My mum ran out of medicine for her high blood pressure yesterday. She called me late in the evening, "Please get it early in the morning, Sahar. I thought I had another packet, but I don't." So off I went, early this morning to where I knew I could buy what is known here as "original" medicine, or medicine that is produced in Europe and that has undergone high quality control. 

It is a pharmacy in Harthiyah. A tiny place on one of the side streets, it has every thing you could possibly need. I often wonder if they are supplied by private importers, or whether they buy from smugglers who smuggle the medicines out from hospitals and government warehouses.

Reaching Kindi Street checkpoint, I stood in the queue.

Fifteen minutes later I reached the security people; they were National Police.

"Pull over!" Oh dear, the never ending issue of showing the car documents. "Here are the papers, and here's me name on them and here's my ID."

"Put them away!" He was almost shouting. What was wrong this time, I wondered.

Louder still, and with eyes about to pop out of his head, "Why is that flag hanging from your rear view mirror? Are you a Bathists?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. At last I grasped that he was talking about a small perfume pad that my son had bought from an intersection in Karrada some months ago. It hung from the mirror by a short string. The pad was painted with the Iraqi flag – The Iraqi flag after 2003, I must add. It was an item sold in most intersections all over Baghdad by poverty stricken women and children.

"I am not sporting an official flag. This is a perfume pad, that's all. And in any case what's wrong with it? It is sold everywhere."

"Get out of the car! Search her!"

I got out of the car. Two younger policemen searched the car thoroughly. "There is nothing, sir."

He reached down into the car, grabbed my hang bag from the cushion and searched it. Finding nothing, he got angrier still, grabbed the keys and walked away, "Stay where you are."

All this time my reaction was utter astonishment. I was so astonished I forgot to be angry and indignant. Why was this policeman angry with me? Was it me? Or was it that they have become nervous after the bombings that swept the city?

At last, anger came to my aid, and I walked over to the policemen, "Your friend shouted at me, searched my handbag (shameful) and took my keys after they found nothing in my car. Are you going to do something about it – Or must I?" I was, of course bluffing. There was absolutely nothing that I could do. But while I was saying these words, I yanked out my phone and raised my eyebrows meaningfully, and one of them turned, crossed the street and walked towards him.

They talked for a bit and walked back together. He was still angry, "There is a law now against sporting that flag, you know. But people are ignorant and don't follow the news. Pull it out and throw it away!"

"Wallahi, I will not."

He reached out and pulled, broke the string and threw the perfume pad on the ground. I was furious by now.

He threw my keys onto the cushion.

In silent rage, I drove off.

Was Saddam a name or a concept? Are we truly rid of him?

I bought the medicine, spent the morning with my parents and then came to work.