I was born on July 20, 1948, in the "Eastern Karrada" district of Baghdad, into a family known as the "House of the Engineer." This title became attached to us in appreciation of my father's career, Fadhil Mohamed Ali Al-Mayahy (Al-Rubeai), who spent his professional life at the Public Survey Department. As for my mother, Nouriah Hammoudi Al-Qazzaz, she came from an ancient Baghdadi family renowned for the profession of weaving cloaks.
I grew up in the alleys of Karrada, receiving my primary education at "Eastern Karrada" Elementary School, then "Al-Irfan" Intermediate School, and finally "Eastern" High School. I grew up in a distinguished family, among my late brothers (aviation engineer Zuhair and artillery commander Isam, who was martyred in the Iran-Iraq war), and my brothers (Professor and plant protection researcher Dr. Hussein, and industrialist and businessman Amer), and my sisters (Sawsan, a housewife, and the architect and visual artist Maysoon).
My political maturity was not a coincidence; its contours were shaped in the family space and among relatives. Some relatives played a pivotal role in refining my intellectual orientations, most notably my maternal uncle Jaafar Hammoudi Al-Qazzaz, whom I was deeply influenced by during my years working in his shop—those years that were like a daily school in understanding life and politics. I was also significantly influenced by my aunt's sons, Mohamed and Husni Al-Qazzaz, who had a great impact in deepening my democratic vision.
Among the stations I cherish from my childhood is my meeting with leader Abd al-Karim Qasim when I was eleven years old. I remember vividly how his car stopped in front of my uncle's shop to talk with the temporary construction workers (day laborers) who gathered there every morning, in a scene overflowing with humility and affection. He then entered the shop and asked for "half a kilo of cheese," and it was I who handed it to him with the spontaneity of a child whose hands trembled from the awe of the moment. He asked me about my studies and my presence in the shop, and when he learned that I was helping my uncle, he said to me in his paternal tone: "Good for you, my son." This moment engraved in my memory the image of a leader close to the pulse of the people, and from that day, I continued to hold appreciation and admiration for him that never ceased.
Nor did this attachment stop at that brief encounter; it extended to take the form of early awareness. I still recall with my memory those demonstrations in which my Arabic language teacher, Mr. Mohamed, urged me to lead the students of Eastern Karrada School while I was still in the fifth grade. We would march through the streets toward the leader's house, chanting at the top of our lungs for his life and the life of the revolution, in spontaneous national feelings that colored those days.
My teenage years in high school did not differ in essence from the lives of my peers of that generation. They were a mixture of dedication to academic achievement and the intellectual passion that began to form outside the boundaries of official curricula. I lived at the heart of that delicate balance between school discipline and restless intellectual curiosity, where storybooks and novels opened horizons for understanding the human psyche and societal struggles, while leftist political readings sketched in my mind features of a more just world and gave me the first tools to analyze the reality around me.
In the midst of that search for self, I tried to find havens in the worlds of art, picking up the painter's brush at times and attempting to compose poetry at others, thinking that expressing the depths of the soul could not be complete without them. However, I soon abandoned those attempts early, when I realized with early critical awareness that I did not possess the genuine talent that would rise to my ambition in those arts, so I chose honesty with myself over continuing on paths that did not resemble my essence. I also practiced several sports, especially running and boxing, but I would quickly abandon them whenever I did not find in them what would satisfy my quick and fickle ambitions.
Nevertheless, my personality was not to be shaped in isolation from the environment; Iraq at that time was boiling with major political and social transformations. Those rapidly unfolding events were the "real laboratory" that refined my awareness, and those charged atmospheres of hopes and disappointments gave me a different vision of life and a heightened sense of responsibility toward society and the homeland—which accompanied me throughout all subsequent stages of my journey.
My passion for science led me to the College of Science at the University of Baghdad, where I graduated with distinction and was appointed as a teaching assistant at the college. Despite my academic entitlement, political winds delayed my scholarship for four years, until I received the opportunity to complete my doctorate at Queen Mary College, University of London.
Due to complex political circumstances, I was unable to return to Iraq until after 2003. During the years of exile, I settled in England and married Joyce, whose quiet strength, boundless patience, and unwavering resilience became the anchor of my life through every turn, and was blessed with four children: Isam, Nazar, Niall, and Rayan who brought immense joy into my heart, even as caring for them presented continuous challenges, heavy demands, and a far more intricate life than we had ever anticipated. I moved in my academic career between the University of Algiers and the University of Garyounis in Libya, before settling again in Britain in 1984, where I worked at the Universities of "Surrey" and then "Birmingham."
After my separation from Joyce in 2002, I began a new chapter in my life by connecting with Mariam in 2003. After a short journey working in Iraq lasting ten months, I moved to work at the University College Dublin. In 2016, it was time for retirement, so I traveled with my wife and two daughters (May and Malak) to the city of Rabat in Morocco, where we have settled to this day.