The Awakening of Layla The dreams are repetitious. She is a teen in Erbil, holding hands with other girls, laughing, and running toward the Kirkuk Citadel. Giggling and gossiping about the boys who hang out by their school, they are closely watched by their parents sitting on mats, drinking tea, and snacking on lokum and watermelon. Right next to them is the Prophet Daniel Mosque, surrounded by a patch of green grass. The park is nothing like those lush, green, blooming pieces of heaven that are dotted all over Toronto, but it was “home,” that arid piece of barren land that passed off as a park in a part of the world where the future is always uncertain and the past is compromised. They used to run around the park, chasing each other, nibbling on their koftas and khubz, while the men stood in corners, chain-smokers to the core, puffing away and arguing about politics and heated discussions about Kurdish nationalism. It was not exactly a cosmopolitan city like her new home, but you wou
