So many people have asked me to talk about my lived experience in Iraq, but the academician in me, who is trained to avoid “me” and “I,” resisted. But today, I thought I would give it a try.

My first trial at leadership happened in August 2004, in a country where domestic violence is legalized—the law that I loved and continue to see as my first love says so. A husband can legally “discipline” his wife, and she is expected to endure it. That’s the country where a female became the Minister of the Environment. Yes, in society’s eyes, I wasn’t Dr. Al Moumin, who never gave up on her studies until she completed her Ph.D., or who never gave up on her career until she was accepted to teach at a university where only male candidates were considered. I was just a female—a divorced female, nevertheless. I would be lying if I said their insinuations didn’t hurt.

I still recall how one of my professors asked in front of my class, “Why are you divorced?” But I knew there was a better world out there. Perhaps that’s why I chose to major in international law—my dream society, where human rights, a taboo in my community, are upheld and respected: the right to work regardless of background or gender, the right to free speech, and the right to a healthy environment. To me, that was and still is the definition of heaven. You can see now why I chose to teach human rights—under the watchful eye of the Hussein regime. I wanted more people to see that there is a better world out there. Some of my students used to follow me to my little car—yes, I drove in Iraq—to say, “Dr. Mishkat, we are worried about you. Please be careful.”

So, what happened in August 2004, specifically on August 24, 2004? I was driving to the Ministry of Environment, accompanied by my bodyguards. Sounds extravagant? Think again. A yellow taxi—hundreds of them in the streets—was better, stronger, and faster. I was in the back seat, and next to me was my lead bodyguard, with another in the front and one driving. It looked like a group of brothers taking their sister to run an errand—like many do. And they were my brothers. Would it surprise you to know that they were from the opposite religious sect? A leader unifies.

I thought I would make it to the Ministry within 30-45 minutes at most. Far from it. You want to know what leaders face in real life? After less than 15 minutes, the driver suddenly veered to the right, went over the curb, and before I could ask what or why, a massive explosion occurred. The little taxi broke down—not because it was hit, but because of the impact. Glass was everywhere; the trunk and hood were fully open, and all the doors were bent inward. The only thing I could hear was the lead guard saying, “Evacuate now.” Before I could move, bullets were flying everywhere. With the help of my bodyguards, I managed to leave the car and hide behind the concrete walls—Baghdad was full of them at the time—waiting for backup. Where was the second car that usually accompanied officials? Burned to the ground along with the four bodyguards who were in it. As I hid behind the wall, I recalled my briefcase and cellphone—full of sensitive information and contacts. I just couldn’t leave them behind. The bodyguards offered to run and get them after failing to convince me to abandon them.

So, I ran for it, asking them to cover me. I ran like my life depended on it—literally. I grabbed the briefcase and phone and ran again. I genuinely believe I was lucky because the long pleated skirt I wore that day was full of bullet holes. Finally, two backup cars showed up. I sent the injured bodyguard to the hospital—yes, one of them was injured—and I drove to the Ministry. You thought I would go home, right? Wrong. I went to the Ministry to be with my employees. I called my family, colleagues, and friends to assure them I was unharmed. My family pressured me to resign; I was a single mom responsible for a child, yet I stayed. Not only did I finish my term, but I also led five aid campaigns and raised 10 times my annual budget in projects—still ongoing to this day. Do you think I received a Medal of Honor, the Defense of Freedom Heart, or something similar? No. I told you—I was just a female in society’s eyes. To them, it was my fault—had I stayed in the kitchen where I “belonged,” nothing would have happened to me. The best award I received was a letter from Captain William C. Hope. I barely recall meeting him, but I received an email from him out of the blue. He wrote that he met a leader who put the future of her nation before her life without hesitation. “A leader, not a female.”

But leaders are not stagnant or redundant—they don’t cook the same meal all the time. I moved to the U.S., where I had to start all over again—rebuilding from scratch while caring for a minor and a senior. Leaders are resilient, right? Well, being a Middle Eastern woman in the U.S. was and still is not easy. It doesn’t matter if I wear the headscarf or not; I look and sound different, so I don’t belong. I am not White, Black, or Asian. So, who am I? Now you see why I struggle to identify my ethnicity on job applications. I have fair skin, but I am not White. I am not dark enough to qualify as Black. I wish there were an ethnicity called International. Then I would qualify immediately—all you need to belong is to believe in human rights.

My career journey led me to the Defense Language Institute, where I taught Arabic language and culture. There is something magical about teaching. Perhaps it’s the instant gratification of empowering students, mentoring, or simply sharing knowledge and learning together as a community. Then, in 2014, I was selected to serve as Chairperson of the Iraqi Department, which was in turmoil, reflected in its results. I knew something could be done to bring peace and harmony to the team, helping faculty heal from whatever trauma they faced. My strategy was two-fold: active listening and leading from within. I designated a table away from my desk, where any faculty member could come and talk to me. I would drop everything to listen, acknowledge, and suggest solutions. I also acted as a team member—visiting their offices, spending a day there, teaching their classes, and getting to know their students. This way, when I provided solutions, they were solid. I experienced the class dynamics, the curriculum, and the activities—not because I observed the class but because I taught it. Slowly but surely, we came together as a team, unified to achieve academic excellence. To my surprise, the Commandant honored me with the Coin of Excellence for bringing peace and harmony to the Iraqi Department. So, in the end, I received my award.

In the process, I found my purpose as a leader: to bring peace and harmony to my team and help them grow. Even if the department runs smoothly, it needs to grow. Each team member should have a career path. I also learned to thank and acknowledge my team. Some think I do it too often, while others have started thanking their own teams. Both agree it’s needed.

I hope this glimpse of my leadership journey inspires you to act and lead from within—embracing resilience, empathy, and unity in your own path. Leadership is not about titles or recognition but about the impact we create and the lives we uplift. As I continue my journey, including finishing my book, I would love to hear your stories of leadership and growth. Together, we can learn, inspire, and make a difference.