The Girl from Baghdad by Michelle Nouri

you tomorrow,’ I said, winking at her.
    â€˜See you tomorrow,’ she replied, and immediately added, ‘Listen, if you like, I could pick you up with my driver. We pass in front of your house and it’s a shame for you to have to catch the bus.’
    My dad looked at us, puzzled. The principal had just told him about our fight but, in the short time he was talking to her, Dani and I had already become friends.
    The school was sparkling on the morning of Saddam’s visit; it was meticulously cleaned and decorated. It wasn’t the first time I had seen our leader in person.In elementary school, the Raìs and his entourage would arrive with a truck full of toys – balls, dolls and coloured pencils. And he wasn’t the only powerful figure to visit our school; Saddam’s ministers came too, awarding medals to the best students.
    We were already lined up when the government delegation arrived: first a squad of bodyguards, then Saddam and his ministers. I immediately recognised Tariq Aziz as I used to see him on television; people loved him. Saddam approached the small stage, nodding to the teaching staff. The principal welcomed him with an obsequious bow and invited him to take a seat to watch our exhibition. The Raìs sat on a huge throne-like chair, covered in red velvet.
    We marched up to the stage for the military salute. I moved away from the line, raising the ceremonial flag. I held the flag in my hands with my arms ramrod straight, my body firm and my chin in the air, just as the teachers had taught me. The rolling of the drums reverberated. I delivered the flag to a girl in sixth grade, who tied it to the rope. Then, at the blow of a whistle, we stood to attention, our eyes fixed on the flag. When the flag was hoisted I turned to the Raìs and saluted him. He nodded to me. I had done a good job. I could take my place again.
    Saddam stood up and started talking to the students. He had a deep, energetic voice. He ended by saying,‘The future of our glorious nation is in the hands of the new generation. Persevere with your studies and honour your land!’ At the principal’s signal, we applauded. The Raìs lifted his hand to thank us and sat back down.
    Saddam’s ministers spoke after him, introducing themselves and saluting the students. The Raìs listened attentively, his eyes fixed on us from his throne. I took a good look at him. Even if he seemed like an ordinary person to me, everyone knew he was important. He sat firm. He touched his chin every now and then: a gesture that indicated his authority.
    During the school year we took field trips to the ministries and the palace where Saddam lived and worked. I had already visited the palace when I was in elementary school. There were huge portraits of the Raìs in uniform everywhere on the walls. He looked almost as if he were God in those paintings. Outside, there was a magnificent garden with many fountains and small lakes where swans glided past. Inside, there were massive rooms that one could easily get lost in. The ceilings were so high they echoed every sound and the marble floor shone.

    I would see that palace again many years later, on television. I saw it on the news in my Milan apartment.Saddam’s palace was desecrated by the American army. It was the summer of 2003 and seeing my city destroyed like that was like suffering a blow to the stomach. The palace razed to the ground by the missiles, disoriented people wandering in panic, the streets covered in debris, women forced to cover themselves, dressed in black. Baghdad seemed to have collapsed, to be lost in the gloomy Middle Ages. During my adolescence it had been vibrant and full of life. While I watched, I asked myself what I would have done had I still been there. I too, like many others, would have probably been on the streets. Those Iraqis who survived the war with Iran were hit by the second Gulf War. The regime resisted, but it was the kiss