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ESCAPE FROM KUWAIT.Aug 18 '07 Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line Why and how I fled occupied Kuwait.
I'm vacationing these days and the heat is rather intense. Yesterday, looking around me at the largely deserted beach I was transported to another August, 17 years ago, when heat and desertion were my companions. I went mentally back to Kuwait, in the days when Saddam Hussein invaded. I was living and working there in 1990, and I became trapped when the Iraqis stormed in. For anyone who'd be interested, this is a recount of why and how I escaped occupied Kuwait. FOREWORD The situation between Iraq and Kuwait in the last weeks of July 1990 was strained. On the one hand, Kuwait was demanding back payments plus interest for the aid it had given Saddam when he was at war with Iran. At the time, the West and the Arab princes were only too happy to assist the fool with his ambitions over a feared power. Now that the war was over demands for repayment were increasingly mounting; few, if any, remembered the half million Iraqis perished in the name of "freedom" or the cost of rebuilding that country. On the other hand Kuwaitis continued ceaselessly to drill oil from a rich well extending 8/10ths into Iraqi territory. The black stuff lay deep, and Iraq, blocked from Western technology (at least officially), did not have the capability to pump it up. But, as physics dictates, it doesn't matter from where in a pool you siphon liquid out -- the reserves were going down on both sides of the border. Saddam was furious, and he threatened to invade the southern sheikhdom. On the evening of 1st of August I went to a party given by a guy who was working at the French embassy. He was a defense specialist. The guests were the usual assortment of Western expats, but understandably with more defense experts around the pool. Invariably the conversation centered around the threat of invasion. The experts laughed it off, telling everyone the Iraqis wouldn't dare to try anything, "...they know how well we trained the Kuwaiti forces...", "...even if they came they would get their ass kicked...", "...the early warning system we have installed here is state of the art...", "our AA missiles are the best in the world, they can hit a plane minutes after take off...", "...our anti-tank rockets are interlinked to so-and-so...". The next day was a Thursday, Moslem countries' equivalent of Saturday in western countries; many were only working half day or not at all. The mood was relaxed. "Lambada" was playing in the background, Johnny Walker was walking down throats, and the talk slowly drifted to "9.1/2 weeks" and what a babe Kim Bassinger is. I went home around 2:30' am. ----------------------------------------------------------------- I'm not an early riser. For some reason, on the morning of Aug 2nd, 1990 I woke up with a start as the clock was ticking 6:10'. Efforts to go back to sleep failed, I showered, shaved, and cooked a hearty breakfast. At around 7:45' I was smoking and leaning over the balcony overlooking the beach road in Salwa, the southern Kuwait city suburb where our villa was. I thought I heard a grunt in the morning quiet. Moments passed and the grunt grew louder. It was coming from the city centre, to my left, and growing rapidly in volume. I watched in amazement as a line of tanks suddenly appeared on the road, scarring the beautiful asphalt in their haste. "It's on!", I thought to myself, and only wondered for a moment why they were speeding South when Iraq was to the North. I dressed hurriedly and took the Citroen CX 25 Prestige out of the garage. Turning the first corner, I switched on the radio which was normally tuned to the Kuwait English language broadcast. Nothing, just static. I made it to the Fourth Ring Road and found myself in traffic, at a time when normally there would be few cars around. What had happened (I found our later) was that the Iraqis had reached the other end of the road some 35 kilometres to the north; blocked traffic was trickling down to a slow pace at our end. I reached our company's buildings near Kuwait city centre around 9:30'. I left the car at the visitors' parking lot and hurried to the offices' building. Along the way I passed groups of Asian employees talking animatedly. As I was turning the corner toward the back entrance Allan, the Danish Manager of Shops' Maintenance, appeared and shouted to me: "Vasilis! The Iraqis are invading!". "I know", I said as we entered the building. There were 6 of us in Senior Management and half were out of the country on holidays. Anthony, the Indian Director of Sales, was already there. The three of us had a quick council. Obviously the company wouldn't open for business, but what to do with the employees and the stores? I called Jasim, the Kuwaiti business owner, but the phone kept ringing for an eternity. The other sound that was starting to be heard was that of bombing. As it was coming nearer, the pool of people gathered in and outside the entrance to the offices was growing restless. We were bombarded with all sorts of questions, but the main one was about money. July salaries had been transferred to their accounts the day before, but the Banks had not opened and the ATMs ran out of money early in the day. I couldn't call my wife as she was out of reach in Ikaria, a small Aegean island. I called my mother and then my sister. Those were not the days of mobile phones and everybody wanted to call home (read: their country), and soon a long queue formed. Understandably people would not put the phone down easily, so after