After the end of the Iraq war in the spring of 2003, I anxiously await the arrival of my dad, who I am hopeful will take me back to our neighborhood. Finally, he arrives in a yellow, dust-covered taxi and steps out, ushering me into the back seat. The taxi driver has the radio playing as I make my way into the cramped seat. People are calling the radio station from all parts of the country. Everyone seems to share my excitement about the end of Saddam's regime. After spending a month imprisoned by the walls of my grandparents' home, I cannot wait to behold the beauty of my beloved Baghdad. All month, I longed to be able to capture the smell of the hustle and bustle of my city. Everyone buzzed with excitement because Baghdad is now "an American city." I remain levelheaded, though; I am not oblivious (as the others seem to be) to the fact that a war has just taken place. While these thoughts are dancing around inside my head, I am awakened by an abrupt jolt. The taxi's tires suddenly brush against the debris-covered gravel and the car comes to a stop. I look up and the remains of Iraq's most famous tower, Burj Saddam, dominate my view. Seeing this tower torn apart only reminds me of the times I cherished with my family. The very top of the tower was once home to Iraq's most prestigious restaurant. The debris covering the roads now hinders the extraordinary 360-degree views from the restaurant. The tower, which was once covered with clear glass, reflecting the blue sky, is now replaced by a pile of black concrete, ashes, and burned bodies. My vision begins to blur as I feel tears slowly drifting down my cheeks. The taste of my salty tears along with the smell of smoldering wood, burning flesh, and dead bodies is too overwhelming. I cannot stand this anymore. I reach over to roll up the window, not taking my eyes off the remains of my city. I feel my grip tighten against the ridges of the knob in my attempt to build a glass barrier against reality.