A few days ago, a seemingly casual question from my colleague, Jaffar Agha Jaffar, unfolded into an experience that touched me far deeper than I expected. We were wrapping up a long, routine workday when he turned to me with his signature gentle smile and asked, “Interested in classical music?”

I answered without hesitation. “Absolutely!”

“Then come with me tonight,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “to the National Theatre. The Iraqi National Symphony Orchestra is performing.”

At that moment, I thought I had simply accepted an invitation to a concert. I didn’t realise I was being handed a passport, not to a different place, but to a deeper understanding of Baghdad, its resilience, and the unyielding spirit of its people.

Before the concert, Jaffar and I made our way to Mariam Restaurant, a cosy, unpretentious spot tucked near the theater. The scent of grilled tikka mingled with the warm fragrance of freshly baked samoon, and the familiar clinking of tea glasses filled the air. We lingered over our meal, chatting easily, savouring the food and the moment. Outside, the city bustled on, dusk settling gently over Baghdad.

As we walked toward the National Theatre, I couldn’t help but feel a ripple of anticipation. The building stood proud and dignified, a landmark that had witnessed both glory and grief. With our VIP passes, we slipped into seats close to the stage. The red velvet, the dim lights, the quiet murmur of the audience — everything felt steeped in history, as though the theatre itself carried the memories of countless performances in its walls.

And what a history the orchestra has.

It began as the Baghdad Symphony Orchestra in 1944, evolving into the Iraqi National Symphony Orchestra by 1959, and finally receiving formal recognition and state support. But the tides of time were not always kind. In 1962, the orchestra was officially abolished. Yet, undeterred, the musicians continued to rehearse underground, refusing to let the music die. In 1970, their perseverance was rewarded when the orchestra was re-established. This tenacity — this refusal to let the silence win — reverberated through the very architecture of the theater.

The concert was set to begin at 6:00 PM, though in true Baghdad fashion, there was a charming delay. In this city, life flows to its own rhythm, and nobody seems in a rush to force it into straight lines.

When the lights finally dimmed and the orchestra took the stage under the poised leadership of Maestro Kareem Wasfi, the audience hushed. Wasfi himself is a living symbol of Iraq’s cultural resilience — a man who has not only conducted symphonies but played cello in war-torn streets to reclaim beauty amidst chaos.

The evening began with a solemn Arabic poem, recited with haunting clarity. Its words hung in the air, invoking reflection and reverence — the kind of silence that speaks louder than sound.

Then came the music.

What followed was an exquisite journey through classical compositions interwoven with subtle contemporary flair. The orchestra’s precision and passion were evident, but what truly moved me was the presence of young musicians, especially the remarkably talented female instrumentalists. In a region too often mischaracterised by the world, these young women were redefining the narrative — not just participating, but commanding the stage with grace and conviction.

Their bows moved with confidence, fingers danced on keys and strings, and in those harmonies, I heard something more — the heartbeat of a city that refuses to stop dreaming.

By the time the final note faded, the clock had struck 8:00. But the silence didn’t last. It was shattered by a wave of thunderous applause, heartfelt and prolonged. People clapped not just for the performance, but for everything it represented — perseverance, pride, healing, and above all, the unbreakable bond between a city and its art.

I sat there, momentarily speechless, swept up in an emotion I couldn’t quite name. This hadn’t just been a concert. It had been a conversation between generations. Between tradition and tomorrow. Between hope and history.

As we stepped out into the cool night air, I felt something shift in me. Baghdad — a city that has endured so much — had just reminded me of the quiet, invincible power of culture. Despite wars, sanctions, and sorrow, here was an orchestra that had refused to be silenced. Here were artists who still chose to create, to teach, to inspire.

That evening will stay with me, not just for the music, but for what it revealed: that beauty persists even in the most unexpected places, and that a symphony played in Baghdad is no less than a symphony of the human spirit.

So yes, what began as a simple question led to something far more profound. A musical evening, yes. But also, a journey into the resilient soul of Iraq — and a memory I’ll hold close, always.