a few fights broke out we put a stop to it. We regained control of the switchboard just in time; Thomas, the General Manager, was calling from Stockholm. He spoke to me and said there's nothing to worry about, the international outcry was almost unanimous, it was a sure bet Saddam would pull out in a few days once he got what he wanted. As he was talking the lines went dead. Allan said he'd go to his family and left. It was approaching 12 noon. The sound of bombing was echoing closer and black smoke was beginning to dirty the sky. At 1 o'clock we had another council with Anthony and decided he'd better take the people and go. I stayed to man the switchboard in case the lines came back on. It was a strange feeling to wander around the empty facilities, especially the dark shop floors, which, on a Thursday, would normally be teaming with life and children's joyful cries. The desolation was an omen of things to come. Three hours and a sandwich from the cafeteria later I decided I was pushing my luck. The bombing had gotten pretty close by now, and the air foul with smoke. I locked up and drove away. It felt weird to switch the lights on in an August afternoon. The streets were deserted. As I climbed up on Fourth Ring Road I met with cement blocks hastily put in place to form a barrier. I navigated around and continued toward the sea. Stupid. About two kilometres on my lights showed a tank stationed at mid-street guarding passage. I turned around in my best impersonation of Carlos Sainz and gassed it back. I exited the Fourth managing to scratch my right fender and took to back streets. I reached home nearly two hours later. Soon, the first night of Iraqi curfew would fall. Kuwait, the country, did not open the next day, or the day after that. Or even the one after that. The Royal family and most of the Armed Forces high brass fled during the first day of Iraq's invasion. All wealthy Kuwaitis (read: employers) and really every local who mattered (like bank managers) left within the first few days of occupation. Soon nothing was working except for the water and electricity authorities (manned by Iraqis, of course). We had to literally hunt for food. Then the invaders started arresting westerners to transport them to Iraq to be used as "human shields" against possible Anglo-American bombing. My predicament was rather odd: the Iraqis would not arrest me as Cyprus was considered a neutral country, but on the other hand they would not allow me to leave Kuwait (like Asians, for instance), as no such order had come from Baghdad. Simply, Cyprus was too small for Saddam to care what to do with us (there were 11 Cypriots in Kuwait). I was thankfully alone. My wife and our two young children were in Greece to spend the summer with her family. At least that was good. I used my time to hunt for food, drinking water, and cigarettes. Not just for me, but also for many westerners I knew that were in hiding. It was quite a harrowing experience, and I had more than enough scary moments as some Iraqis were downright hostile to fair skin (not their officers, those were mostly polite and some spoke a little English). After a couple of weeks I changed my tactics: I had my hair cut very short (up to that time it was shoulder-length and that intrigued the Iraqis who were shouting at me that long hair belongs to girls) and spent hours on end up to our villa's roof acquiring a deep tan. I also grew a mustache. Soon I looked enough of an Arab not to attract attention at roadblocks. It helped, especially as my haircut was a disaster (it was cut by a Pakistani barber, the only one I could find working). We were in an almost total news black-out. The only media available were Iraqi newspapers, TV and Radio. They broadcast Saddam's propaganda. The telephone had come back on, but only for local calls. Those were the days before satellite TV and internet! I had a short wave transistor radio and used to listen to BBC World Service. It was comforting, until end September. Then I could find batteries no longer. The worst part was agonizing over what my family must be going through having no news of me. As time wore on it was becoming obvious the Iraqis wouldn't leave. And, one by one, the families I was providing with sustenance were "discovered" (informants were rampant) and arrested. I also ran out of Dinars. I did what everyone was doing to stay alive: I used to drive up to Basrah (the Iraqi city neighbouring Kuwait) to sell my electronics one by one; first the VCR, then another, then my Boom Box, my mini Hi-Fi, then the big stereo, the small TV etc... The only thing nobody wanted was my Amiga 1000. When these had gone I started disposing of the white goods: the dishwasher, the dryer, the fridge (we had practically doubles of everything). Iraqis were eager to buy since such goods were not widely available in their land, but the money they paid was peanuts. Still, no choice. The situation gradually became desperate, and I realised that I had to leave. I gave to our Philippina maid 3 months' salaries and told her that she should go to her embassy (Asian and African officials were organising mass evacuations). The poor thing was crying so hard. I exchanged my wife's car, a Chevrolet Caprice Classic, to a Daihatsu Rocky a Palestinian colleague had. This would normally be a dumb deal, as the Chevy was worth 4 times the Daihatsu. But I needed a 4X4 vehicle to escape through the desert. With most of my last Dinars I bought essential spare parts, two cans of motor oil and a tank of gasoline at the black market. I bid farewell and good luck to the families that remained hidden, and one early dawn