The fight for our lives

On 2 August, as Kuwait quietly commemorates the 29th anniversary of the Iraqi invasion, people who endured those traumatic days and months of occupation still poignantly remember the distressing experience. People who went through those dark days still have fearful memories of Iraqi soldiers breaking into homes, arresting people, stealing goods, expropriating property and violently enforcing their brand of justice.

I was too young at that time, about a year and a half, and my memories of those days come from listening to narratives shared with me by my parents. From listening to their stories while growing up, I could only imagine what the situation was like for them, especially the hardships they had to endure and the overwhelming fear of uncertainty about the future. Over the years the riveting narratives were repeated many times over, as new aspects of those bleak days were remembered, adding to the engaging dimensions of stories I had already heard.

In addition to reminding me of the travails that my parents went through to survive those harrowing days, their stories also emphasized to me about how lucky we were to have escaped relatively unscathed from the ordeal. Many others had not been so lucky; some lost a lot, including their loved ones who are commemorated every 2 August.

On the morning of that fateful day in 1990, my family was enjoying a normal day, awaiting the arrival of my baby brother. My father recalls getting ready for work and going out to buy a packet of cigarettes on his way to the office. On the way he found the streets to be empty except for a few people here and there. However, the thought that something terrible had befallen the country did not cross his mind.

On his way my father met an Iraqi soldier who stopped him and inquired where he was going. He then ordered by father to return home immediately as there would be no work on that day. My father returned home quickly, only to find my mother in labor pains. As there were no taxis available at that time, he called on a friend who drove them to the Al Sabah Hospital. My father remembers how the road to the hospital was riddled with barricades and checkpoints were manned by Iraqi soldiers. It was only then that the truth of the invasion dawned on him

My parents’ fears about the invasion were reinforced when they heard a clandestine radio broadcast of the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait. The difficult experiences of the days and weeks that followed are forever etched in their minds. It was a scary enough scenario for my mother to give birth in the midst of an invasion, but what made matters even worse was discovering that the hospital did not have proper supplies and all the nurses had been rounded up and taken away to care for wounded Iraqi soldiers.

My mother ended up giving birth to my young brother with the assistance of hospital helpers. On returning home, my parents discovered that there was very little food supplies available and food and clothes for new-born infants were almost non-existent in the market. For the next couple of days my mom and dad remained indoors as they were afraid to venture outside. Iraqi soldiers were patrolling the area and were knocking on doors demanding food and looking to arrest people to hold as prisoners or hostages. When the Iraqis came to our door, they took pity on my new-born brother and seeing the fear on my mother’s face luckily left us alone. However, as the days ticked by and the occupation progressed into months, the overwhelming fear for our safety created a situation the memories of which continue to haunt my parents to this day.

Hungry, afraid and anxious, is how they remember spending the days of the invasion looking for food wherever it was available and trying desperately to get by without raising suspicion. Many of our neighbors had vacated their flats and moved to other areas, such as Salmiya or Farwaniya, where the Indian congregation was larger. But my parents decided to stay at home as they had to care for two small children. Finally, in the last week of September, my parents took the difficult decision to return to India with a small child and a new-born baby.

The agonizing journey from Kuwait to India took over a week and involved a convoy by bus to Basra, a stay at three camps, including one in no-man’s-land between Iraq and Jordan. Following days of waiting at the Al Andalus and Al Asraq camps in Jordan they then had to wait for a flight from Amman to Mumbai. In the temporary camps that had been set up, my mother had to sleep on the cold dirt floor as there were no tents available. My mother recollects that sleep was the hardest thing to come by, as fear and worry kept her awake all night. In Jordan, my parents repeatedly tried to evoke the sympathy of officials, hoping that the sight of a small baby would give them preference in the evacuation process.

One day, on hearing rumors of special flights being operated for the sick, my parents too joined the long queue that had formed in front of a tent. Eventually, the sheer kindness of one Jordanian soldier, who felt pity on hearing my mother’s desperate plea, allowed us to board a flight to India. After having lived through several traumatic and desperate months in occupied Kuwait, suffered the hardships of refugee camps in Jordan, and gone through the anxious wait for evacuation, to say, our family was glad to  finally land in Mumbai on 3 October, would be an understatement.

Following the liberation of Kuwait in 1991, my parents decided to make their way back to Kuwait and start life anew. Unfortunately, when they returned to Kuwait, they found that the person who they had entrusted the keys to their home had ransacked the place and taken away everything from refrigerator to the children’s toys and clothes.

Nevertheless, my parents with courage and indomitable will-power began the slow and arduous task of rebuilding their lives from scratch. As we marked each 2 August since then, my dad used to fondly reminisce of his large collection of music CDs that he lost and the toys he brought for me on special occasions. Though my dad is no more, and despite all the hardships they went through, my mom still hold an optimistic view on life.

She keeps reminding me that things could have been far worse for our family, and, aside from a few bruises, we were able to rise stronger and more resilient from the invasion. Like Kuwaiti people, who despite the atrocities and human tragedy of the occupation are committed to looking ahead to the future, my mom remembers those dark days with sorrow but looks to the future with hope. She recalls with gratitude the small acts of kindness by strangers during the invasion; kindnesses that reaffirm her faith in humanity and in the future.

Christina Pinto
Staff writer


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