“I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask, Mother, what was war?”

― Eve Merriam

I remember it was a Thursday morning, August 2^nd, 1990, when I woke up to the hushed voices of my parents, aunts, and grandparents. Aren’t they supposed to be at work? I thought to myself.

I wore my slippers and hurried down to join them for breakfast.

As I entered the living room, I felt everyone’s gaze turn on me. They looked as if they had seen a ghost.

“What is going on?” I asked.

They were all huddled around the radio and the TV, looking concerned. I turned to my dad, only to notice that he was wearing his army uniform. The atmosphere in the room was uneasy, and I wasn’t sure whether to take a step forward or back. I froze, just waiting for someone to say something to me.

“Why don’t you go play with your sister?” my mom suggested.

“I don’t want to play with her. What is going on?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about it. Just hurry back upstairs, and I’ll come find you,” my mom stuttered nervously.

I knew something was up but I just couldn’t pinpoint what the matter at hand was. Had I done something wrong? I felt snubbed and shut out. The grownups always made me feel welcome to join their conversations, so what was so different about today?

Something was terribly wrong; I just knew it.

Nonetheless, I had to obey my mother’s request, and I stomped out of the room hanging my head. Still curious, I hid behind the staircase to eavesdrop on their conversation; everyone was trying to make sense of the messages they had heard on the radio. The last message they had heard was, “This is Kuwait!” before the signal was lost.

My home country was invaded by neighboring Iraq. Within the next few hours, the Iraqi troops had seized control of the country and spread their tanks and armored vehicles throughout the city. The Iraqi radio announced that they had put a provisional government into place. However, messages and calls to resist came from Kuwait’s network, broadcasted from an unknown source.

The Kuwaiti Crown Prince Saad Abdullah Al Sabah assured people that the invasion was not going to last. However, the Iraqi broadcast claimed that the Iraqi regime was responding to the “free” Kuwaiti government, and the Iraqi regime was there to back up the free will of the Kuwaiti people. They threatened any entity that tried to intervene, promising that Kuwait and Iraq would be a graveyard for them.

I was still in hiding when my mom found me a few hours later.

“How many times should I tell you that eavesdropping is wrong?” she said, as she knelt down beside me.

“I know that Uncle has gone missing,” I retorted.

She responded, more concerned than angry, “Your uncle is fine. Everything is fine.”

I knew better than to believe that lie.

The humble and unsuspecting Kuwaiti army didn’t stand a chance against the hundred thousand soldiers backed by 700 tanks, which had burst through the borders in the early morning. The ruler Emir, Jaber Alsabah, and the crown prince had fled to Saudi Arabia, escaping the battle that took place at the residence of the Emir, in what became to be known as the Battle of Dasman. His beloved brother, Sheikh Fahad, was shot dead by the Iraqi special forces while defending the Emir’s residence. Martial laws were declared, and a curfew was imposed. My uncle, who was serving in the army, and many other soldiers were captured as Asra—Prisoners of War. Checkpoints were installed. More than 200 Kuwaitis were reported dead on the first day of the invasion. The initial civilian protests were met with gunfire; the first civilian casualties were reported, sending waves of shocks and horror across the country. A systematic destruction campaign was launched as the Iraqi tanks started bombing targets and many of the government buildings in the capital, Kuwait City. Looting was witnessed across the country. Thousands started fleeing to the borders, seeking asylum in neighboring countries. Gas stations and supermarkets were running out of essentials as families stocked up in preparation for a long siege.

Meanwhile, at our residence, another war erupted between my mom and me. As the days passed by, our frustration with each other kept growing.

“Why did you stop going to work?” I asked my mom one day.

“We are taking some time off. Wouldn’t it be nice to spend some quality time together?”

I couldn’t believe that my mom was still pretending that everything was okay.

“Except that you have forgotten something,” I said.

“I have? What is that?” my mom asked.

“I turned eight today,” I answered. My mom was caught off guard. It was the first time she had ever forgotten my birthday.

