“Home is where children find safety and security, where we find our identities, where citizenship starts.”

― Matthew Desmond

25–26th February, 1991, Kuwait

The sky was obscured by heavy clouds of smoke, and no daylight seeped through to give us any hope. The smoke engulfed the country. It had almost been six weeks since the onset of the Gulf War, waged by a coalition force of 35 countries and led by the US, on 17 January, 1991, in response to the occupation and annexation of Kuwait by Iraq on 2 August, 1990.

I woke up dispirited that day. It was Kuwait’s National Day—a day I looked forward to every year as the whole country would come together in celebration. While many had assumed we would be liberated from the occupation by this point, the continuous aerial bombing over the previous six weeks hinted otherwise. Instead of dressing up in Kuwait’s national colors and joining the parade across Gulf Road like I did every year, I was confined within my house, a house in which no signs of the Kuwaiti identity resided anymore. Instead of the Kuwaiti flag being raised around the country, I saw portraits of Iraqi President Saddam Husain across the country—a sign of power and control. The streets were renamed to replace the Kuwaiti identity with that of Iraq’s. Displaying any signs of our national identity had become a crime worthy of the death penalty. My dad had instructed us to take down the Kuwait flag and any related pictures from the walls of our house in case of a random search by the occupying troops, which could result in unnecessary confrontations. However, my dad himself could not comply with the newly instated rules and regulations. When the occupying regime issued a decree that forced citizens to replace the Kuwaiti license plates on their cars with Iraqi ones or be denied gas at the gas stations, my dad decided to store gallons of gas at home and keep his license plate. I couldn’t wrap my head around this new reality we were living. If it was punishable to be Kuwaiti and we were definitely not Iraqi, what did that leave us as?

I looked at my dad. He was glued to the battery-powered radio, listening to the latest updates from the temporary Kuwaiti government in exile. He looked tired. He hadn’t shaved in a while now, and his face was masked with a beard. I hated his beard. It covered his handsome face and made him look a lot older. He had lost some weight as well, having completely lost his appetite since the onset of the war. I looked at my mom. She too looked tired, with heavy dark circles under her eyes. It was difficult to believe that she was the same fun-loving woman who, just seven months ago, had been religiously following the latest fashion trends and never stepping out of the house without her signature winged eyeliner. I still remember how big and pretty her eyes were before her happiness was snatched from her. My little siblings seemed to get grumpier with every passing day. They didn’t understand why they couldn’t watch their favorite cartoons or why we had to stay in the dark all the time. The loud bombing kept them awake and alert at night. The one I worried about the most was my three-year–old brother. I could still remember the choppy conversation we’d begun having just a few months prior to the invasion. But since then, he hadn’t uttered a word. It was as though the invading troops had stripped him of his voice, just like they had everything else.

I was tired as well. It was hard to get any sleep those days. The loud bombing, the thin mattress on the floor, and the continuous kicks I received from my siblings and young cousins made the possibility of a good night’s sleep difficult. I missed my bed and my room. But we were strictly banned from spending time in our bedrooms on the first floor; instead, we had to sleep under the stairs. But the space was too small for us all. The women and children, including me, slept under the stairs, and my dad slept in the living room close to us. “But didn’t my mom say it wasn’t safe to sleep next to the peripheral rooms?” I would wonder. We’d sealed all the windows in the house to safeguard us from potential chemical attacks or strong aerial bombings that could shatter the windows. My mom said it was necessary to dampen the masks we’d crafted before using them. I didn’t quite understand how such simple masks made of clothes and filled with charcoal would save us, but we made sure to keep them at hand all the time. I prayed that all of these measures would be enough to protect my dad and placed a small pot of water next to him every night.

The days seemed long. Ever since the war began, we barely left the house. Stepping out of the house seemed more dangerous every day. The Iraqi soldiers were strategically positioned in residential areas. Frustrated and alarmed, they’d tightened their grip on us. More checkpoints had been installed. My mom assured me that the bombing was only directed toward the Iraqi troops and not us, but the troops didn’t seem to be far away, given how loud the bombings were. While their primary focus was on capturing the members of the underground resistance group, they weren’t above holding random civilians captive and using them as hostages.

