Is this article a justification for bullies? For those who spew toxic and harmful words?

“Come here, Umm Asajeel,” said the teacher. 

It was the first time I had ever heard the word Asajeel, despite my family having a rich lexicon of southern expressions and idioms. Ones that are strange, complex, and difficult to understand. Yet, the word Asajeel or Umm Asajeel was never among them. 

I wondered: “Television has the plural televisions. Class has the plural classes. Is Asajeel a singular word? Or is it plural? And if it is a plural, what is its singular form? Asajoola? Asajil?” 

Was it a description of something that made me stand out? Did that mean I was special? Or was it referring to something my small mirror had failed to reveal to me. I who had not yet turned seven years old? 

I later discovered that it was a rather harsh way to describe my extreme thinness and frail physique. 

And what was even harsher? The fact that my beloved teacher, the one whose name I repeated wherever I went, whose way of walking I imitated, was the first to give me that nickname, which soon became widespread in my class. 

Whenever I played a pretend school game with other kids in our neighbourhood, I would take on the role of my beloved teacher, Miss Saadiya. I would call myself by her name, imitate her voice and laughter, and repeat the songs she taught us in class. I even mimicked the phrases she used with us, addressing my imaginary students with the same nicknames she gave. This student became Umm Asajeel, that one is Umm Khishm, the one with the big nose, another Alsafra, the yellow-skinned girl, or Umm Kanakeer, the one with nappy hair. 

Was my relationship with Miss Saadiya akin to what would later become known as a toxic relationship? That crumpled-up term, thrown around by experts and non-experts alike, describes an unequal relationship, where one side clings on, full of love and admiration while the other’s role is limited to deriving pleasure from causing harm, indulging in a sense of control, and playing mind games such as abandonment while insisting on pretending to care. Or maybe they settle for calling someone Umm/Abu Asajeel? 

Who knows?! 

A possible Roman nose 

During the economic siege imposed on Iraq in the 1990s, Iraqis, regardless of their job titles or social status, ate food that was of lower quality and in smaller quantities. However, I do not claim that my thinness had a direct connection to that dark era when the hungry grounded date pits as a substitute for wheat and barley, baked bran into bread, made cauliflower kebabs instead of meat kebabs, ate locusts and admired Wahsh Al-Tawah, the monster of the pan, also known as eggplant, which stood by them in their hunger and supported them in their hardship. It never abandoned them, adapting to their needs in various forms—so much so that it even changed its attire and squeezed itself into jam jars. 

In truth, my weak appetite sculpted my frame into what society saw as ma’sajjal, which means frail and bony. It also shaped my spirit, making me more sensitive to every word and description. I was convinced that I was not enough. Not beautiful enough to attract attention. Not worthy enough to speak my thoughts aloud or defend them confidently because something always seemed missing. 

I was sure that, as part of the full package of self-doubt, there was something wrong with my nose. The bump on its bridge gave it a curved appearance, and I was convinced it was flawed. This belief left me in constant embarrassment and became another factor that hindered my self-confidence and self-esteem. 

I clung to any explanation I could find in books, magazines, or even oral stories that mentioned the Roman nose. I was clinging to claims that it symbolised aristocracy, strength, and authority. I read about ancient Egyptian depictions of pharaohs with hooked noses, representing their divine status. I searched for anything that could validate my difference or erase the image stuck in my mind: “My nose, when seen from the side, isn’t pretty and doesn’t look like my peers.” 

The shadows of these descriptions and others accompanied me for years until I finally decided to confront them with awareness and understanding. I shed the cloak of interpretations that tried to dictate how I should perceive myself and detached the ties between my actual image, the one I was meant to believe in, and the distorted version painted by poisonous words in their dull hues. 

Was what I experienced driven by malice, or was it unintentional? 

Were those words truly venomous or merely jokes with no real purpose? 

Was it a lack of awareness that led someone to speak a hurtful word without pausing to reconsider, unaware that the listener before them would spend a significant portion of their life trying to heal the scars they left? 

