I have a country no longer. I might not have had one, ever since I was born. I grew up there, fell in love, went to school, went to war, as those dead bodies in the Tigris swam with the fishes. I worked with metal, and did etchings. I used the many tones of the Earth to paint and draw, and seemed to have ended up in Houston, coming from Baghdad. In retrospect it is actually very fitting. They know about oil here too. They know about the oil over there too. [Nowadays] I do installations [now], and inkjet on cotton paper. I have met heirs to the throne, and kept going back to that boy king who inherited his forefathers' dominion only to see it vanish into thin Andalusian air. I realize now that not only this is what awaits Arab kings and princes, but that is also what awaits the future presidents of this great land. My art, and my writing tell the story of power gained and lost in disparate lands separated by oceans {of} time. I draw with paint pencils doves trying to reach people who have long passed away, and destinations that no longer exist. My photography adds layers to the many myths I know, as if sediments {found} in my beloved Tigris could tell stories of the men she was fed. I shall do installations and artworks of how a country changed the destiny of another, only to see its destiny disappear right from under it, as I look around in this new heartless home of mine.