When I was barely five years of age, my parents moved back form the lush and wonderful heart of the English Countryside, the beguiling historic little town of Guildford where I was born, to their native country of Iraq. By then my father had earned his Ph.D. from Surrey University, and as planned, swiftly moved us back to claim his position as a professor of civil engineering in Bagdad University, he was no doubt filled with pride and a sense of accomplishment with his achievement and very much looked forward to a life he had envisaged, a stable firm-footed and comfortable one amongst Baghdad’s western educated middle-class. And from the outset, that vision appeared to be rolling on the right tracks. Despite the obvious and inescapable stench of tyranny that had overwhelmed Iraq and turned it into a bonafide police state, with a sociopath at the helm. At my age at the time, I had no idea of what a political system was, nor what it meant to lose one’s most prised position, one’s freedom of expression, and in Iraq’s case it was most certainly one’s FREEDOM, as the state and its various apparatus had infiltrated and managed every aspect of individual life, truly epitomising an Orwellian state of affair only those unfortunate enough to have tasted the bitterness of a metastasised despotism can appreciate the type of society it creates. As I come to realise and begrudgingly accept my new home, my new life, even then I appreciated that the people whom I am now amongst not only looked different (ethnically speaking) but spoke and behaved drastically different from what I’ve come to accept as familiar, I remember throwing quite the tantrum when I told my Grandmother that I would like to drink my tea in the Yellow cup, and she could not tell which colour is Yellow, the poor soul, she had to learn the colours in English so not upset me in the future, and yes I do recognise I was a spoilt little so and so.. Unfortunately, I was far too young at the time to voice my objections to this arbitrary uprooting and replanting into this rather alien environment, nor did I possess the faintest clue to articulate how I truly felt about this abrupt change of all that surrounded me. But I knew one thing as my faded memory serves me, I knew that I am missing my beloved Guildford dearly, its cobbled High Street and the sweet section at Woolworths, my play ground and our little house on the hill, I’ve come to miss my birthplace, as one would instinctively do with an ache that coursed through me and a sense of loss that had no place in a child’s heart. My parents assumed that a five year old boy would have no challenge assimilating to a new home, after all it’s his “ancestral” one, therefore, it is a natural process to fit into this culture, to grow within the core of this society as most do, so I hardly believe, that my parents have ever considered that their assumption has missed its target by light year, and that I would spend the next portion of my life on the fringes of my cultural environment, utterly refusing to even acknowledge my life there, other than an imposed incarceration on both my physical being and my consciousness. As my years rolled and my capacity to grasp and understand my environment, my longing to return to what I considered my natural habitat has started to fuel my ever growing resentment of Iraq and every aspect that came with a life wasted in it, I was overwhelmed with the indignation of having not chosen this life, and being totally denied the chance to rectify this injustice. As I recall, I did not miss an opportunity to blame my parents of the state of despair I was in, directly resulting from their myopic decision to willingly and eagerly return to this cursed land.. Clearly at that age, cruelty to one’s parents was somehow tolerated, frustratingly, I don’t believe I was being taken at all seriously.
At that stage I knew becoming a Howard Hughes type of recluse was not an option for me, and though I resented and often voiced my incompatibility with Iraq, I gradually started to form these nebulas affiliations with my environment, I reasoned, out there lies this world awaiting to be discovered and experienced, I was as I recall, curious and willing to venture out into this urban wilderness, so I did. However, my resentment did not go away, but rather had occasionally faded into the background, to allow for my other senses to function. Nevertheless, Iraq’s environment and its harsh nature, was kind enough to remind me of my transient state of existing in it, and often, I get jolted with stark reminder of how I’ll never fit in this particular society and how I could not accept its way of life, its “moral code” and the utter lack of respect for individualism, originality and personal freedom. Those who knew me back then will attest to how I fought tooth and nail against these cultural values which I detested with all my heart. Reading my words I am too aware of the appearance of my writing, as if I am attacking Iraqi culture and way of life, however, my true objective is to highlight how ill fitting it was to my mentality, and my subsequent anger that I have felt throughout my early life. The years kept passing and my smouldering desire kept me focused in one direction, the one which had me turned away form this wretched land and facing the horizon, on a journey where my real life begins and this paper mâché ends. This day finally came when I’ve graduated high school, and despite my boyish looks (being a late bloomer) I somehow convinced my parents to let me go, whether I made a convincing argument or I may have threatened them with biblical plagues akin to Moses’s threat to the Pharaoh when he demanded to let his people go. I was finally free, free to peruse a life of freedom away from the whimsical reach and lunacy of Saddam’s dystopia, free to express myself as I wish, free to simply be.
Into the clutches of my beloved Blighty, and the life afforded to its citizens, a polar opposite of what I grew up unwillingly immersed in.. I had neither the funds nor a family shelter, I was on my own with little life experience to fend for myself with, and by all accounts I should’ve been paralysed with fear, yet I was overwhelmed with joy and optimism, it felt like I have just began my life and what lied behind is now behind, it’s neither relevant nor worth remembering. I assumed that since I was such a misfit in Iraq, I would organically and effortlessly fit into English society, but I was mistaken, my assumption has been misplaced, and did not account for the obvious gap in my cultural upbringing, and that missing crucial part of early life, which enable us to fully fit into a culture. Mainly, schooling a significant contributor to one’s signature traits, accent and so forth, which I have clearly missed. And with that realisation, I sought to find an alternative narrative to my dilemma, yes I was a misfit in Iraq, and here I am in England, fitting rather well, yet not an obvious native to the land, despite my absolute conviction in my heart of hears that I am English, alas, I am missing the essence of Englishness that I’ve noticed in both how I project myself and how I’m perceived by others. It is by no means an advantageous position when it comes to melting into a social gathering or interviewing for a job, as I sometimes take a bet with myself, to when a person I just met, will ask about where I am from?
My complexions are not an obvious give-away and my accent only adds to the confusion, their guess will wildly vary and it is amusing at times, however, it does get old on occasions, especially when I’m asked “where would you consider home is!” Of course to me home has, is and will always be England, yet here I am, today tapping away on my iPad noting down my thoughts in a coffee shop in Abu Dhabi where I’ve been living for just over a year. I have come to accept, that I am indeed a cultural nomad, free to roam the lands with ease and a higher than average disposition to experience other cultures, there is a noticeable contentment with which I tend assimilate into different environments without having to lay down deep roots, as I often do. I have also embraced my description of being a cultural hybrid, and concluded that one’s cultural identity does not necessary reside in either a Black or White domain, but rather it can comfortably oscillate within the vast Greyness that separates Black and White.
My final thought is a inspired by the Shawshank Redemption, which originally inspired this assay.
“Living in Iraq was my own Shawshank, and like Andy I did not get institutionalised.”
A journey inward 