Written on a tipsy tight wire to the sounds of Furat Qadduori's "The Hanging Gardens."
Most of the children that day were carrying on secret conversations with the beaten down houses dotting the street. In Baghdad, our homes, palaces of pain and perseverance, are witness to everything that passes through the night, every fight, every bright light, every love at first sight.
The sounds of Mazeeqa and Tabul (trumpet and drum) permeated through the stagnant air, and perfectly articulated the story of my life. A murderous sanctions regime was at its height, and muffled sounds of misery were the only musical notes people heard. The change in rhythm was a welcome breeze, like a cool night of Basrawi watermelon worship. Iraqi dancing is filled with strength and dignity, flowing strongly like the timeless currents of her two rivers, and throwing around its anger, like the clenched fists of millions of her revolutionaries.
The looks of mourning mothers pierced through my privilege with ease that day. Smiles put together to keep entire communities from falling apart, stomped on my heart to the beat of the drums. Celebration, in conditions of extreme oppression, is undeniably, a form of resistance.
Nine years ago, Eid, in Baghdad.