The pop-up of harm 

Words have a magical effect. They are not merely letters strung together according to the rules of grammar and morphology. They can be soothing balms for wounded souls or sharp knives that leave scars that are difficult to heal. Through words and descriptions, we navigate the delicate art of considering others’ feelings—an act that social researcher Khalida Al-Rifai described as “one of the arts of life”. Al-Rifai, who dealt daily with people struggling with the emotional impact of words, emphasised, “Words can also leave a deep, indelible wound”. 

People react differently to verbal harm. Some handle it with emotional resilience, while others overreact, magnifying their behaviours and responses. This disparity is primarily informed by upbringing and family reinforcement, which are crucial in shielding individuals from damaging behaviours. 

Toxic and hurtful words are difficult to categorise or to confine to a specific context. They exist everywhere, emerging unexpectedly without a clear starting point or a defined stopping one. 

Verbal harm can appear suddenly, like a pop-up notification, in the voice of a traditional mother assigning a task to her daughter while already anticipating failure: 

“Of course, you’ll break half these dishes like you always do—because you’re stupid.” 

Or in the voice of a father, echoing a phrase passed down through generations: 

“Even if God Himself intervened, you’d never amount to anything.” 

The pain of words emerges from a teacher’s mouth, directed at a struggling student, in a phrase passed down through generations like a sacred script, untouched by alteration: 

“I’ll shave my moustache if you ever succeed.” 

Then, to seal the insult, an even harsher blow follows: 

“You idiot.” 

Verbal harm also leaps out from the mouth of a man behind the wheel. One who doesn’t wear a seatbelt, disregards traffic lights, and sees no need to signal before making a U-turn. Yet, he is always ready—fully armed—to unleash insults the moment he sees a woman make a minor driving mistake: 

“It is not your fault. It’s the fault of whoever allowed you to be behind the wheel?” 

A phrase he, and many like him, repeat without a second thought. 

Many male drivers go so far as to document their harassment of women behind the wheel, recording videos of their insults and then posting them online to rack up dozens of laughing emojis. And just like that, you find yourself in the middle of a free-for-all insult fest, where enraged men, without any logical reason, launch an all-out verbal assault on women’s right to drive. 

Verbal harm can also slip out of the pocket of a white coat, worn by a doctor who treats patients with condescension, dismissing their right to fear for their loved ones or their lack of medical knowledge. To him, one is stupid, and another is ignorant. Then, they use social media to share their adventures with clueless patients, turning their anxieties into comedic content for likes and shares. 

Bullying? Jokes? 

If you type the word bullying into any search engine, you’ll find dozens of websites competing to outline its causes, types, motivations, and solutions. They may differ in how they explain and analyse the phenomenon. However, they all agree on a set of criteria that make it easier for the reader to distinguish bullying from other behavioural patterns and practices, summed up in a single line: “A behaviour is only considered bullying if it involves repetition, intent, and an imbalance of power between the parties involved.” 

This means there is a clear difference between a hurtful word spoken in a moment of frustration, anger, or careless teasing and deliberately repeated words, forcing the recipient to wonder: Why do they keep saying this? Because I didn’t respond? Because I didn’t care? 

One of the most publicly recognised victims of verbal cruelty in Iraq is Faez Jassim Helail Al-Atabi, better known as Faez Al-Sanfoor, Faez the Smurf. He is not alone. Countless unnamed victims, including a woman from Babil and a man from Maysan, share his fate, bearing the weight of poisonous words that never fade. 

As a television and theatre actor, Faez was consistently cast in roles that mocked his short stature. He was invited to events. Not as an honoured guest, but as the target of relentless verbal abuse. 

One glaring example was a YouTube prank show where the two hosts took turns insulting him under the guise of ‘just joking’ 21 times in a 23-minute episode. The punchlines included lines like: 

“Your mother didn’t give birth to you. She found a pimple on her hand, scratched it, and you came out of it.” 

“When Faez dies, they won’t put him in a coffin. They’ll fit him into a cigarette pack.” 

