Fire Diary

I gaze up at random bullet holes on the cream-colored exterior. I wonder how many more there were when the war began. If I were in a US airport right now, I would hear the announcement “Do not leave your luggage unattended at any time.” I’m apprehensive at the thought of leaving my baggage here at Baghdad International Airport in a makeshift cement tunnel. 

I stand among fifty confused US civilians divided into three single-file lines. We do as we’re told and leave our luggage behind. The Iraqis direct us out of the dreary, T-wall tunnel and release the K9s to sniff-search our baggage. They pat down each individual. 

A man points at me then gestures to a nearby door where an Iraqi woman sits. The woman wearing a headscarf peers out and waves me over. Although it’s typical for a female to conduct physical security checks on another female, this is the first airport where I’m completely out of sight from the men while being searched. I’m nervous about the seclusion from my group. I creep into a stifling, cordoned-off room while everyone else stays outside. Two women pat me down then wave me off with a warm smile. 

This is my last time leaving Baghdad International Airport (BIAP). I didn’t have to go through all of these extra security steps while passing through two months earlier. This minor inconvenience is only the beginning of a long journey ahead. 

I tread over the white-tiled flooring of the expansive yet empty foyer to retrieve my flight ticket to Dubai. The handsome hazel-eyed man at the ticket counter was the same man I had seen several months earlier while arriving in the country. He was the one who handed me my Iraqi visa, and I remember my attempts to avoid eye contact with him. Back then, I was trying not to stare at him. He gave me more than a glance as well. 

I walk up to the counter and smile at him shyly. 

His eyes meet mine. “You are beautiful,” he comments unexpectedly. 

“You are too!” I pipe back without thinking. 

He hands me my ticket, and I scurry away while debating in my mind whether that was a culturally acceptable response. 

I appreciate the flattery at this moment, as I’m going through some difficult challenges in my personal life. My self-esteem is suffering and I have a lot of unknowns to handle in my future. To add insult to injury, I’m recovering from a horrible haircut from my last stay in Dubai. 

The flight from Baghdad to the United Arab Emirates wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t until I caught my flight from Dubai to London that my morning nausea turned into sporadic vomiting and several unanticipated trips to the bathroom. I decide to keep a paper receptacle close by for the remaining trek as I continue westbound to the other side of the globe. 

Bittersweet emotions are at a pinnacle as I reflect on my recent adventures. Over just a few short years, I’ve sustained an intimate encounter with life in ways that make me feel as if a decade has passed. Depression, death, trauma, religion, travel, culture, war, peace, rejection, life, and love—as a young and somewhat naïve woman from small-town USA, I didn’t anticipate that I would’ve become acquainted with topics of such magnitude. I’ve been challenged from more recent events, yet any pain I feel is a miraculous motivation to my soul.