I never thought I would learn so much about teeth.

But as things stand any accomplishment in any family is a collective effort.

We set off at six thirty; I thought I might just make it back in time for our morning meeting or perhaps be a little late.  I was going out with my daughter to hunt for a tooth for her to repair in her final Operative clinical exam. The tooth had to be diagnosed "class 2 with either mesial or distal extension" – I dropped her off at the college entrance and started out.

I found that I wasn't alone in my mission. Tens of students were out hunting, the road was studded with white coats – they all had clinical tests. And the people of that neighbourhood probably had the best repaired teeth in Baghdad.

Shop keepers, an ice-cream peddler and two car mechanics, all reluctant to go to the hospital, all with class 1 cavities – a break for ten minutes.

I forgot all about the time and our morning meeting. I forgot that my son had probably finished his exam by then, I just went on touring the neighbourhood in my car looking for that tooth.

High school students!

There were two high schools in the neighbourhood! Off I went again.

After eleven trips in all to the dental clinic with cases ranging from initial carries to root canals I was ready to give up. I just parked and took a breath.

Around the corner I saw a table-tennis table with some 15 young men and boys playing and joking, and I thought – last chance. It was past ten thirty and the exam started at eleven.

I approached the group and asked out loud if anyone had a tooth ache – and got lucky. Three young adults seemed interested. I took all three to the diagnosis room in the dental clinic and one of them had a class two cavity! I almost jumped for joy, and I could see the compassion in the senior dentist's eyes (he knew all about it!), and some envy in the eyes of the other students who were engaged in the same pursuit of "that tooth".

I then asked the young man for his name to be able to issue a written diagnosis – and he balked. I looked at his face drain of blood and I understood. I took him aside and asked for his name again and he barely answered, "Omar Abdulmelik" a name that is abhorred by Shiites – in this Mahdi Army controlled neighbourhood. I nodded and spoke to the registrar, "His name is Mohammed Abdullah" a name that is very common. Inwardly, I was shaking because this young man's life hung on a thread – and it was my doing! Suddenly I became aware of all the eyes in that wide corridor.

The registrar wrote the name and diagnosis without comment and handed the paper to me. I snatched it, motioned to Omar to follow me, and quickly exited the clinic.

I took him to the adjacent building, the college, introduced him to my daughter – who had finished her first clinic by this time and saw them walk away chattering happily.

I looked for a chair, sank into it, closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Alhamdu Lillah, she did well.

The road home was blocked because PM Maliki had just personally re-opened the Sarrafiyah Bridge that was bombed some months before.

We got home at around six.