I learned later that as an act of civilian resistance, Kuwaitis refused to normalize the invasion by working for the puppet government. However, a few of them kept working in sensitive places, such the ministry of water and electricity, as distilling the sea water is the only source of water in a desert country. Some of the doctors kept working in hospitals. Volunteers started running local bakeries and collecting the trash. A resistance group, which consisted mainly of civilians, was formed. The resistance group was our contact with the Kuwaiti government, now in exile in Saudi Arabia. They were the source of information, reporting what was going on inside the country because the media, which was now controlled by the Iraqi regime, was censored; even foreign news agencies were banned from entering the country.

When my mom was not looking, my knowledge was expanding exponentially, but perhaps in an undesired direction. While she was relieved that I was distracted with my cousin, little did she know that what kept us occupied were the stories we shared while eavesdropping on adult conversations.

“Did you know that my uncle was just released after being detained for a few days?” asked my cousin.

“Why did they take him in the first place?” I asked, unsure of whether I wanted to know the answer.

“I have no idea. He was taken hostage at one of the checkpoints.” My cousins looked around to make sure the grownups were not around; then she whispered, “I heard him talking to my mom about it. They tortured him. They removed his fingernails and drilled his hand.”

I glanced in the direction of her uncle.

My cousin nodded. “Yes, that is what is under the bandage.”

Day by day, members of my family started to flee the country. My grandmother’s health was deteriorating because of the lack of health care; my pregnant auntie gave birth and was concerned for her daughter’s health. It was not safe for my other two uncles, who were in the army, to stay because the Iraqis were searching for militants. My grandmother feared for the safety of my teenage aunties as stories of random raid and rape had already begun to spread.

A few months into the invasion, someone knocked on the door. My heart started pounding. Was it a random search? I tried to slowly move away from the door without making a noise.

“I can hear you,” said someone from behind the door.

I stood still.

“Don’t worry. I have news—good news. But you will need to open the door. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Hearing the Kuwaiti dialect somehow calmed me down. I approached the door and slowly opened it. Standing in front of me was a man whom I didn’t recognize.

“I cannot stay long. Where are your parents?” he asked.

I stayed quiet. He looked over his shoulder quickly and looked back at me with urgency.

“I can’t stay long. Is there anyone here I could talk to? Any adults around?” the guy asked again, now frustrated with my silence.

“Listen carefully. Saud is fine.”

My heart started racing faster, but this time with excitement.

“My uncle is fine!” I screamed.

“Ssshhh! Yes, he is okay. He has been moved to a prison in Baghdad. Tell your parents to expect me tomorrow.”

A million questions were running through my mind, but within a split second, the mysterious man fled to his own safety.

For once, I felt this was my chance to reconnect with the grownups. I sprinted back into the house to share the news with my mom who was in the kitchen. A few days later, my dad traveled to Baghdad to check on my uncle. While he was away, my mom fell ill and was unable to leave her bed. I checked on her and left her to rest. A few hours later, while I was in the kitchen doing the dishes, I heard a movement behind me. I turned to find my mom staring at me.

“Hey, are you feeling better now?” I asked her, while toweling the dishes.

My mom cleared her voice and asked, “Where are your siblings?”

“I put them to bed. Don’t worry, they had dinner, and I made sure they brushed their teeth,” I answered.

My mom kept looking at me for few minutes. Then she sat on the floor and tears started streaming down her cheeks.

I went to her and placed my hand on her forehead.

“Are you in pain? What is wrong?” I was really worried. My mom had always been strong, and I hadn’t ever seen her that way.

She hugged me tight and continued to sob as I remained still in her arms.

It was only years after the invasion that I finally understood why my mom was crying. She was mourning the loss of my childhood and innocence. Despite all her lies, she could not protect me from the truth. The day of the invasion was the day when the world of grownups had lost its sparkle. For the first time, it didn’t feel enchanting or mesmerizing, but cold and horrifying.