We left the business and were driving back to my hotel. The chill air of the evening was a contrast to the heat of the day. I leaned back in the seat and watched Rashida as she drove with a precision as fine as the curves of her face.

“You’re staring, “she said without taking her eyes off the road.

“Sorry”, I said, not meaning I had any regrets. “Your English is very good.”

“So is yours,” she said with a smile.

“Well I was born in America, so English is my native tongue.”

“My mother was born in America too. I learned to speak it from her.” she said. “My parents met in college in Philadelphia. My father was from Iraq. When he came home, he brought her home as his wife.”

“What did your father do?” I asked.

The smile left her, and she responded in a matter of fact tone. “He was a government official in the Ba’ath Party. I was five years old when the Halabja attack occurred. My father was appalled that Saddam would attack his own people.”

“That’s the chemical attack on that city in Kurdistan? “

“Yes.”