A Journey That I Will Never Forget

Alfohood, a small village in Nassirya (Southern Iraq), is where my journey started. I was ten years of age. As usual, every morning my mother woke me up to go buy some cheese and fresh milk from my small town’s Bazaar. Then everyone in my house woke up to eat the fresh bread my mother baked every day. One early morning in March 1991, I didn’t wake up by my mother’s peaceful voice, but instead, by a weird sound that shook the earth like an earthquake, except it was harder and almost never stopped. That moment, I thought it was the Day of Judgment. I was really scared and terrified. I didn’t know what was happening.  However, I found myself running with people toward the marshes. Small children and elder people were running with fear. Disabled people were creeping to find shelter that could save their lives. I ran with them, but I realized that my disabled sister would be dead if she stayed home. I ran back to my house, but I found no one home. I continued running toward the marshes. People were getting killed in front of me by missiles and gun shots. It was Saddam’s terrorist army. They were attacking us (the Shia Muslims) because we rose up and asked to be free. We did not want to be dominated by a dictatorship any longer. Saddam’s troops then took over our town after a long battle that lasted for several hours.

I walked back to my house crying and not knowing where my family was. My house was destroyed, and there were a couple of tanks with several soldiers surrounding it. It looked to me that they were looking for my father because he was the leader of the revolution in my town. I asked them with fear with words that could hardly come out of my mouth. “What are you looking for?” I asked. No one wanted to respond to me. They looked at me and laughed. People in town were looking at me like I was an orphan. No one wanted to tell me what was going on. I heard noises and gun shots at the Bazaar area, and I heard people talking about my father. My legs ran toward the Bazaar really fast and my heart was pounding even faster. I knew people were looking at me, but I could not distinguish what they were saying. I don’t even remember if I could hear anything, but my dad’s voice was running through my ears.

From far away, I could see some people gathered, and soldiers were around. I was fearful now. I felt like my legs could not carry me anymore. My body was too heavy to run. My heart was beating faster, and it looked too dark to me even though it was early evening. Whenever I looked at people in the street, they either tilted their heads down or turned around. They did not want to look at me as if I was a criminal. I arrived at the Bazaar, and I found the people surrounding my dad who was tied up against a pillar in the middle of the town. I mumbled my dad‘s name, Allah‘s names and some more words without any order. I did not know if I wanted to scream my anger out or beg them to leave my father alone. With a timid and hopeless voice, I asked them to kill me with him if they insisted. I guess my voice was mute. No one heard me begging or saw me emotionally broken. They shot my father. They killed the voice of freedom. I screamed very loud. I could swear, the whole town heard my angry, hopeless shout, but no one listened to it. I ran to hug my father’s dead body, but the soldiers deprived me from reaching him. I lost my mind and kept running around and looking at people’s faces. I asked them to help me take my dad’s body down. They acted like they did not hear me. They all were afraid to look at me. I felt lonely, and my whole body felt numb.  I had no other choice but to run to the river. I wanted to throw myself into the river and end the suffering, but I thought of my mother and sisters. I ran to my neighbor’s house to hide. Sadly, they did not let me in. Then, I tried a close relative’s house, but they refused to be related to me because they were afraid they would be in trouble if they gave me shelter that night. It was a cold and rainy night. I slept right next to my dad’s body that I dragged home with a blanket later that day. I buried his blessed body in my back yard. I had no food or water. The fact that I could not find my family increased my grief, and no one from my loving neighbors could console me in my tragedy. It was raining very hard, but I did not have a roof to sit under because the devils destroyed half of it and burnt the other part. I felt really sick that I wanted to vomit my heart out. I was praying the whole night to Allah to help me find the rest of my family. I lay next to my dad’s body and hoped to close my eyes and not to open them again, so I could rest in peace with my father in heaven. When the daylight started to appear, I went outside to see if I could hear anything or find something new. I heard two guys talking about seeking refuge at the Allies Forces check point. I did not know those guys; neither did I have an idea of what a refuge was. I asked them with my anxious voice if I could go with them. They agreed because they knew my father, and they knew what happened to him. They covered their faces so they wouldn’t be visible to the public. I did not want to leave my dad’s body behind. I did not want to leave him buried with his clothes in the backyard, but I had to find another way to live. I was full of hope to find my mother and the rest of my family and to tell them what had happened. Perhaps, they would wipe off my tears.

