Without my father, I would always be seen as a minor in the eyes of a state that officially recognises me as being in the first quarter of my twenties. Even though I am an adult. My eligibility is also questioned whenever the question that never leaves me is asked: Why are you here alone?

I graduated in June 2024. The first thought that crossed my mind after receiving my results was, ‘I want a passport’. I wasn’t planning to travel, nor had I committed to a job that required travelling. After a few weeks, I began working, and the possibility of travelling emerged right at the start. 

The first time I applied for a passport 

In October, I opened an online passport booking site at 10:30 PM and read the requirements, which included bringing my identity card (ID), my residency card, and the appointment confirmation. All of these were easy steps, so I booked an appointment. 

On the 14th of the same month, I gathered everything I was asked for and decided to go alone. I was so happy to be an adult and a graduate. I could do whatever I wanted. 

The first moment I entered Basra Passport Office, it wasn’t “Turn off your phone” “or “Leave your bag for inspection” that I first heard. 

“Where’s your father?” one of the soldiers, who was older, in the reception room asked me. All of the soldiers and citizens looked at me as if I were a creature out of place. 

– I’m here alone (with a big smile). 

– How old are you to be coming alone? 

– 23 years old. 

He shook his head in disapproval, and I felt sorry for myself. I don’t know why he shook his head. Because I was 23? Because I’m a girl? Because my father considers me an adult? 

I went in to take the ticket, and the military officer looked at me and asked, “Where’s the rest of the family?” I told him again, “I’m alone”. He looked at me in disbelief but, unlike my usual self, I carried on smiling at all of them. 

It was an important matter, a visit to a government office alone for the first time. I waited for my turn. Everyone around me had their family members with them. I was the only one sitting alone, looking at the screen like someone who had won the lottery. 

When my turn came, the employee was a man in his forties. I didn’t know exactly where he stood on the line of his forties, but most likely in the middle of it. Let’s call him Jamal. 

Jamal smiled when he saw me, and his first question was,  “Where’s your father?” I had to explain my whole journey once again. 

He took my information, my fingerprints, and my photo. Like someone planning a crime, he whispered to me that I had to return with my father’s ID or my passport wouldn’t be completed and that he would freeze the process until I came back. 

Months after this event, I asked my lawyer friend whether issuing a passport requires bringing my father’s ID. She told me it was necessary if I’m under 18. However, her cousin had renewed her passport alone. 

Months later, I figured that going back and forth with the ID didn’t matter—it wasn’t even required. But they didn’t believe my age, which was documented on my ID, government records, and everywhere else. And since I was alone, what stopped them from sending me away to bring my father’s card? 

In 2023, the General Directorate of Civil Status, Passports, and Residence reported that it had issued more than 1.3 million regular passports and nearly 300,000 electronic passports. 

I wonder if, among these, there were women my age who had to bring their fathers’ IDs to confirm their eligibility to obtain a passport. 

Even my father was confused by my return and didn’t understand why I needed his ID. “So what? I gave you the residency card but haven’t agreed to your trip? What a logic!” It was a logical question, I thought. you should ask the passport officers, Dad! 

After returning and completing the first step, Jamal told me I had to return to him after every step (I asked every officer afterwards if I needed to return to Jamal, and each one of them said no). 

With pride, Jamal told me he would call the printing staff so I could get my passport quickly. I knew, just like everyone else, that printing the passport, collecting it after paying and submitting it wouldn’t take more than 30 minutes. If they delayed, it might take 40 minutes. 

In short, Jamal wouldn’t benefit me. Even if he told them to hurry, the time would remain the same. 

I got my passport precisely 30 minutes later, just like everyone else sitting in the hall with me. 

I returned to Jamal with the passport (because he insisted that I return). He examined it to ensure everything was correct and handed me a torn piece of paper from a receipt with his phone number. 

“Call me once you get your phone back from the guards,” he said. Was I supposed to call, Jamal? Since I had come alone, was I supposed to agree to this? 

I nodded because my passport was in his hands—no need to take any chances. I took the paper and left. 

When I stepped out of the hall, I threw the paper in the trash, collected my phone, and left. 

I knew my travel was near. I went to the airport at the beginning of December. 

The first time at an airport 

“Go in without inspection,” the baggage screening officer at the airport gate told me. It was clear he was drowsy. Just as I was. I hadn’t slept from anxiety. 

