A continuing series by guest author Dr. Dahlia Wasfi
I did not feel resentment from anyone during my brief stay in Iraq. When we arrived at my uncle’s (Ahmed’s father’s) house, I was welcomed with kisses and hugs, overwhelming love and affection.
Though I was meeting my cousins for the very first time, they already knew me, far better than I knew them. My father was a legend in the family and in the neighborhoods of Basra where he grew up and was a teacher and professor. My cousins tracked his life—and the lives of his children in turn—with fond attentiveness. They welcomed me as if they had known me their whole lives.
Despite the desperate situation in Iraq, the novelty of a visit from a long-lost cousin brought everyone joy, myself included. Getting to know each other for the first time, my cousins and I were like little kids, giggling and joking, whether the electricity was working or not.
I was so struck by how thin they all were. “You have no idea what it was like [during the sanctions],” my cousins told me. “We are only alive today because your father helped us.” Even with his support during those years of starvation, my family sold furniture and other belongings to get money for food.
My cousins’ features were familiar to me, because they were similar to mine: olive skin; thick, curly hair (some of them); and a strong Semitic nose (also described as “large.”) But their cheeks were hollowed out, especially on Ahmed’s face. His clothes hung on him limply, like they did on their hangar. His physique was paper thin and his face gaunt, revealing the faint outline of his skull. His appearance reflected years of starvation and war.
To me, his emaciated body was a microcosm for the whole of Iraqi society. The people appeared as if they were newly released from a strangling chokehold. They were laid out, exhausted, gasping to catch their collective breath. Ahmed’s weary, sunken, dark brown eyes held the fear, worry, and pain of all of that suffering, all of those years.