As a writer, I’ve done some foolhardy things. I flew to Iraq, a week after my final university exams, to help set up a newspaper in newly worn-torn Baghdad. I’ve hopped on a bus to Srinagar, leaving London behind for a job on the Kashmir Observer. And there were times in these places where I thought I had bitten off more than I could chew.
When Saddam’s sons were caught and the whole country erupted in a celebratory gun shower, I thought it was the start of a civil war. As I tossed up between hiding in the wardrobe or under the bed of our tiny, insecure, house, I realized I had been a bit irresponsible and might cause my parents some grief.