I got in the back of the pickup truck, and they drove about 45 minutes in a muddy road with two strangers. We got to the American checkpoint. We put our hands over our heads and said all together, “Help, no Saddam”. I remember we repeated these same exact words ten or more times. They took us to a shower room and gave us new clothes to change, and they burnt the clothes that we took off. They gave us pillows and blankets and told us that we could rest in a small tent.

At night, I felt very sick. My whole body hurt. I shook and my teeth closed against each other. I thought I was going to die. There was an Iraqi Doctor who worked with the American soldiers. He said I was dying. One American soldier said “No, he is not going to die.” He covered me with a blanket and took me in a helicopter to a hospital in Saudi Arabia. I didn’t know where he was taking me, nor did I know enough English to ask him where he was taking me. We landed in a hospital called Rafha Hospital. I spent nearly two months in that hospital. I was treated and cured from some of my health problems.

They tried to send me back to Iraq, but there was no where they could send me to. I did not have a home or family, so I asked them through an interpreter to send me to a refugee camp that was built for the Iraqis on the Iraqi-Kuwaiti border. I was only ten years of age when I lived alone in a refugee camp in a city called Safwan. There were approximately 55,000 Iraqi refugees in that camp. The camp was protected by Allied Forces Troops.

One morning, I was in a line for water, and I saw someone who looked like my brother. I screamed his name out loud, and he immediately turned around. He made his way through the crowd and hugged me. “I knew you were alive,” was all that he was saying while he was kissing me and embracing me against his chest. He carried me on his shoulders and ran to the tent where my mother stayed. My mother cried when she saw me. She told me people told her that they saw my dead body on the street, and she thought she lost me and my father at the same time.

A week later, the US troops were ordered to leave Iraq and go back to their base in Kuwait. There were 55,000 refugees who opposed Saddam’s government and US protection was leaving them. We heard the Iraqi tanks getting closer to us while the US tanks were withdrawing from our camp. Everyone in the camp, children, older men and women, and young people laid in front of the US tanks. We asked them to either take us away from here or kill us before they leave because we did not want to be killed by Saddam’s troops. We had enough of his humiliation, and we had dignity. I thought our life was counting down. We laid there for eight hours in an extremely hot sun. I remember we were saying, “Yes, yes for freedom!” and “Yes, yes for peace! Down, down with the Baath party!” and “Down, down with Saddam.” I will never forget that day and those words.

Then, the US was ordered to build a refugee camp in Saudi Arabia for us. We called that decision a victory because Saddam’s troops wanted the US troops to leave us alone so they could bury us alive in mass graves.  Along with my family, I went to the Rafha Refugee Camp in Saudi Arabia. The camp was in the desert and surrounded by metal wires so no one could run out of the camp. It was isolated from the world. We did not have TVs or radios, and we were not provided with newspapers. It was a miserable place to reside in. People died of diseases and bad nutrition. Yet, I was still hooked to hope. I could still see candles lighting my dark, scary path.  In 1993 when I was about 13 years old, the United Nations came to interview the refugees, and whoever got accepted was granted asylum to Europe or the US. They said that they were going to come back to the camp in one year to finish their program. My dream got bigger. I started to see light and hope in my future. I knew that I would end up living in either Europe or the US. The first thing I thought about was learning English. I went to a United Nations’ employee and asked him if I could borrow an English book to read. He promised he would bring me some when he went back to town. Three weeks later, he brought me some books to read and cassette tapes to listen to. I started learning English by reading those books, listening to those tapes and memorizing new words.

After a year, the US immigration came to pick up 200 cases out of 45,000 cases. Would my family be that lucky to get chosen out of that big number?  By that time I was almost 15, and I knew English fairly well. I went to the head of the US Immigration Office; his name was Ted. I asked him if I could be a volunteer interpreter. He liked the idea, but he was not sure if my age allowed me to do that. Finally, he agreed for me to help them out after he saw how eager I was to do this job. I worked for four months, and Ted was pleased with the way I worked. He then said, “I need to pay you back the favor.” He told me to bring my family for an interview the following day. I panicked from the excitement. I didn’t know how to express the feeling I had when he told me that. The second day, I brought 22 members of my family, including brothers and sisters, nephews, and nieces. We were interviewed, and we got accepted for an asylum in the US.

San Diego, California, the green land, was the first place to nestle us. It was a big shock, and it was really hard to accommodate at first. Our life seemed to change 180 degrees. However, with our intention, we overcame most of the cultural transition obstacles.

The day Saddam’s government was put down was the happiest day of my entire life. Hanging Saddam in a rope was happier than the day of Eid for me.

Yacoub Aljaffery