The car jerked sharply to the side before I could even ask why.
A second later, the ground shook beneath us—a force so strong it froze time itself.
In Baghdad, explosions didn’t roar; they stopped conversations, silenced streets, and carved stillness into a city that had learned to live with chaos.
In that heavy silence, I learned the first rule of leadership: showing up means walking into fear, not away from it.
When I was appointed as Iraq’s first Minister of the Environment, there were no celebrations waiting for me. No safety nets. No clear paths to success. Instead, the backdrop was a fragile country where chaos lived on every corner and trust was a rare currency. So, I created one. I built a Ministry not out of walls, but out of purpose—serving the people by delivering something more urgent than promises: safe drinking water. In a country where oil fueled division, I chose water to build hope.
Every morning, I showed up to the Ministry, not knowing if I would return home. The journey to my office was never normal. Traffic jams were the least of my concerns. Suicide attacks, roadside bombs, shootings—these were the obstacles my bodyguards and I faced daily. In the beginning, they picked me up in one of the small minivans common among students and employees, hoping to blend in with the city’s landscape. Later, we adopted a different strategy: leaving at 4:30 a.m., when the streets of Baghdad were empty enough to spot if we were being followed. But even with all the precautions, there were mornings when we would pass a checkpoint or a street corner, only to hear minutes later a massive explosion shaking the ground—a blast taking place on the very road we had just crossed, or one we had planned to use.
I still recall the expressions on people’s faces in those moments—the stunned stillness that followed the roar of the explosion, the disbelief etched into every line. It was as if time itself stopped, emotions froze midair, and the city held its breath. A collective pause between survival and grief. In those seconds, Baghdad did not feel like a city of millions; it felt like a single wounded body, absorbing another blow and trying to keep standing.
And still, despite all of it, I made it a point to be among the first to arrive and the last to leave.
It was not because I was fearless. I was very much aware of the risks. But I believed—then and now—that leadership is not about immunity to fear. It is about commitment in the face of fear. I carried these lessons with me when I moved to the United States. I believed perhaps here, merit alone would define success. But the truth is more complicated. Here too, leadership demanded more than credentials or intelligence. It demanded perseverance.
The bombs were gone. But in their place were other barriers: the quiet skepticism, the polite doubts, the invisible ceilings built out of unfamiliar accents and unfamiliar names.
Whether I was leading a classroom or a department, a project team or a struggling program, the principle never changed. I showed up. Teaching and learning became the new water I carried—an offering to environments that were thirsty for connection, understanding, and trust. No speech could solve the burdens my students carried. No grand initiative could erase the uncertainty weighing on my colleagues. But showing up every day—teaching, listening, adapting—built the foundation for change.
When weekends blurred into weekdays, when deadlines loomed and budgets tightened, I stayed late, arrived early, and quietly shouldered the weight of keeping programs alive. Not because anyone was watching. But because leadership, as I had learned in war and carried into peace, is not built on declarations. It is built in silence—in the slow, steady work of presence.
At every stage, I refused to lead from behind a desk. I taught alongside those I supported. I sat in the rooms where challenges were raw and solutions were uncertain. I learned their struggles firsthand because I lived them with them. Real leadership, I came to understand, is not about setting yourself apart. It is about standing with others—steady, patient, unseen when necessary.
Today, people often talk about resilience as if it is born in moments of victory. But resilience is not made in celebrations. It is forged in ordinary days—the days you feel invisible, exhausted, misunderstood—and you show up anyway.
If Iraq taught me anything, it is that leadership is not about surviving moments of chaos alone. And if America taught me anything, it is that even when the noise fades, the daily courage to show up, to care, and to lead quietly still matters just as much.
I no longer hear the sounds of distant bombs. But every morning, I still hear the quiet call of responsibility.
And still, after all these years, I answer it the same way:
I show up.
