In 2003, the United States sent its military. My dad phoned, telling us to leave before the war started; he suggested we go to Jordan, where my mom had family. But when we tried, we were told no one was allowed to go. We were trapped. Things became scary—tanks were in the streets, and you could hear the bullets, bombs, and cries for help. Many of us did not support the Iraqi government, but we were also scared of the American army. We hid in our homes and just wanted things to stop. Unfortunately, they just got worse.

A civil war broke out within Iraq—the country’s Sunni people and Shiite people started fighting. No one trusted anyone else. Because of my last name, people knew my mom and I were Sunni and we became the enemy to many who used to be our friends. Our relatives took us to Jordan, but that government said too many people were coming in and they wouldn’t take us. Where would we go? Our home felt like it was gone and we weren’t sure where to turn.

My mom had a friend in Egypt and she suggested we try there. Things got better, but only a little—we were allowed to stay for just three months. We heard the United Nations would be giving refugee protection documents for Iraqis in Egypt, so we lined up in the morning outside their offices with a thousand others. Ten days later, I got the call I was waiting for—my mother and I would be stamped as refugees.