Cold days in the winter of beautiful Basrah in Iraq, it was a beautiful era with no traffic jam and no shortage of houses, in its summer you could smell the scent of palm pollen and the fragrance of the night-blooming jasmine, in its winter you could smell the scent of citrus blossoms from orange and lemon, playing and jumping, my brothers, sisters and I, were all sparrows but did not fly, it was the 1960s.
My mother sometimes raised her voice at us, sometimes begged us to eat, sometimes asked us to be quiet, we all agreed on one thing: “When would our father come home?”