Survival of Abu-Ghraib Jail

This entry is part 8 of 10 in the series Survival of Abu-Ghraib Jail

Dr. Ala Musa Hasan | Exclusive to iKurd.net

Banishment from our own motherland

For many decades, the Faili Kurds people lived in their own homeland Iraq like a strangers without identity and nationality, and for many years they felt like that they are an outsider and a burdened on the society.

They did and still continue facing a mounting flood of discriminatory laws and restrictive policies regarding their identity and nationality status. Because they were a Faili Kurds by ethnicity and a Shiite Muslim by faith, and these two undesirable character’s wasn’t sitting well with Saddam and his Baath Party, because Saddam didn’t like either one of them.

These unfair discrimination and unjust policies used to convoying them all the time at their workplaces, shopping molls, school facilities, public places, and their place of resident and socialization. For all the years that they lived in their own motherland Iraq, they felt like an alien, a stranger, and a heavy load on the he recalls bitterly society, even when they were productive members of its civilization and they participated in Iraq’s political and economic sectors.

When we left the Department of General Security in Baghdad to the boarders of Iraq and Iran, we were all soundless inside the bus, and we didn’t communicate with each other at all. I was sitting by the window behind the driver and I was looking through the window at Baghdad’s streets, buildings, stores, and its trees.

It was about 1:30 in the morning, and it was a very quiet town. Yes, I was so happy to leave the jail facility, its harassment, and its fear, and to be united with my family, but I was also sad to leave my homeland, my recognized social network, my school, my home, and my friends, to mysterious country, people, and social system that I have no clue about.

Every corner of the streets that our buses used to turn to, there were two or three security unit’s cars waiting for us to pass. While I was on the bus, I saw myself passing my grandparents street at Al-Atifiah area, and through the metal Bridge not too long, our bus past my own house street near the Al-Mostanseriaa University and I took a very good look at it and asked myself this question, “Would I ever see my home and friends again? And, “Would I ever be able to come back to my own motherland again? I did not know how long this deportation will last and if this thing is a temporary or a permanent leave.

It was a very quiet and partially cloudy and little chilly night and we were headed toward the city of Khanaqeen. While we were driving around, I had my life events playing before my eyes like a movie and I recalled every childhood memory that I had in my own city and any other places or towns that we went by.

It was a very painful moment to be at when you are forced to disconnect yourself from your own homeland, your friends, your extended families, your neighbors, your childhood memories, and my three brilliant cats that I haven’t see since my incarceration.

A home means a lot for me, and it can means a lot of different things too many different people. For many people it could be the meaningful possessions with which they fill their homes and lives with, or maybe it could be the place where your family is all living under one roof, building and making memories together. It was very painful for me to leave everything that I had and familiar with to unknown and scary journey that I haven’t plan for.

When we passed the city of Khanaqeen, the bus turned off its lights and turned on its red lights only and it was headed toward the boarders of Iraq and Iran. After a lengthily time of driving, the bus finally stopped at a military camp filled with many Iraqi soldiers and we got dropped there.

Once I walked inside that camp, I saw many Faili and non-Faili families with children that were incarcerated there, and the entire military ground was very filthy and there was no bathrooms and if someone had to go for number one or two of nature call, that person was forced to do it right there in the presence of all people including women and children.

They placed us in a very inhumane condition worse than animals. It was about 3:30 in the morning and we had to sit around under that dreadful condition until the morning.

Around six in the morning, they asked us to line up in order to get on the military trucks so we can be deported to Iran. I was sitting inside the army truck along with many hundreds of Faili Kurds youths and families, going to the Iraqi’s /Iranian’s boarder.

After about 30 minutes, the military trucks stopped and dropped us at the boarder. The military officer pointed his hand toward Iran, and he told us that is your country and that is where you guys should be headed, and if anyone of you comes back this way, we will shoot you.

When I was standing at the boarder, I felt so sad because this is where my life journey in Iraq ends and my unknown and chilling journey of Iran started. While I was standing at the Iraqi boarder, I was a man without identity and nationality.

I was no one, I felt like I don’t belong to any country or nation that would defend and protect my interest, my life, my identity, my rights, and my ethnicity. I felt like a stranger without a home, nation, people, friends, community, and social network. It felt so sad to be a foreigner in my own motherland and to be disconnected from my homeland, my people, and nationality. It felt like a fish that was taking out from the water.

Dr. Ala Musa Hasan, a Canada-based Faili Kurd, PHD Candidates in Clinical Psychology.

The opinions are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of iKurd.net or its editors.