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of mosquitoes, a jungle of weeds and grass taller than me. This place had witnessed the end of the world.
    We used plastic sheets made from the same material used for refugee tents to set up partitions, dividing the hall into different sections for men and women. Then we were given metal camp beds that we opened and slept on. It was hot and the bugs flying in from the stagnant lake sucked our blood. Still, I was happy to be sleeping in a bed.
    In the afternoon the company’s representative finally arrived. Where were you, man? He was apologetic as he welcomed us, went over our names and informed us that we’d be staying in the palace for a few days. We were to await instructions with regard to the assigned locations for the different members of the group. Well, there was no rush. All I was really after was a way to send my emails to Calvin and Jason.
    I spent the day in the women’s section and enjoyed the makeshift shower that would later turn into a fondly remembered luxury. The shower consisted of a curtain behind which you stepped, when your turn came, with a bar of soap and a jug to bathe with water that we filled from a big container. I learned how to pile my dirty clothes under my feet and tread them clean as I showered. Bathing and laundry combined. Soon there’d be no end to my multitasking abilities.
    That first evening, I had no urge to wander around the palace. Destruction doesn’t trigger my curiosity. There was nothing but scattered metal beds on which soldiers slept. I was dressed like them but hadn’t yet gotten used to mixing with them. Still, the day ended with a pleasant little surprise. Dinner arrived in bags from the Semiramis Restaurant in the Dawra district. I found out from the young man who brought us the kebabs that it was a restaurant owned by an Assyrian guy. Welcome to the dear cousins!
    By the fourth day, we’d all had enough. Finally, the handsome major came with the instructions we’d been waiting for. He said we would all be sent in a military convoy to Tikrit.
    ‘Tikrit? Saddam’s city? They must be kidding! What kind of dog’s chance is that?’
    Of all members of the group, Lebanese Rula and Egyptian Nadia seemed least concerned to learn of our transfer to Tikrit. Neither of them had heard of the city before, and they didn’t know what it meant for Iraqis. So while we were all complaining, the two of them remained calm. The major ignored our protests. He knew they were empty. There wasn’t a soldier who wouldn’t feel special being sent to serve in Tikrit, the city that could raise her children to the highest heaven or cast them underground to the depths of hell.
    The major told us to get ready. We gathered our things, which were taken by soldiers, chucked onto two trucks and covered with a sheet. I climbed into the back of one of the trucks. Three armed soldiers rode with us, and armoured vehicles accompanied us, one in front and two behind, a helmet and a machine gun peering out of each.
    The hot air stealing in through the gaps in the cover hit our faces and the dust burned our eyes. Still, I wanted to see everything. And what I saw, as we crossed parts of Baghdad, were ruins that I had never seen the likes of before. The debris blown by the wind from the burning, crumbling buildings was evocative of the ash that had rained over New York on that painful 11th of September. Pain could only lead to pain, and destruction to equal destruction. Or that was what I thought in my early naïve days.
    ‘This is Samarra.’ An involuntary cry escaped me as the spiral minaret appeared on the horizon. I remembered my personal history in that place. The school trips, the sixth-grade girls with the plaits and white ribbons, the dancing circles to the tune of popular songs under the gaze of Ma Soeur Madeleine, the French nun who was like a surveillance tower watching over us. The egg and mango pickle rolls wrapped in aluminium foil. Was that why those days shone like silver in my memory?
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