A difficult path and a crowded life

Dr. Alaa Al-Tamimi – March 15, 2025

In every person’s life, there are defining moments that shake the balance and redraw the path. Like many, I did not follow a clear, safe road. My journey was a series of challenges—difficult to summarize or describe in simple words. They were exhausting days, swaying between tests of conscience and the twists of fate. I walked roads I didn’t always choose, but I faced them with unshakable will and a mind endlessly passionate about knowledge—even in the darkest times.

Each turn in this journey taught me a lesson, and every city I passed through reflected a part of who I am. Distance wasn’t just from places—it was sometimes from time, from those around me, and even from myself.

And yet, a small light inside me never stopped shining.

I was born in Baghdad in 1952, in a city full of life, history, and hope—a city that slept to the whispers of the river and awoke to the roar of ambition. It was there, in its heart, that my consciousness began to form and my eyes opened to a world where knowledge was held as the first step toward dignity.

I studied engineering at the University of Baghdad, where I also earned a master's degree. At the time, belief in science felt like a kind of faith—recited in the bright mornings and earned through patience and hard work.

All I had was an insatiable passion for urban planning, and a dream that cities should have souls worthy of their people.

In the early 1980s, my steps led me to France, where I earned a PhD in structural engineering from the prestigious Sorbonne University—among the ancient stones and scientific institutions of Paris. The years of exile weren’t easy, but they carved a new depth inside me and expanded my vision of what science can achieve when paired with strong will.

Upon returning to my homeland, I taught at several Iraqi universities before joining the Iraqi Atomic Energy Commission, where I worked from 1987 to 1992, during one of the most delicate and sensitive periods in Iraq’s modern history. It wasn’t just a job—it was a silent arena where scientific ambition clashed with political fears, between what could be done and what could not.

In the corridors of laboratories and behind closed meeting doors, I personally experienced the fragility of balance between knowledge and power—between the scientist and the decision-maker. Those years were exhausting, but they shaped me and taught me that knowledge alone is not enough unless accompanied by awareness of its place in the map of reality.

And yet, Iraq—the country I deeply loved—was not always a safe haven for its people, especially when the storms intensified, and its institutions crumbled under the weight of sanctions, setbacks, and betrayal.

In the mid-1990s, I found myself facing a difficult decision: to leave.

I left with a heart burning with longing, a few books in my bag, hard-earned degrees, and dreams searching for soil in which to grow. I did not leave to escape my country, but in search of my freedom—a modest space where I could practice my work without fear, and preserve my dignity as a human and a scientist.