Five of my uncles fought in that war.

They've told us many stories from that time. Somehow they manage to make most of it sound funny. Like the time they had to eat hot water with stale bread and pretend it was noodle soup!

- Here is your soup. Eat fast.
- Sir, this is water.
- Eat your soup!
- But,..
- Are you disobeying your superior? Eat your soup and go easy on the noodles! Don't want any bloated soldiers in my squad!

They're both smiling kindly to each other, knowing there isn't any food tonight for anyone, but they can at least pretend to enjoy a soup together.

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There was one story though that turned into a nightmare for me as a child. About the time my youngest uncle was exposed to a nerve agent.

They were stationed in a temporary base far behind the frontline, when an Iraqi attack craft cuts through and drops a series of bombs.

The bombs don't destroy any valuable assets in the base. The soldiers were relieved about that. They were mostly volunteers with little to no military experience. They didn't know any better.

The bombs turn out to carry a nerve agent and possibly something else, the smoke of which was beginning to spread through the base.

At that point in time, many people didn't even know much about chemical weapons. Perhaps because the government kept the information to keep the morale. But the news eventually spread, as Iran was crying foul to the UN, pleading the powers to stop enabling Saddam to make the chemical weapons. (European friends look very surprised and unconvinced now when they hear their governments turned a blind eye to large European corporations selling chemical technology to Saddam, knowing full well what the tech was going to be used for).

The fear of chemical weapons got so widespread at some point, with pictures of victims appearing everywhere, that there are reports of people dying of heart attacks, after hearing that an explosion nearby was "chemical," even if it turns out not to be.

Anyway, back to my uncle: He remembers flashes of what happened next in the base. There was chaos and confusion and crying. He remembers being ordered to lie flat on the ground and remove his clothing from the waist down. Then medics come and inject shots of Atropine to every soldier on the ground.

He doesn't remember anything after that until next morning, when he wakes up, barely able to see or breathe, but being told that they've survived death.

He eventually survives the whole war, comes back home, gets a job, and starts a family. In his own words, he has made a full recovery. But every few weeks, it happens that as he is leaving the house in the morning to go to work, he makes a small sneeze, after which his body "locks." Family or neighbours would carry him back home. He would be unable to move that whole day.

My uncle was certainly among the lucky ones. Most who were exposed didn't have the luxury of Atropine shots or full body masks. Four years ago, I held two friends in tears when they lost their father after two decades of agonising pain. (Imagine not being able to take a fresh breath, for twenty years).

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The people that I know who fought in the war, now identify with different political factions. Some are more conservative. Some much more liberal. But one thing that unites them all, is that they're against war. Any war. Of any kind.

And they share that opinion with pretty much anyone else I've ever met in my country.

I know it doesn't seem that way when you watch the news, but if you made a visit and saw for yourself, you'd be surprised to learn just how anti-war this country really is.