university at the age of eighteen, the hostility I experienced in Orange County was relentless. From comments from bus drivers to middle and high school administrators, teachers and peers, at school and on the internet, I was in perpetual defense of my identity and personhood, and my family. Who we are. Who we are not. Barrages of ignorance and hate kept piling up, closing in around me. I fought to maintain a sense of love for myself and my people even as voices of intolerance and hate threatened to sink me. I could not so much as correct a misconception about Islam without being accused of scheming conversion. I still remember that particular incident: I was sixteen, and volunteered at a local poll site. A middle-aged woman and fellow volunteer had voiced a misconception about Islam. When I corrected her, her face contorted with fear and her voice was shrill in my ear: “Don’t you try to convert me!”

It was this and countless other incidents that led me to build a defensive shield put together with things like Malcolm X’s autobiography and information memorized, practically verbatim, from websites I desperately clung to: Countercurrents, Democracy Now!, and Third World Traveler. I clung to them like they were my Qur’an, and I cited the information to any and all who would assault me with their racism. I learned to be ready. The alternative would be to believe them and to let them believe their lies about me.

In my freshman year of high school, my English teacher talked about Saddam’s invasion of Kuwait. Talking about “us” - Arabs, Muslims, those evil people over there - did not require qualification. It was accepted as legitimate commentary, the national context either informing or trumping the class curriculum. I could feel my teacher’s glances on me, perhaps looking to see if I had something to say.

I did.

I promptly raised my hand and informed him that, prior to the invasion, Saddam was given the green light by the United States. This is what I heard at home. Years later, I also learned that the US Ambassador to Iraq, April Glaspie, had given Saddam the go-ahead to invade Kuwait.

My teeth clenched when I finished my spiel and I felt a tightness in my stomach, as I always did after speaking my truth. I could feel my peers looking at me, but I kept my eyes steadfast on my teacher. I was used to this. I had done this so many times that my voice did not shake quite so much anymore.

Not too many summers prior, I was crying quiet tears in a corner as a teacher had described to the class a twisted narrative of Israel’s bombing of Lebanon in 2006. I had remained quiet at that time, too overwhelmed with pain and anger to speak. I felt choked, and only hoped the teacher would notice his impact on me. He never did, and I promised myself I would never again wait in silence to be noticed. I promised myself that, even with pain and anger gripping me, I would be ready next time. That I would speak the truth, even if my voice shakes.

Noor Alhuda Aljawad was raised by Iraqi immigrants in Southern California. She is a therapist at a substance abuse and mental health treatment center. Aljawad is passionate about providing mental health services to her community and is a member of the Iraqi Narratives Project, an oral history project that aims to document and archive the life experiences of Iraqis in diaspora.

 The banner image of Iraq is by Agreen and downloaded from unsplash.com