In 1985 a small family was shipped to Sweden from Iran. My parents and I ended up in a refugee camp in Trelleborg. It was a bit like a summer camp with bunk beds, a communal kitchen and the smell of old wood. The only difference was that nobody wanted to go home.

The camp also housed one of Saddam's former generals. He was great at all sorts of board games, especially the strategic ones. The general and my father could sit and play chess for hours. I stood and tried to reach the edge of the table. The General's party trick was that he could win only by using the pawns at the front. My dad tore his hair like the matador in Ferdinand. Fortunately he is Iranian and Iranians have a lot of hair. Unfortunately, the general's cousin from home called and told him over a bad connection that the general's wife and daughters had been hanged from the beams of his old house and that the house had been burned down. The General overturned the chessboard and smashed the interior of the camp until police came and took him away. Since then my dad has always talked about how big and important and beautiful it is to play chess.