Such words, repeated over and over, are not mere jokes. They are calculated cruelty. They are a performance for entertainment at the expense of someone’s dignity. 

Bullying and verbal abuse turned Faez Al-Sanfoor into a prime target for mockery and ridicule, subjecting him to social marginalisation and exclusion simply because he was different. Reducing him to a character that anyone could insult and demean him ultimately led to his death. After being brutally beaten by unknown assailants, he was hospitalised and passed away in May 2021. 

Close your eyes and repeat “Kawa mo birdati”. I didn’t consent to it. Now, what image comes to mind? 

Is it the face of Haifa Latif Hassan? The woman wearing an abaya, speaking to an officer about being raped, while her rapist denies it, claiming she had consented in exchange for money? 

 Or is it that mocking meme, casually shared across social media—with or without context—that casts doubt on the woman’s testimony? 

In either case, Haifa Latif Hassan was killed after the leak and spread of her video in 2020. 

“Her death was reported as a suicide, but other information suggests that members of her own family were responsible for her murder,” according to journalist Issa Al-Atwani, who covers events in Babil, where Haifa lived. 

Did her death put an end to the mockery that had, in the first place, been the main reason for her killing? 

I doubt it. 

As of the time this piece was written, 46 personal accounts and public pages on Facebook still bore the title Kawa Mo Birdati, displaying the victim’s image, taken directly from the leaked interrogation video. This was a video released by a policeman who took pleasure in humiliating those under his authority, guilty or not—it didn’t matter. 

“And who the hell are you?” Mehdi Saleh Hamdan responded to a driver on a street in Qal’at Saleh, Maysan. He spoke with his eyes closed. His frustration was evident. He has visual impairment, a complication of diabetes. 

The man, born in 1957, became a social media trend, subjected to verbal and online bullying for years. He also endured physical harassment, as children chased him and threw stones at him—all because someone with a phone camera decided to upload a clip of Mehdi uttering an ordinary phrase that unexpectedly turned his life upside down. 

In the end, Mehdi Saleh Hamdan was diagnosed with mental instability due to the relentless verbal and physical bullying he faced. He later suffered a stroke and passed away in 2022. 

Imagine suddenly becoming the subject of ridicule and memes in the name of jokes. Imagine seeing your entire past, present, and lived experience reduced to a few-second video clip, possibly taken entirely out of context. 

Imagine being mocked by adults, beaten by children, hospitalised, and then dying or being killed, all because of a few recorded seconds, a written phrase, or an image, whether fabricated or real, but taken from your personal belongings. 

The Imprint of harm 

I was a victim of words in all their forms, whether they were words that found names and definitions or those that never made their way to meaning, existing solely as acts of harm. 

I spoke with people of different backgrounds, ages, and experiences, tracing the impact of words, their motivations, and the marks they leave on us—some permanent, others forcing us to spend years of our lives trying to heal or at least lessen their weight on our souls. 

I wanted to speak to people who had inflicted harm on others and later regretted it. However, they were few. Even though admitting to bullying or verbal abuse and openly acknowledging their past actions could be a form of reckoning—a way to reconcile with a new version of themselves that rejects such behaviour—most remained silent. 

“I never found peace after his prayer against me,” R.A. tells me, recalling the toxic words she deliberately used to wound a young man who had been her university colleague. She led him to believe she was interested in him, only to end their brief relationship with a cruel remark: 

“Your style is awful, and you don’t even have a moustache. You look like a girl. Do you think I could be attracted to someone like you?” 

In a lengthy conversation, she continued: 

“After about a year and a half, and after going through a lot, I finally managed to find his account and reach out to him from a different fake profile—just to apologise. Because honestly, I wasn’t in the right mental state back then. If you heard what I was dealing with, you’d ask: ‘How are you still sane?’” 

She intended to apologise and seek forgiveness.  She attained both. But before she could permanently delete the account that she used to contact him, he casually mentioned something: 

“You destroyed my life and my mental wellbeing. And I prayed against you at the shrine of Amir Al-Mu’minin Ali.” 