in early October I headed a convoy of 6 trucks south to Saudi Arabia. I had gotten a makeshift "map" from a Swedish photographer who used to race in desert rallies a few years back and now pieced together escape convoys (an aside: why wouldn't he himself leave?... He was in love with an Indian girl who had not left the country yet... ah, the power of love). We reached the outskirts of the desert, got out, and let air off our tyres. The flattened tyre gives you extra surface area that provides better grip in the sand. Five kilometres into the desert and just as we were clearing the dozens and dozens of abandoned cars littering the sand (we even saw a Rolls, 'pon my word!) we ran into an Iraqi block and my car was "confiscated". The westerners in the other cars were arrested and I was returned to Kuwait city in an Iraqi military vehicle. Lesser souls would have given up. I haven't fought through Turkey's devastatingly bloody invasion of my island for nothing. Next day I forcefully dragged a shaking Wassim, the Palestinian who actually owned the car, to the Iraqi HQ. I demanded they return the car to him since he had the papers proving ownership. They did. Do you know what "Canoun" is? It is the rule, under Islamic law, stating it unjust to take another man's possession. I knew that. I knew enough of how Moslems think, and of their code of honour. I also asked for, and received, my bags that were in the car. They were in tatters, but thankfully they had not managed to open my briefcase, which contained my wife's jewelry and $ 900 hidden in the lining. Wassim wouldn't let me have the car back. He said I was going to get killed and he didn't want to have my blood on his hands. I had to punch him. The things you do in war. Eventually he gave me the car and I started planning another escape. This time I led 5 cars into the desert. We avoided the roadblocks by making a big detour... and we got disorientated. It's nigh impossible to express what it's like in the desert. Around midday, there are no shadows to give you a clue of where North or South is. You're surrounded by dunes, and you're lost. Big time. Everywhere you look is sand. All directions look the same. I stopped for a council and many were crying in the other cars. Any direction seemed as good as any other. We decided to continue ahead in the direction we thought was South; in fact we were heading Westwards, deeper and deeper into the desert. By the time we realised it the sun was getting low. I thought we'd had it, that that was it. We were almost out of water, our gas was pretty low and the desert crawls with scorpions in the night. But my family's love must have been looking after me. Just then, at the edge of desperation (or what I thought was that edge at the time) we ran into two Bedouins with a flock of camels. They said we wouldn't make it to Saudi, it was too far for the gas we had left. The younger one took us to a desert "road" that led back to Kuwait. We followed it and saw the city lights by nightfall; we waited in the cars until dawn to escape the Iraqi curfew. Outside the city we dispersed. I reached home and crashed onto a sofa. I was sleeping for almost 16 hours. Third time was the charm. A few dawns later I went on what proved to be my last attempt. This time we were only 3 cars in row (westerners were becoming less and less. Also 4X4 cars had become scarce. I had to take out the distributor every night so that if anyone tried to steal my car they wouldn't be able to start it. My Citroen had been stolen by that time, as was the Company's Toyota Crown). This time I had with me a compass that I had taken off a speedboat. We managed to the desert without Iraqi patrol mishaps and headed south. The going was good, but then we reached the top of a high dune and... I saw an Iraqi encampment stretching not 300 metres away from us. I got out and started waving at them pointing that we wanted to continue south. They waved "go back, go back". I kept up my body language trying to convince them to let us through. They started firing. No, they were not aiming at us. If they had I probably wouldn't be here now. Those were warning shots for us not to proceed. The "negotiation" was clearly over. I jumped back to the car and we drove away. A few kilometres back I stopped for council. I proposed we make a big detour "around" the camp and then continue southwards. The passengers of the second car objected strongly. There were 6 of them, all Germans, all males, and they were nasty. They accused me of not knowing where I was going and said they would continue their escape on their own. They boarded their Nissan Patrol and left heading West. I never learned what happened to them. The passengers of the second car, a Toyota Landcruiser, were three Belgians: a middle-aged couple and a tall young lad. My own "passengers", which I had only met that dawn at the convoy assembly point, were an Australian girl (who had decided to dress in a body-covering Arab black abaya, as if that would help if we were caught) and an English woman in her forties. They all agreed to my plan so we headed eastwards (toward the sea) for maybe 5 kms and then we turned south again. Another ten kms on and we turned right, then 5 kms later left again figuring we must have left Iraqi forces well behind. The odyssey continued at good pace until we hit a patch of hard sand. The area was full of potholes, some quite deep. Not easy to navigate. The Toyota fell into one. The driver shifted into reverse and tried to back out. No good, the wheels were spinning freely. The passengers got out before he tried again. Still no good. We scouted around