My earliest memories of Iraq aren’t really mine. They are stolen from family who have told me about our experiences of war. Born in Baghdad during the Iran-Iraq war, my scant childhood memories centre around fear. My mum tells me that as a toddler I would sleep with my fingers in my ears because the bombing was so loud, I would play hide and seek with my cousins during the constant blackouts, and I would sit by the door waiting for my dad to come home because he was serving in the army. It wasn’t until the next period of turmoil, the First Gulf War, that we would leave Baghdad for good. I was three or four, unaware that I was fleeing the life I knew for a safer one in
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