How do Iraq and Britain shape one woman's identity? Dalia Al-Dujaili's Babylon, Albion explores the connection

In Babylon, Albion, British-born Iraqi writer, editor, and producer Dalia Al-Dujaili reflects on her personal and political connection to the landscapes of both Iraq — her ancestral homeland — and Britain, the country where she was born and raised.

While much of the memoir focuses on intimate moments with her family — especially her mother — Dalia also draws on research, interviews with notable authors and activists, and references to food, animals, plants, Quranic teachings, history, and mythology, all of which have helped expand her understanding of what it means to be native to a land.

Through her lyrical prose, Dalia creates a work that feels both personal and universal, while raising important questions, particularly for immigrant children, about the concept of home and the challenges of truly belonging to an adopted country.

As Dalia explains in the opening of her book, “Though for much of my life I have felt like a stranger in my own body, I have come to discover that there is an ancient land inside of me. When I open myself up, I find dust and sand that settle in all the corners of myself.”

'A house with a date palm will never starve'

One striking example of how Dalia explores the idea of belonging is her reflection on dates, which is a powerful symbol in her memoir.

She begins by comparing the lasting presence of oak trees in British culture to the special place the date palm holds in the Iraqi psyche.

As her thoughts develop, Dalia recalls walking down a grey, uneven street in London when a familiar scent caught her by surprise.

She writes, "It is humid, it smells of clay, and I long for the dry streets of my mother(s)land. In the moment where that scent memory hits me, the only place I could be at home would be under the shade of a date palm. I dream of jasmine. I crave the feel of dust collecting between the lines in the palms of my hands."

For Dalia, this memory makes her think about the history of dates in Iraq, which are an important part of her identity.

She recalls that "every Baghdadi house had at least one palm in its garden" and mentions the old Mesopotamian saying, 'a house with a date palm will never starve,' which even inspired a cookbook by Iraqi artist Michael Rakowitz.

Her mother strengthens this connection by telling Dalia, 'The palm tree is a symbol of belonging for Iraqis everywhere. It is featured in many works by Iraqi artists and mentioned in most Iraqi poetry."

Nazem Al-Ghazali’s song Fouq al Nakhal, one of the most iconic Iraqi songs, tells the story of a young man who sings to his star-crossed lover "above the palm tree." Similarly, in the artworks of Betool Al-Fekaiki, Dalia's grandmother, and Suad Al-Attar, along with other contemporary Iraqi artists, the palm tree appears repeatedly as a symbol of Iraqi identity and pride.

Rethinking the English rose

Similarly, Dalia explores the English Rose, which for years has been associated with English girls of fair skin and delicate features, likening them to the national flower of England.

The term, rooted in the Tudor Rose, combines the red rose of the House of Lancaster and the white rose of the House of York — a union that followed the end of the Wars of the Roses, marked by Henry VII’s marriage to Elizabeth of York in 1486 and the start of the Tudor dynasty.

That said, the earliest reference to the English Rose appears in the writings of Frederick Pilon in 1780. Interestingly, one of the most common pub names in the UK, after The Royal Oak, is The Rose and Crown — a name that refers to the Wars of the Roses, with around 218 establishments bearing it.

However, Dalia points out that despite its iconic status, the English Rose is not actually native to the UK. The cultivation of garden roses began with the Romans, who introduced them from regions in South West Asia, where roses had been grown for centuries. The Romans, influenced by their trade and cultural exchanges with ancient Egypt, also sourced roses from places like Iran, Turkey, and Syria.

“The rose is the national flower of Iraq, where it is a true native,” Dalia observes.

She also highlights how the rose has inspired much poetry, particularly by the Iraqi poet Nazik Al-Malaika, who writes, “We will build a balcony for the timid rose / with pillars made of words,” and, “so I have come to pour out my bewilderment to nature / Among the fragrant roses.”

Ultimately, Dalia suggests that the English Rose symbolises cosmopolitanism rather than the identity of a single nation. She argues that British gardens, much like the symbol of the rose itself, are deeply multicultural.

Remembrance through nature's gifts

Though touched on briefly, one of the most thought-provoking concepts Dalia introduces is the idea of ‘remembrance'.

Reflecting on how we care for dahlias, fig trees, and pots of mint in our gardens, she notes, “We have forgotten how sacred the nature of creation is.”

For Dalia, the way we engage with plants shapes our relationship with the wider natural world. Instead of fostering a relationship based on domination — forcing plants to grow as we wish, using poisons and pesticides to create artificial paradises — Dalia suggests our gardens can become microcosms for honest, reciprocal relationships with nature. Gardens, she argues, can be places that witness creation and help us remember.

To support this idea, Dalia references Layla K. Feghali’s concept of 'remembrance' from her book The Land in Our Bones, in which Layla calls for acknowledging our ancestral connection to the land.

As Dalia explores Layla's work, she shares her own act of remembrance: the drawer in her Edinburgh dorm room, filled with her mother’s Kleicha (Iraqi date cookies) in a plastic Tupperware.

Her friends would come over with cheap vodka and lemonade before going out, and while searching for eyeliner, they would open the drawer.

“What’s this?” they would ask, with Dalia offering them the date biscuits to try in response.

Though stale, the biscuits were more of a memento from her mother’s kitchen than a regular snack — something to ease her homesickness.

'We must dig up the soil inside us'

Ultimately, Dalia’s aim in Babylon, Albion, is not to teach lessons.

As she explains, “I’m just giving people a glimpse, a very quick glimpse, because it touches on so many different things in quite a short amount of time. So, it’s not meant to be an exhaustive kind of overview of any topic or any movement or any argument or idea.”

Beyond sharing her reflections, Dalia expresses a deeper wish to be a voice for the natural world. “I just want to be a mouthpiece for the trees, for the birds, for the rivers. I really want to be the person to speak up for the planet, and I want to just let my feelings be really apparent on the page.”

With this in mind, Dalia hopes her book encourages readers to reflect on their own heritage. She shares how her Welsh flatmate, after reading the book, said, “Dalia, I am so interested to learn more about my heritage now.”

As Dalia puts it, this response from her flatmate is exactly what she hoped for with her book. She says, “If a Welshman says he wants to learn more about his heritage, I can feel proud because that's the only aim I'm hoping for.”

Dalia also addresses a broader issue: how many of us overlook the important stories beneath our feet. She encourages us to pay more attention, noting, “No matter where you come from, we all have heritage and stories to listen to from the past. We all carry an archive of stories and an archive of memories with us, and it’s all about literally digging them up from the soil beneath us.”

As Dalia writes in the opening of her memoir, “We must dig up the soil inside us to discover whose memories are buried there.”

Babylon, Albion will be released on Thursday, 8 May 2025

Zainab Mehdi is The New Arab's Associate Editor and researcher specialising in governance, development, and conflict in the Middle East and North Africa region

Follow her on X: @zaiamehdi