In My Baba's Arms

Home can mean many things, but to me home is in the arms of my baba. I was born in Sinjar, Iraq. My house was filled with love. I remember my grandma and my aunties taking care of me. I remember eating little egg bites and my favourite food that was made with grape leaves. I remember playing outside and smelling the fire burning the soft, delicious naan bread my mom would make. I remember waking up every morning on the flat roof of our house to the sound of a rooster crowing and the smell of fresh air and rain. There were blue and pink colourful birds that were almost as beautiful as our Yazidi temple Lalish. At the end of each day, I would curl up and fall asleep in my baba’s arms where I felt safe and loved. Home was always in my baba’s arms. On August 3, 2014, everything changed. My house that was filled with love was replaced by the sounds of people screaming, crying, and running through the streets. The smell of the nann bread burning became the smell of firebombs destroying our community. As ISIS shattered the world around me, my baba picked me up in his arms and ran. No matter how scared I was I knew I was safe and loved, because home was still in my baba’s arms. Now I live in Canada. My house is still filled with love. I eat new foods, smell new smells, and hear new sounds. I love my school, my friends, and my pet birds named Angel and Gracie. At the end of each day, I still curl up and fall asleep in my baba’s arms where I will always feel safe and loved. Home will always be in my baba’s arms.