Millions had fled along the highway I had taken. Behind them Iraq was riven, its wounds pried open and left unsutured.

It was late in the afternoon when my mother told me that “they would come for us.” I was not yet 10 at the time. Climbing the stairs for a tea-time cheese sandwich, I left my brother and cousins to their football skirmish in the garden of my family’s villa in western Baghdad. Or so I remember. I saw two skyscrapers spewing smoke over New York, and my mother stone-faced before the TV. She was right.

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