for something hard to place behind the wheels to improve traction. There was nothing, not even a semblance of a palm leaf. The passengers got back in thinking the weight would help. The driver revved again. Disaster. The Toyota blew its engine with a deafening bang. It was 1:43' pm I remember as I looked at my watch getting out of the car again. The rays were beaming straight down to the scorching earth. They were reflected uninhibited sending the temperature easily into the high 50s Centigrade. A slight wind was blowing bringing with it very fine particles of sand that filled our eyes and nostrils. The young guy was silent, but the Belgian woman was crying. Her husband seemed lost. The silly Australian girl was reciting prayers. And to top it all, the English woman was shouting "Why did you get off? Let's go on!". The obvious problem was that my Daihatsu Rocky, unlike the Germans' Patrol and the Belgians' Landcruiser, was a small 4X4, only a 5-seater. And the back row was already filled with luggage. I must confess I thought for a fleeting moment of going on, reaching Saudi and returning with help. But that would probably be condemning them to death -- how would I find the spot again in the first place? I asked the Belgians to take with them only their essentials, and the stupid English woman to keep only a small suitcase (she had brought 3). The Australian was traveling light. I kept my papers, my photo negatives, my wife's jewelry and my little girl's beloved Big Bird doll (from the Sesame Street TV series). Everything else I threw out. Letting go of the letters hurt the most. I got the elder Belgian to sit at the front with his wife on his lap. The others accommodated themselves as best as they could in the back with the remains of our possessions behind, on, and around them. The young guy was especially uncomfortable with his long legs crammed against the other Belgians' seat. We went on and gradually I became optimistic. I had switched off the air-conditioning to help lessen the engine's load and to keep its temperature as low as possible; it seemed she would hold, even though laden with 6 adults and cargo. The kilometres wore on and I felt we would make it. But my tribulations were not over. Eventually we approached a very high dune. I geared up, reached its top and... found myself staring at the back of an extended Iraqi camp half a kilometre ahead... I braked and almost swerved. Almost immediately they started firing at us. This time it didn't seem like warning shots (as I found out later, at midday that day Saddam had ordered that desert escapees be shot at - something which wasn't happening up to then - witness our encounter earlier in the day). I backed off quick as I could. One kilometre? Two? Five? I don't know. It was mayhem. Only the young chap was silent. The Belgian lady was agonizing for breath, her incessant loud gasping convinced me she was going to have a heart attack. Her husband was holding her tight and shouting at her in Flemish, to hold on, I guess. The crazed Australian was crying out "Hail Mary..." and "Our father thou art in heavens...," at the top of her voice. And the stupid English cow was screaming at me and beating at my shoulders and neck: "Coward! Why are you going back? Bloody coward! Go forth! They wouldn't dare touch us the bloody sods -- go coward, go! ". I should have strangled her but I didn't dare taking my arms off the wheel. At some point I paused, realising the engine would burst if I kept it up. Leaving it on lest it might not restart I got out and lit a cigarette. They all stayed in, and it was a madhouse, with the English woman drowning all other noises as she was screaming at me to go on perched half out of the window. "SHUT UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUP !!!" My voice must have thundered through the dunes all the way to the Persian Gulf, I felt. But it worked. They hushed, and the Belgian lady amazingly even found her breath back little by little. I lit another cigarette as they were looking at me in silence. I finished it and jumped into the car. I had made up my mind. I would go on, employing the ruse I had used earlier. I figured if I made it, Saudi couldn't be very far now. It wasn't. About 15 kms after I had completed a wide by-pass of the Iraqi camp I saw a helicopter at 10 o'clock. I knew the Iraqis didn't have any (not in Kuwaiti territory, that is). I went its way and the first thing that came into view 20 min later as I navigated the top of yet another dune was the Union Jack. We had reached a British advance post, just as the sun was dipping to our right. They split us into two Landrovers and drove us to their camp. The medics rushed out to us wanting to examine us and inoculate us. I wanted a phone first. I called my wife, then called my mother and my sister, then just collapsed. I woke up at midnight 28 hours later! The others had gone. There was a serum tube to my arm. The doctor insisted I stay for a further two days. I agreed, but didn't. Next day at noon I dodged the CNN reporters looking for another juicy story swarming outside the infirmary and boarded a RAF helicopter to Dhahran. From there a USAF Hercules to Jeddah and the first commercial flight north. It went to Amman, Jordan. Slept the night there and next morning boarded Cyprus Airways 403 to Larnaca. As the wheels of the BAC one-eleven were touching down I squeezed Big Bird closer to my chest and cried for the first time in 83 days. It was October 23. Nostimon Imar. ------------------------------------------------------------ © V. Metaxas 2007  |
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