It was 2:30 AM. Basra was asleep, but the airport staff and I were wide awake. 

With each step forward, the driver and I heard the same two questions:  “Iraqi?” and “Minor?” 
And once again, I answered, “Yes. No, I’m 23.” 

The questioning officer would look at me with suspicion before finally letting me through. 

It was my first time at an airport. I clutched my passport like it was the most important thing in life. Perhaps even more important than me. 

The driver offered to come inside and help with my luggage, knowing this was my first time. 

The first security officer asked again, “Minor?” But he didn’t ask me, He asked the driver. The fact that he directed the question to my driver instead of me was a sign of my inadequacy, if not in age, then in authority. 

“No, I’m 23, sir.” I answered before the driver could speak. The ‘sir’ hummed in acknowledgement and asked if my shoulder bag contained a laptop. When I said yes, he asked me to take it out. 

No women were among the airport staff. Not one female officer to check my bags. Everyone was a man, and they all made it clear they wanted to go home and sleep rather than inspect our bags and ask about our ages. 

I had never seen pictures of the airport before. I wanted to preserve my first impression for my first visit. But I had always imagined it as a vast place. I could easily get lost if no one helped me. 

Like in the movies, I expected the ticket check-in counters to be large, lined up in a long row with employees behind them, verifying tickets nonstop and without delay. But the counters were deserted. Only two were open, both for Royal Jordanian Airlines. 

I moved past my first disappointment and got my first stamp. The officer approved my travel visa, handed me my baggage tag, and took my suitcase. Then, I moved on to the next station. 

Everyone stood in line, waiting for the officer behind the window to let them through. I asked why they weren’t queueing at the electronic passport gate. “It might not work. Just line up here with us.” 

Not working? Then why did I spend three hours getting this passport in the first place? 

I refused to accept that it wouldn’t work. I approached the machine, placed my passport on the scanner, and read it. 

Good. The first attempt was successful. Now, I just had to convince it to read my ticket. 

My attempts to convince the machine to read my ticket failed. It rejected my ticket about five times. While some of the queue had already passed through to the terminal, I was determined not to move until the electronic reader read my ticket. 

Finally, an airport employee appeared out of nowhere. “Let me see that,” he said, taking my ticket without even saying please. He folded and placed part of it on the scanner, but the machine mocked him with a blunt rejection. 

I looked at him and extended my hand to take the ticket back. “Go ahead, try it yourself,” he said as if someone other than me had been trying for the past five attempts. 

I tried one last time and whispered to the reader, “Come on, don’t embarrass me. Everyone’s staring. You’re making us look bad, man.” 

The machine must have heard me—or maybe it just got tired of me—because it finally said, “Go ahead, ma’am.” It read the ticket and asked for one final photo. 

Was that the last checkpoint? No. 

Another officer appeared out of nowhere. “Where are you headed?” he asked, and for a moment, I felt as if I had been caught red-handed. Where else would I be going from an airport with no flights other than to Jordan? Go on, take a guess, officer! 

I told him my destination, and he asked if I had a visa or residency permit. Visa, I replied. Like his colleague before him, he swiftly took my passport and handed it to the officer behind the counter. Why did I spend six minutes at the electronic reader if I would end up back at the counter anyway? 

Finally, they told me to head to the waiting lounge. So I did. 

The place was silent. Everyone was either drinking tea or coffee while staring at their feet. The lounge felt incredibly small. 

Why do movies deceive us? The lounge wasn’t any bigger than my grandfather’s garden. In fact, his garden might have been larger. The duty-free markets were crammed along the walls, barely fitting. Honestly, if I opened a duty-free market in our kitchen, it would be more spacious. 

It was still around 3:35 AM, and my flight wasn’t until 5:35 AM. Theoretically, I had two hours. But no—at 4:15 AM, a soldier instructed us to proceed to the departure hall. 

Once again, I presented my passport and ticket, and we entered. 

“Go ahead, go ahead,” he gestured, uninterested in the metal detector beeping as I walked through it. I was wearing a necklace and a smartwatch. The laptop I had been asked to remove earlier? This time, he told me to keep it. 

I doubted anyone was checking the contents of the bag. They went into the machine and came out as if it were just another dull routine. 

“Come on, we just want to get you through quickly as there aren’t that many of you,” a soldier said to a passenger while laughing.  And the time printed on my ticket? Why does no one ever follow the schedule? 

