by Jo Wilding

I set off for the internet. I’m wearing the poker face I’ve learnt from the Iraqi women to deflect harassment, staring straight ahead, slightly fiercely, not responding to any shouts or remarks, even greetings, because as soon as one man sees you say hello to another, you’re fair game.

The air seems impossibly full for a second and then bursts with a roar, sending a tremor through the ground that shoots up the leg my weight is on, unbalancing me slightly, but the poker face doesn’t flinch. Young men start running past me towards the direction of the explosion. That’s when the shock hits me: I’ve learnt to ignore things blowing up behind me.

A burst of gunfire sends a crowd of children and young men running back the other way. “Wayn? Wayn?” people are asking. Where? “Kahromana,” someone says, referring to the sculpture of Ali Baba’s wife pouring hot oil into the barrels where the forty thieves were hiding, which stands at the junction between Karrada Dahkil, Karrada Kharitj and Saadoon.