It was a whole new world. The palm trees were aligned perfectly. They were of equal height and beauty, and they stood tall and firm, as if holding up the blood-red sunset sky behind them. They towered over the people, protecting them from the sizzling Middle Eastern sun. The rays reflected off the glowing green leaves, burning my eyes and fears away. But even they were inferior to the man-made yet magnificent creations surrounding me. From “the world's only 7-star hotel” to the world's largest and most developed shopping mall to an awe-inspiring artificial archipelago, this place was insane. Insanely beautiful. A warm breeze brushed my hair, making it flutter, and I soon realized that the only hair being worn loose in this place was mine.

The breeze ran past the palm trees and made them sway in unison, as if saying “hi” and welcoming me to this foreign land. I stepped out of the airport into the streets. A dark-skinned man in an expensive black suit stepped in front of me and said, “Marhaban, bikum fi Dubai.” (“Hello, welcome to Dubai.”)

A huge ski resort in the middle of a desert, air-conditioned wind blowing in the streets, the emerald waves of the Persian Gulf crashing into the Burj Al Arab hotel – this was Dubai. And in the midst of it all was our villa, complete with swimming pool, spa, weight room, café, and breathtaking veranda views of a clear blue creek. I didn't even have to go outside to enjoy myself. I'd already planned everything in my head. I would ask my new friends over, have a picnic in our yard by the creek, go swimming in the pool, and then watch a movie on our 84-inch touch TV. Everything was going to be perfect. Paradise on earth. However, I was too young and immature to sense the danger in these amazingly perfect conditions. I was innocent, but I clearly remember the day my eyes were abruptly opened.

During the second week of school, I just couldn't adjust to my uninteresting current events class. I understood that all the conflicts in the Middle East were horrible, but I felt they were far away and was indifferent to them. I struggled to stay alert and keep my head from drooping during class, but my teacher's lecture on Iraq and how devastating it was to “see our neighbors suffer” was just too boring. I fell asleep.

When I got home, sweating under the sun, I yelled, “I'm home!” as always but was surprised to find no reply. Frowning, I walked to my parents' room, only to be stopped by whispered voices inside. The door was slightly ajar, and I heard another man's voice. Weirdly, they were speaking in Arabic. I peeked in through the crack to see who he was and immediately recognized my dad's business partner, Assad. He regularly brought me sweets, took me to the mall, and treated my family to dinner.

With my poor Arabic, I wasn't able to understand much of their conversation. However, I could make out that Assad was trying to sell my dad something and persuade him to go somewhere.

“This is the safest and hardest material out there, trust me,” he said. “My wife only let me go because I told her I would be wearing this.”

“Assad, think it over again. This is too dangerous. Going to Iraq at a time like this just to retrieve our money? Do you want to exchange our lives for our profit?” asked my dad.

Iraq? Wasn't that the dangerous place my teacher was talking about? Why would my dad go there?

“I told you, as long as we have this, it'll be fine. The reason it's so expensive is because it is that reliable,”Assad replied.

I had a sudden urge to barge into the room and stop them, but when I heard footsteps, I quickly ran outside past our veranda and lay down on the warm grass. I got out my homework and tried to focus on it, but I couldn't. I had a bad feeling.

When my mom called me for dinner, I lied that I was sick and would eat later. My curiosity about the object Assad was trying to convince my father to buy was almost exploding. I needed to find out what it was. I sneaked into my parents' room and found a box on their bed. Inside I found a green vest with a bunch of buttons and zippers on it. The vest's tag said “Bulletproof.”

Although I was young, I knew what a bulletproof vest was for. Holding it in my hand, I recklessly ran outside and angrily confronted my dad with it. My parents looked at me in silence, but their blank faces were enough to answer my question.

My dad left for Iraq the following week. I couldn't even say a proper good-bye because I was so angry at him. I went to school, talked with my friends, and tried to have fun, but in the back of my mind was an image of my dad in his bulletproof vest in Iraq.

The following day in my current events class, I was prepared to let my eyes droop again, but everything was different that day. One of my classmates gave a presentation about Iraq. My mind was abruptly filled with fear as he described a terrorist attack the previous day. Hundreds of people near my dad's company's offices had been killed or injured. Out of shock, I immediately yelled that the company was my dad's. No one had confirmed that he was there, but still, so many horrible, inescapable thoughts flooded my mind: I hadn't even said a proper good-bye to him. I was such a bad girl. Was my father still alive? Had I, his first daughter, been angry at him until his death? My surprised teacher wiped my tears and took me to the school office to call my mom. I don't exactly remember what happened next, but my mom picked me up and we went home. I remember her calling my dad's company and breaking down in tears.

I woke up the next day to find no one in the house. I yelled for my mom and sisters, but the only voice that came back was my echo. Worried, I went to my mom's room and found a note that read: Dad is back. He is in the hospital. Don't be worried – stay home and I will get you later. A wave of relief washed over me, and I cried from happiness.

Several hours later, my mom sent our driver to take me to the hospital. My dad was in a hospital bed, and although the bandages hid his face, I knew he was happy to see me. Most children would be afraid or sad to see their dad lying in a hospital bed with bandages covering his body, but all I could feel was thankfulness. I held his hand and told him that I was sorry for being mad. He apologized for not listening to me. I never asked what happened; I didn't need to know. All I cared about was that my dad was home and safe.

My dad had to have surgery because several of his bones were broken. I overheard him and one of his colleagues talk about the accident – and I found out that Assad, who had sold my dad the bulletproof vest, had lied about the whole company crisis in Iraq. He was scheming to retrieve the money that my dad thought was stolen and planned to “accidentally” leave my dad to die. The man who had worked with my dad for more than a decade, the man who had bought us dinner at the most expensive hotel in the world, the man who was almost like an uncle to me – he had betrayed my dad for money. My dad was so stricken by the truth that his weak sinus vessels exploded and he had to have another surgery. Hearing all this, I was fuming too. I had always viewed adults as dignified and deserving respect, but I learned then that some aren't what they appear.

The first thing I did when I got home was take out the pocketknife my dad had given to me for a camping trip and shred the bulletproof vest in anger. Tears rolled down my face as I recalled the conversation between Assad and my dad. I ripped the vest apart only to realize that it was merely stuffed with fabric. I recalled Assad's words: “This is the safest and hardest material out there, trust me … The reason it's so expensive is because it is that reliable.” So much for “bulletproof.”

When I originally arrived in Dubai from Jordan, where there were many dangerous terrorist attacks, its luxuriousness was a great catharsis for me. The seeming perfection of everything told me that there was nothing to be afraid of here. However, the perfectly aligned trees, the shiny cars, the clicking of expensive high heels, and shuffling of business papers did not seem so luxurious and peaceful anymore. I had visited reality, where humans would betray friends for wealth – where humans are blinded by fame and money. I wanted to go back.