When I was growing up in Baghdad, my father used to say, “Lamees, our family is the builder of this country.” He could tell me what my family had done for Iraq as far back as Ottoman times. So when I came to London in the early 1970s to do a PhD in pathology at King's College, I was determined to go home after my studies to serve my country.

But within 18 months of arriving in Britain, I had my first daughter. Then, after I completed my PhD, I was awarded a fellowship at King's College Hospital. And after that I had another daughter. When my father died suddenly in 1973, I wasn't able to go back. I managed a three-week visit in 1976, and in 1977 my mother came to visit when my second daughter was a baby.

But after Saddam Hussein took power in 1979, I couldn't go back. I feared I'd be held in Iraq and never see my children again. Of course, my mother couldn't come to Britain and by the time she died I hadn't seen her in 14 years.

When US and UK forces invaded Iraq the images I saw of the devastation were deeply painful. Yet I also saw my first chance in 28 years to go home. People warned me it was dangerous but I was desperate to see my country again. And I wanted to take my eldest daughter, so that she could see her heritage and meet her extended family.

So in March 2004, I landed in Amman at dawn with my husband and eldest daughter, Maysa. We hired a driver to take us to Baghdad. My husband and daughter slept, but I was alert and awake; I didn't want to miss a thing. I cried and cried as I crossed the border into Iraq. I saw the desert and the sky and I felt at home. The road was excellent. I was proud of the road.

In Baghdad, I went straight out for a walk. I breathed in the smells of my childhood: the jasmine and the barbecues. I had wonderful memories of the city as a young girl. Sometimes we would go to the movies and then to Abu Nawas, a place where the banks of the Tigris were lined with cafés. We'd eat samak masgouf, a kind of freshwater fish, and drink raisin juice. A poet would wander around reading his work. There'd be live music and everyone would be walking and talking and making jokes. My walk did bring back happy memories but it was also painful to see tanks and soldiers on the streets and deserted, bomb-damaged buildings.

The next day we went to my father's old house to see my brother. Everything was just as I remembered – even my father's old chair was in the same place. I wanted my brother to take me and Maysa to Abu Nawas to eat the fish and see the bustle and activity. But when we got there, it was a rubbish tip: piles of stinking refuse along the Tigris. I broke down in tears.

I took my daughter to as many places as I could. She was eager to meet people and see places I'd talked about, but it wasn't easy for her. It's the same for all Iraqis who were born in London. It's difficult to fit in, and to see the country as it is now.

When I came back to London, I was deflated and exhausted. I had always thought that when Saddam was gone I would go back and give something to the country that had made me. I never thought Iraq would come to this. My children would never see their country as it used to be.

It was then that I decided to write down my memories of Iraq, many of which were tied to food – I have been cooking since I was 13. My memoirs turned into a collection of recipes that were eventually published as The Iraqi Cookbook. I feel at last that in some way I have made a contribution to my country. I have captured a memory of Iraq for the generation of Iraqis in Britain who will never know what the country used to be like.