All forms of telecommunication had been disconnected, and my mom grew concerned about her siblings and my grandmother. When the bombing seemed to slow down, my mom decided to quickly step outside to check on her mom, who lived a block away. I clung to my mom, begging her to take me with her. I seriously needed to leave the prison we called home. She agreed. We arrived at my grandparents’ house to find my restless grandmother walking around in circles, completely infuriated.

“What is going on?” my mom asked.

“Your sister-in-law is in the other room and in labor. The damn soldiers have occupied the hospital. They aren’t allowing any civilian in. She’s in pain, and no one knows what to do.”

The poor woman. She’d relocated to Kuwait two months before the invasion when she got married to my uncle, only to find herself in a war zone away from her family and loved ones.

After talking to my grandmother for a while, my mom said, “I can’t stay long. I need to get back to the kids. I will check on you tomorrow.”

I clung to my cousins, refusing to go back home. I was sick and tired of the place. My mom hesitantly agreed to let me stay and walked out, screaming, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow!”

I looked over at my uncle’s pregnant wife as everyone circled her in concern. All we could do was stay in quiet anticipation of what would happen next. I must have fallen asleep at some point afterward, as I woke up to the voices of my mom and siblings the next morning.

I bolted to the living room, ready to plead with my mom to let me stay there for a few more nights only to find her in tears. Then I realized it wasn’t just her—everyone was in tears, screaming, hugging, and yelling. I looked around and found my uncle’s wife in the corner of the living room, holding her newborn baby.

“They are gone! They have disappeared!” my grandmother exclaimed.

Everyone listened as she described how they’d gone to the hospital once again and found that all the Iraqi soldiers had dispersed off the roads.

Nothing seemed to make sense. They were gone? Just like that?

I saw my grandfather heading to his car. I quickly ran after him, and all the kids quickly followed suit. We squeezed ourselves into his car and drove off to find some answers. The checkpoints were empty of soldiers. Most people were roaming the streets just like us. I watched in disbelief as we passed a group of men screaming and dancing over a trampled picture of the Iraqi president.

We headed to the highway and climbed the pedestrian bridge. I stood on the bridge, watching the most beautiful scene. Hundreds and hundreds of tanks filled the highway. I recognized the American, British, Saudi, and Emirati flags. We were reduced to tears as we watched the soldiers waving at us and raising the victory sign. It was real. The world had come to save us.

And then, amid all the destruction, the smoke, and the tanks, we saw it—the forbidden flag. People were streaming out of their homes, tired and exhausted but elated, each holding the Kuwaiti flag up high. We all started hysterically screaming and shouting the forbidden words through our tears.

Long live Kuwait!

The louder we screamed, the harder the soldiers waved at us. Alternating between tears and laughter, we began to sing the forbidden anthem:

Kuwait, my country, may you be safe and glorious!

May you always enjoy good fortune!

Kuwait, my country, may you always be our blessed homeland.

I don’t remember much of what happened after that. I woke up in bed the next day, wondering what I was doing there. I turned to my left and saw my sister sound asleep. Had the invasion been a nightmare? Or had the liberation been a dream?

I turned to my right; a Kuwaiti flag was on my nightstand. My heart started to pound in horror, and I was inclined to jump out of bed and hide it. I calmed down as soon as memories of the previous day started flashing before my eyes. I smiled and walked to the window to rip off the masking tape.

My dad walked into the room, a smile on his tired face. I looked at him, thinking he’d better lose that beard soon.

“Want to go out and greet the troops?” my dad asked.

“Yes!” I exclaimed and ran to hug him.

In that moment, I knew that despite the smoke, the destruction, the mines, the tanks, the horror, and the death, we would be OK. The war was over. We’d got back our home, our country, our flags, our anthem, our songs, our voices, our smiles, and our sleep. And we knew that, soon enough, our collective identity would be revived, stronger than ever before. We didn’t have to hide anymore. For the first time in a very long time, we were safe to be who we actually were—simply and unmistakably, Kuwaitis.

 

On the 29^th anniversary of the liberation of Kuwait!