In the last glimmer of dusk the plane came to a halt on the runway. Wearily, I looked through the cabin window at the twinkling night of a thousand and one childhood Arabian stories. The air outside was still and hot, with hardly a trace of wind to soothe the burning landscape. A strange knot of emotion rose in my throat, with thoughts of fear, softened by the memory of those childhood tales. After what seemed like a very long wait, there was a sudden flurry of activity and we made our way towards the arrivals lounge. I still remember how the baggage carousel squealed and creaked, its metallic tone reminding me of the motor in an old washing machine. I lifted off my rucksack and walked towards one of the glass partitions that separated the phalanxes of people who were waiting for the immigration clerks. A group of soldiers in green fatigues lined the corridor, stopping people at random to search and question them. I noticed how they eyed my arrival and readjusted the position of the guns they were carrying. Farther along the corridor an old man in a loosely wound turban approached in slow shuffling steps. He carried a stick that supported his bent body, and when he saw me he paused, gazing with feverish eyes that seemed to come afire in expectation of our encounter. Then he lifted his stick in the air and shouted.

"American!?"

I stopped, as the noise of his voice grew louder.

"American!" he continued, an air of defiance now flooding his crinkled features.

I was aware that it was illegal for any Iraqi to speak to a Westerner, and I could see that the nearby soldiers were turning to watch the encounter.

"You are from America?" he persisted, continuing to point his stick aggressively in my direction.

"No, I’m not from America" I answered indignantly, eagerly pushing past him and trying to conceal the Californian badge that was sewn to the flap of my rucksack. I lowered my head and attempted to lose him in the crowd. I was determined not attract undue attention on arrival as I feared that the nearby soldiers would search me and find the newspapers and magazines that were smuggled in my baggage. These items were banned in Baghdad and the selected ones that I was carrying weren’t very complimentary towards Saddam Hussein and the governing Ba’ath Regime. I felt nauseated the bright lights of the airport swirled around me, and I groped my way through a minestrone of impatient travellers who appeared to be returning from the annual hajj in Mecca. They all pushed and shoved, as if still performing the ‘tawaf’ around the sacred Kabba stone, and despite my best efforts I made little progress and finally exited just beside the old man.

"American!" he said again

"No! I am not American" I angrily replied, glaring at the old man who was causing me so much trouble.

"I am Hassan!" he said, with eyes saddening as he looked at an old crumpled photograph that he took from his pocket. I thought I saw a tear in his eye as he said,

"I thought you are from America!"

"My son, is in America …California!" he said, looking at the old sepia picture and then at the badge on my backpack.

I looked at him and felt his sadness. The soldiers walked across to see what was bothering the old man. I tried to make amends, by telling him that I had lived in California, but it was too late. He turned away into the crowd, and I felt ashamed that I had been so hostile to him. I wanted to follow him but I knew I had to look after myself. I knew at that moment that his son was probably a Kurdish army deserter and would never return back home again. I felt annoyed that I could not have done more to ease his solitude. I repositioned my heavy backpack and my heart fluttered as I knew that soon I also would be leaving behind family and friends and entering the shadowy world of Baghdad. Once or twice I thought I saw again in the crowd before I ran into Sarah, one of the two Irish nurses who had accompanied me on the flight from Dublin.

"Welcome to Iraq" "The cradle of civilisation… and home for the next six months!" , she said, pointing to a large mural that was painted on the opposite wall. It was a colourful picture, depicting an Iraqi history that conjured up visions of a mythological realm that appeared to have been in existence since the dawn of time. It portrayed King Nebuchadrezzar  surveying his troops as they marched the Jewish people through the city of Babylon in chains . It was then, I remembered we had arrived in the ancient land of Mesopotamia, home of the Garden of Eden and the hanging gardens of Babylon. I looked at the passengers who were waiting in front of me, living descendants of the marching armies of Greeks, Romans, Persians and Arab’s that had in turn swept through this land and dispersed their seeds into the blood lines of the people. The line moved quickly and before long I was standing in front of one of the immigration official.

"Papers" he demanded, not bothering to lift his head from his desk.

I handed my passport over the counter to the sombre official. He opened the book and peered methodically through the pages, painstakingly checking the colourful visas that I had collected from my many travels around the world. He was younger than I had expected, probably still in his early twenties and I was surprised that he was wearing casual Western style clothes. It was apparent from his cold manner there wasn’t going to be any pleasantries expressed about the journey I had just taken. He then looked up and me and checked the photograph on the passport from different angles.

"Have you been to Israel?" he questioned.

"No!", I replied, remembering that the Israeli authorities had always attached their immigration visas on removable pages. With that he stamped my passport with the following words:

‘This visa is considered invalid for entry into Iraq if the bearer obtains an Israel visa on his passport’

"Are you going to work in the hospital?" he queried, fixing his eyes on the photograph on my passport..

"Yes!", I answered

"Then you must take one of these" he continued, handing me a little slip of paper which read... .

"Dear Passenger,                                                                                                                                                       

Please note that according to the Revolutionary Command Council resolution No 229 dated 16/4/1987 you should call within five days of your arrival to IRAQ at either Alkindi, Alkarama or Alkadhmiya Hospital in Baghdad or the preventive Health Centres in the Governates for Aids Laboratory Blood Tests. Otherwise you will be submitted to a fine five hundred Iraqi Dinars or six months imprisonment in case of not paying the fine."

I looked over at Sarah who was tittering at me as she read the same document.

"Well, look on the bright side, at least every nurse in Baghdad is HIV negative"