I spoke to people whose lives were shattered by words, who were deeply wounded by them, and who still carried the scars. They were children and adults; some I knew, others I didn’t. What brought us together was a conversation about words in all their forms and effects. There was no bond between us except the weight of what had been said, the scars left behind by words, and the fragments we gather together in an attempt to heal. 

That conversation became a personal benchmark for each of us, a way to measure how far we had come and how much we had healed. 

Death is easier than pity 

“When I returned to class, some classmates accepted me, and some even became my friends. But there was always a group that saw me—and others like me—as nothing more than a sad case,” says Noor Jamal, 31, who survived a car accident many years ago that left her unable to walk, forced her to use a wheelchair and ultimately prevented her from completing her law degree. 

Noor, a noted bookworm, well-known in literary circles, suddenly found herself in an unfamiliar situation. Yet, she chose to continue her university studies and challenge the new reality imposed upon her. However, she soon had to confront something unexpected: 

“A student asked for my name, why I was studying, and what for. I answered, and his response was, ‘Poor you!’ I replied instantly, telling him: ‘You’re the one that should be pitied.’ But afterwards, I felt a deep sadness because he chose to see my condition rather than my determination and ambition.” 

Noor armed herself with two shields. One that supported the wheels of her chair, making movement easier, and another that protected her from the harmful words she would inevitably face. 

Search for yourself within yourself 

The core issue with toxic and harmful words lies in how difficult it is to grasp their true impact and in the challenge of placing yourself in other people’s shoes, feeling what they feel at the very moment they receive those words. 

Imagine spending the rest of your life locked in an internal struggle which no one understands. Pretending to be indifferent while scouring websites, reels, and famous quotes in search of your share of self-worth—a clear sense of validation, one that doesn’t play hide-and-seek with you. Searching for your portion of self-confidence, the kind others seem to experience effortlessly, while you’re still unsure what it even tastes like. 

Imagine going home and reprimanding yourself, your fashion choices, and your decisions—all because they failed to align with the expectations of those around you, leaving you defenceless against their verbal attacks. 

Imagine being the main act in a public crucifixion, where the crowd leads you forward, guided by their private compass of judgment. In their eyes, you exist only to listen, to absorb every insult, every cruel remark, without the right to object, resist, or even flinch. 

For years, I was convinced I would meet Miss Saadiya again, along with my classmates: those whose mocking remarks had shaped me, carving parts of my identity, its strengths and flaws. I believed there would be a chance to confront my friend Lara, who slapped me after school while I was busy pinning the Class Role Model badge to my shirt. Her words, I imagined, were as sharp as the sting of her slap. I can’t recall the exact phrasing, only the mocking murmurs dismissing the worthiness of the title: 

“Really? You? A role model Umm Asajeel?” 

For years, I longed for a conversation with every person who had ridiculed my thinness or the shape of my nose. The idea seemed daunting, but I saw it as a form of exposure therapy—a cognitive-behavioural technique that pushes you to face the situations you would rather avoid. What mattered most wasn’t just the confrontation but rather the ability to truly understand my emotions, connect with myself on a deeper level, define the problem, share it, analyse its patterns, and ultimately heal from it. 

But over time, that conviction faded. 

For years, I have made peace with the idea that everyone has their own circumstances and motivations. Their own forces which shape their words and actions. Each of us carries our projections, which inevitably spill onto others in one way or another. 

And so, my desire to change anything about the past has disappeared. 

I have come to believe that every one of those people had their justifications, their reasons, ones that I may never fully understand. 

Is this an excuse for bullies? A justification for those who spew harmful words? 

Not. But it is, without a doubt, a way of coming to terms with reality. A way of understanding what is within our control now and accepting the impossibility of rewinding time to change the past. Instead, it becomes something to embrace, learn from, and carry forward as a reference for the future. 

This, in a way, is my version of Stoic philosophy, which is one that effortlessly gave me precisely what I needed.