On my return trip a week later, the same officer was there. I wondered if he even knew how to smile. Did he ever lower his eyebrow, or did he always keep it raised like that? 

Even Good morning and Wa Alaikum Assalam seemed like a heavy burden to him. He didn’t want a good morning from me or anyone else but was obligated to respond. 

I asked if the electronic gate was working. “Try it,” he said.  

Try it? Fine, why not? 

The machine read my passport but took nearly 90 seconds to decide whether my face was qualified to enter Basra. I just stood there, staring at the loading symbol spinning and spinning, determining whether the next sign would be green—Welcome back, no questions asked – or red—Where are you coming from? 

The first time I took the train

A week after my return, I had to go to Baghdad again. I decided that taking the train was a journey worth experiencing. 

I went with my 18-year-old brother to Basra’s train station in the last week of 2024, travelling without my parents for the second time. 

After buying our tickets, we had to wait at the intelligence office to confirm that we weren’t wanted for any security reasons. 

Honestly, I liked the idea of security verifying the identities of people travelling. But the time the officer spent reading my ID and ticket started to worry me. Was I wanted without knowing it? 

– Are you an employee? 
No, sir. 

– What’s taking you to Baghdad? 
Work. I’m with a private company. 

– And you’re going alone?! 
My brother is outside. 

– Why isn’t he travelling with you? Does your father know? How do they even allow you to travel alone? 
There’s no need. It’s not my first time. 

The officer sighed. He wasn’t pleased with my answers. Then, he muttered to himself, in the loudest whisper I’ve ever heard, “Everything about this is wrong. Why is she travelling alone?” 

He tossed my ticket and ID onto the table—unlike the men before me, to whom he had handed them directly. He wrapped up our warm exchange with a curt, “Take your ticket, go on.” 

I knew the possibility of being seen as a runaway was on the table. But my brother waiting outside should have been enough to dispel that notion. His presence didn’t do much to validate mine. 

On the train, I stayed in my seat for five hours. Then, I noticed another passenger in the same compartment eating Indomie noodles. I gathered the courage to ask where the vendor was. My phone was about to die, and I hoped he’d have an electrical outlet. 

Visualise the journey. I was in the first carriage, while the restaurant was in the last. To get there, I had to pass through every carriage in between. All the men who stared at me had a silent question glowing in their eyes: “Where is her family?” Or at least, that’s what I imagined. 

 At the restaurant, I paid no attention to those around me, I was focused on my Indomie. I asked the owner if he had an electrical outlet. He took my phone to charge it. 

A minute later, if not less, he asked if I was alone. When he found out I was, he wondered why. Before I could answer, he blurted out, “Wait, you’re not a student, are you?” 

It didn’t take him long to start offering his services, just like Jamal at the passport office, once he knew I was single. He said he would book my return ticket because I was alone. Then he asked for my phone number. 

I asked for my phone back, because you don’t reject someone while they have your belongings. I opened the call log and gave him the hotel’s number but changed the last four digits to random ones. When he asked for my name, Nada slipped out instinctively. I hope the number he dialled didn’t belong to Nada. 

He called the number, then looked at my phone, which I had flipped to face me, knowing he’d be waiting to see his number appear. 

“Is that your number? You’re calling, right?” I asked. 
“Yes,” he replied. 

At that moment, within five seconds, I realised I was the only girl in the place. I noticed the sounds around me fading, or maybe my fear drowned them out. Most of the people were staring at me with a smile, including the two soldiers beside me. 

I asked him to return my phone charger. He looked surprised. 
“Why? We’re talking!” 

I told him I was exhausted and wanted to sleep. 

I walked out quickly, hyper-aware of every eye following me. 

Looking back at it now, I think I was practically running because, to return, it took me a quarter of the time it had taken me to get there. 

Fifteen minutes before the end of the journey, two soldiers appeared out of nowhere and asked to see my ID, singling me out from all the other passengers. They asked if I was a student and, if not, whether I was a government employee. If I wasn’t, then why was I travelling to Baghdad alone? 

It’s worth mentioning that one of them apologised to me after I got off the train and asked if I needed anything. 

The plan was to take the train back to Basra later, but a trilla (truck) crashed into it the next day. 

What did I learn from these three experiences? First, to say that I’m engaged. Second, to say that my family is waiting for me at the station or the airport. Third, not to smile, because, as it turns out, it’s not seen as a gesture of kindness but an invitation for men to give me their number.