‘My Mother’

It’s 11 o’clock. The morning sun is gaining strength. Pigeons swoop overhead. The sound of a muezzin calling Muslims to prayer drifts from a minaret across the Baghdad skyline.

Amar stands in the shade of a palm tree, to protect his scarred skin. He rearranges the collar of his new shirt. The moment of the reunion has finally arrived.

“The purpose of this journey has been purely for her. Purely for the woman.” He pauses to correct himself. “My mother, I should say. I’ve got to get used to saying that word. Mother. My mother.”

Amar has chosen to meet her in the garden of the BBC offices in Baghdad. It is a quiet, enclosed space - hidden from the bustle and business of city life.

He hears an engine approaching. A car door slams. Footsteps shuffle down the path towards him. The garden gate opens. The outline of a woman appears. She is dressed in a long black chador cloak with a hijab around her head.

“Mother. My mother.”

“Amauri. Amauri,” she calls. My little Amar. You can sense the utter disbelief in her breaking voice.

Arms oustretched, mother and son collapse into one another. They hold on firmly. Not letting go.

They stroke one another. Kiss one another. Stare at one another’s faces. They whisper reassurances. Repeat one another’s names. But there are few other words. None are needed.

Zahra softly runs her fingers over the scars on Amar’s face. Then she pats her son’s arms and legs up and down. She examines his hands.

She tells him she is looking for signs of injuries. She thought he would be unable to walk. She expected him to have more severe physical disabilities as a result of his burns. But here he stands, hugging her.

Without thinking about it, the Arabic language Amar thought he’d forgotten suddenly returns.

Zahra: You are my lion. My son.

Amar: I am your son.

Zahra: Do you remember me? I’m your mother. I raised you…

Amar: Of course you did.

Zahra: Look. This is my son. My brave boy. Oh God, you’ve brought me my son. Please don’t take him away.

Amar: No, no-one will take me away. It’s all in the hands of God.

Zahra: It’s fate, my darling. It’s God’s will. I can’t believe it, I’ve seen my son. Amar. I’ve seen my little boy, Amar.

Watching from a short distance away, it’s remarkable just how naturally and comfortably the pair interact. He forgets all his concerns about showing emotion.

The connection - the love - that he worried would be absent couldn’t be more obvious. His feelings are unlocked.

As the minutes pass and the immediate intensity subsides, Amar and his mother relax into a gentle chat. How do you resume a conversation after 30 years?

This mother and son have so little in common. And yet, they have everything in common. For both of them, everything has changed. But somehow, nothing has changed. The bond Amar has worried about is still there.

“My son is a hero, a superhero,” shouts a jubilant Zahra, nestling into Amar’s chest and kissing him.

“He missed me. He cares about me and he wanted to find me. This is all I ever wished for. We had wars. So many wars. I lost Amar. I survived, but I was only thinking about Amar. And now he came back, finally. I’m so happy today. I would do anything for Amar. Anything.”

From the magnitude of their loss, they quickly move on to discussing the little things they’ve missed.

Amar pulls out his phone and shows his mother photographs of the fish he caught in Devon.

Her eyesight is failing so she has to hold the device right next to her face.

She beams with pride and reminds him of the fishing they used to do in Basra. That was hundreds of miles away - a lifetime ago - but it’s as if Amar and Zahra have only been apart for a few days.

Amar is also reunited with his younger brother, Tahrir.

Once again, there are plenty of tears and hugs, but there is no awkwardness. No silences. No agenda. The way they speak to one another, touch one another and interact with one another, seems incredibly easy.

They remember the tricks they played on their parents. They laugh about football games and bird-hunting. Sharing chickpea stew and chicken kebabs, they tease, giggle and joke. They are a family again.

The next day Amar says he wants to visit his family’s house in Karbala - about two hours south of Baghdad.

What he finds there is very different from the rural home he remembers from his childhood in Basra. His mother, brother, sister-in-law and stepfather share a cramped breeze-block hut on a piece of polluted wasteland.

Their roof is just a sheet of tarpaulin. There is little in the way of sanitation. Loose electric cables dangle from the power lines overhead.

Before he returned to Iraq, Amar was worried that he would find it too upsetting to visit the house. He says he feels guilty that his family is living in such poverty. But, once again, his anxiety quickly subsides.

Instead of focusing on the dirty floor, he smiles at old family photographs hanging on the wall. He laughs when his mother tips a celebratory bag of sweets over his head, like he is a little boy once again. The place quickly fills with the sound of laughter.

Although he has never lived in this house, it soon feels like his home.