[Note from Kathie Malley-Morrison: Today we begin our serialization of excerpts from Dahlia Wasfi’s upcoming book on the invasion and occupation of Iraq from her perspective as the daughter of an American Jewish mother and an Iraqi Muslim father.]
“Dahlia, come here,” my father called.
The resignation in his voice told me that something was wrong.
On the east coast of the United States, it was 7 p.m., January 16, 1991. In Iraq—my father’s birthplace—it was 3 a.m. the following day. I was upstairs in my parents’ house in Delaware, during winter break of my sophomore year at Swarthmore College.
When I heard his sad command, I tiptoed to the balcony overlooking the family room. I thought that if I stepped delicately enough, nothing would be disturbed when I reached my father. My efforts were futile. Peering over the railing, I saw him standing by the television.
“They started bombing,” he said. The assault of Gulf War I had begun.
I looked down to my father over the banister with helpless despair. He looked into the television screen with helpless despair. I wanted to reach down into the TV and stop what was happening, maybe even stop time until I could figure out a solution. But I could only stand motionless, frozen at the balcony, trying to process what was happening.
Even as I tell this story years later, my stomach churns as it did that day, for the hopelessness and helplessness of that moment. Fear and sadness instantly overcame me.
My relatives were among the millions of Iraqis who had no say in their government’s actions, but who would pay dearly at the hands of the most powerful military in the world. I couldn’t help my dad. I couldn’t help my family.
Moments later, once the initial shock of the news passed, I found myself nervously humming. I soon realized the song was R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It.” For me, it was.