Seven Months of Reflection

“Mussaad…wake up…wake up” echoed my mother’s voice. It was still dark outside.

“But mum, why are we up so early? There’s no school yet” I sleepily replied.

“Get down to the basement before a bomb falls on our head.”

It was the second of August, 1990. My father had left us when the first emergency sirens started screaming, signaling the march of thousands of Iraqi troops and hundreds of Iraqi tanks down Kuwait’s major highway. As a high ranking General in the Royal Kuwaiti Air Force, for the first time in his life, my father had to put his duty to his country before his family. He left to help organize the evacuation of the Kuwaiti Royal Family, without even saying goodbye to his then four children. It would be a long seven months before any of us would see him again. I am now the eldest of five sons and a daughter. I was only eight years old at the time of the first Gulf War.

The invasion of Kuwait by Saddam’s Iraqi régime came at a delicate moment in my life. I was young and easily impressionable; yet the tribulations of the Iraqi occupation still resonate clearly in my mind. The first Gulf War in a sense represented a coming-of-age for me. Even though I failed to realize it at the time, I had been thrust into manhood by these extraordinary events. With my father planning Desert Shield/Storm on the Saudi border, I had become, by incredulous default, rajalol bait - the man of the house. No longer a timid young boy, I remember making countless robust efforts to help secure the well being of my family and my country during those hectic seven months. For the first time in my life, I felt a profound sense of national pride, a new sensation that would demand an equally powerful sense of responsibility.

Life as I had known it had come to a stark halt.

I remember an instance during the first few weeks of the invasion when one of my aunts had decided to deliver a package for one of my uncles. When I found out that the so called ‘package’ included a small arsenal of hand-grenades and fire arms for the Kuwaiti résistance, I childishly jumped to the opportunity to go on my first mission as it were, or seemed to be for me at least. There I was, in the passenger seat of my aunt’s sedan, my mother unbeknownst of my whereabouts, would surely be proud of her eldest son. I was part of my résistance now and my suggestion to nestle the live hand-grenades in the back of my car seat was surely an ingenious plot that would undoubtedly deceive those dimwitted Iraqis. Now that I think about it, I was probably sitting on enough fire-power to level an entire city block. Today, I find myself often coming up with ways in which to stock my intellectual ammunition in the most peculiar of places. My ignitable sense of duty and constant striving for creativity has certainly stemmed form that definitive moment in time, when I took the initiative of planning and staging my first contribution to my country.

Many car trips later, on a crisp winter morning, I remember my brother running into the house screaming that there were Iraqis at the door. My first instinct was that they had somehow discovered my stealthy scheme. Soon though, I would find out that the soldiers weren’t looking for the resistance’s newest master of espionage, they had come looking for my father.

The Iraqi’s began ransacking the house, looking for any evidence that would lead them to my father’s whereabouts. When they got tired of searching, one of the officers pulled out his handgun and pointed it straight to my grandmother’s head.

There had been plenty of times in my life when I felt powerless, but seeing my sixty year old grandmother kneeling on her bed with a gun wielding Iraqi soldier barking orders at her, is a tremendous image that has been burned into the very core of my subconscious. It was at that point in time, when I first realized that sometimes we do not have the capability or means to act in the appropriate way. That was my first brush with my mortal limits, a brief brush that would prepare me for those many moments in time when a person should exercise patience rather than brash action.

Thankfully, the Iraqis eventually left and none of my family was hurt. Indeed, it was after that very graphic Iraqi visit that I gave up my short tenure in the Kuwaiti resistances’ supply chain, to focus on something more important - my family. Nowadays, I consider a sense of family thicker than blood. To me, family is more than just blood ties; it’s a way of life composed of love, loyalty, and sacrifice. I first realized the true value of family during the 1990 Iraqi invasion of Kuwait. Those seven months of captivity helped foster the inherent respect I have for the power of family. I watched my mother and my aunts stash all their jewelry in the central air-conditioning units. The term frozen assets in my mind, has never known a more contemporary definition. I began emulating my family’s squirrellish behaviour, by rationing my daily allowance of chocolates and believe me when I say that there wasn’t a surer sign of strife to an eight year old child, that a country’s diminishing chocolate supplies. However, my brief bearish benevolence eventually backfired, as my younger siblings eventually discovered my hidden stash of goodies to the bewilderment of my mother, who never fails to remind me of how heartbroken she was when she saw the mounds of chocolate I had saved. Stemming from those circumstances, I still find myself saving and savoring my sweet rewards for a later date, especially when compared to the archetypal frivolity stereotyped to this generation of affluent Arabic youth. My rational rationing tendency has invoked in me a sense of deep appreciation for delayed gratitude and the willingness to invest in the potential of intellectual properties. I also find myself learning the virtues of life through my understanding of family. I love my own family with an immense passion and it is mainly due to their constant support and encouragement that I continue to strive confidently in the direction of achieving my goals. Furthermore, I would like to add that I now always keep a large stash of chocolates in my bottom left-hand drawer.

Perhaps my most cherished memory of the whole occupational ordeal was the fact that my young eyes were witness to the coming together of a nation. The Kuwaiti people, regardless of socioeconomic class or sex were slowly melting into a single national identity. It was during those extraordinary times, that the entire population of Kuwait put aside their tribal differences to come together as one family. Those seven months of the invasion were filled with various lessons of cooperation and camaraderie that would further build upon my newfound sense of national pride.

Yet another amazing sight was the willingness of the Kuwaiti people to do manual labour. Long known for their Puritan-like work ethic during the country’s pearl-diving days, the Kuwaiti populous had grown increasingly complacent by riding the Oil Boom. The war had changed all that. The hard working Kuwaiti spirit had been resurrected through the threat of instability. I strictly remember my own uncle, a high ranking governmental official, driving a garbage truck and picking up trash from the streets. I remember doing my part as well, bringing water into the house from an antiquated ground water well in our backyard. It was then that I truly learnt the value of hard work. I had done some household chores in the past, but nothing I had previously done could even compare to the delayed gratitude associated with the notion of being able to provide the most precious desert resource, water, to my most precious possession - my family.

On the 26th of February, 1991, Kuwait was liberated by an international coalition led by the United States and the United Kingdom. Witnessing those warriors march down triumphantly through that same highway that the Iraqis used to invade us, would make up yet another lasting memory. That stimulus of good over-powering evil instilled in me a mighty belief in the power of justice. I now know that no matter how difficult the odds may be, there is no doubt that as long as I act justly with the truth on my side, I will succeed.

Finally, on a much grander scale, my experience during the first Gulf War has taught me the fragile nature of life in the Middle East. The pathos of the Iraqi invasion introduced me to the ongoing instability of our region. Were we not all Muslim? Did we not all believe in the same God and Prophet? Whatever happened to the concept of Arab Unity? Questions, which in my mind, still remain unanswered to this very day. Indeed, the need is great in the Middle East for strong leaders. Leaders with the foresight and courage needed to maintain the social dignity, welfare and future of their people. My experience throughout the Iraqi invasion has taught me that true leadership does not depend on how many titles you have or how many people you have working for you. Leadership is about the ability to inspire and guide those people towards seeking solutions to those same unanswered questions.