Two Old Fools on a Camel: From Spain to Bahrain and Back Again

by Victoria Twead

  “The beginning of the end? Troops from Saudi arrive. But.. But.. wait, we are used to being invaded by the Saudis EVERY weekend!”

  The message from the British Embassy, although it had closed its gates until further notice, was brief, but chilling:

  “The British Embassy is aware of the arrival of Peninsula Shield coalition forces in Bahrain. We continue to advise British Nationals to remain at home until further notice.”

  Daryna knocked on our door. She was in her pink robe, with rollers in her hair.

  “Joe! Vicky! Don’t go into school tomorrow! There are road blocks everywhere! Tell everybody, no school.”

  She needn’t have bothered, none of us had the slightest intention of going into school.

  On the 15th March, the King announced that, until further notice, Bahrain was under Martial Law. The Ministry of Defence issued a threatening statement, warning that action against demonstrators camped on the Pearl Roundabout would be swift. Martial Law meant curfews, more raids, and no gatherings of any kind.

  The United States Embassy advised expats to make arrangements to get out of Bahrain. Teachers began returning their hire cars, and making preparations to leave. The school called a meeting, held at the apartments, as we couldn’t go into school. They said that they had seen the US Embassy notices, and that if anyone wanted to leave the island, they had the school’s blessing until the end of the Spring Break. The school would remain closed for now, but would open as soon as possible. For our own safety, anybody who stayed was under house arrest.

  They also added that, in their opinion, we were safe, and that the owners, and their grandchildren, would be staying on the island. It reminded me of the British politician who insisted that eating beef was safe, during the Mad Cow epidemic, his little daughter munching a fat beefburger beside him as he spoke.

  Dr. Cecily, one of the Three Fat Ladies, spoke at length at the meeting.

  “Hi, y’all,” she said, addressing the ceiling. “It’s good to see everybody from ASS.”

  “WHERE ALL STUDENTS SUCCEED,” we chanted without enthusiasm.

  Dr. Cecily was no longer employed by ASS, but worked for the Crown Prince. She offered advice on how to behave should we be stopped at a checkpoint. It was the same information provided to its personnel by the US Fifth Fleet Naval Base:

  Before entering, lock all car doors and close windows

  Don’t panic, be polite

  Don’t run through the checkpoint

  Don’t disobey the sentries

  Don’t hand out passports, or any ID, to anyone not in uniform

  If you must pass out ID, open your window the barest crack

  If asked, state you are an American (or Brit, in our case)

  At an unofficial checkpoint, never open car doors or windows

  The next big event to make world news came soon after. The storming of the Pearl Roundabout by security forces and the burning of the tent city came as little surprise. From our apartments’ rooftop we could see and photograph the black smoke rising, drifting over the city.

  Our view of the smoke rising from the burning tents

  Pro-government supporters claimed that protesters had burned their own tents, which seemed highly unlikely.

  The burning tents, image from Wikipedia

  The ASS teachers began to evacuate. One by one they said goodbye and caught planes back to the States or wherever they came from. Our crowd had a ‘last night’ at Bennigan’s, (disobeying the house-arrest rules), which was a sombre affair, even though it was St Patrick’s day. Bennigan’s served green-coloured beer, my wine was green, and more cardboard shamrocks adorned the walls, but it wasn’t a happy evening. Would everybody return after the Spring Break? Or would the troubles worsen? Would we ever see each other again? Everybody seemed to be leaving, apart from Joe and myself.

  St Patrick’s night at Bennigan’s

  The strongest reason for not evacuating was a simple one. My daughter was getting married in Australia. When we arrived at the school in August, we applied for a short leave of absence to attend the wedding. The wedding was during school time but only I, not Joe, was permitted to go. Although disappointed, Karly understood perfectly. Of course, back then we didn’t know that an uprising was about to take place.

  I’d booked and paid for my flight to Australia months ago. It made very little sense to leave Bahrain, travel back to Spain, then fly out to Australia, all in the space of a few days. The flight from Bahrain to Australia, approximately 14 hours, and the return flight to Spain, would have added double the excruciating hours.

  So we decided I would travel to Australia, as planned.

  “What do you want to do?” I asked Joe. “You could come to Australia, after all, now that the school’s closed. Or do you want go back to Spain?”

  “Absolutely not! I won’t go back to Spain without you. I’ll be perfectly alright here, don’t worry. You just have a good time in Oz, you won’t be away for long.”

  I wasn’t happy about leaving him, but Joe can be a terrible stick-in-the-mud. I couldn’t persuade him to come with me to Oz, or to go back to Spain. I also knew that he was refusing for another reason. The school had been good to us. They paid us well, provided fantastic accommodation, and looked after us. Nearly all the teachers had evacuated, so when the school opened, we would be sorely needed.

  “Karly would so love you to be there at her wedding,” I said.

  “No, I’m needed here, and you’ll only be gone a few days. Her mother being there is the most important thing. You’ll have a wonderful time, and so will she. Don’t worry about me.”

  I knew nothing was going to change his mind so, for now, I dropped the subject. I had a little longer to convince him to come with me. I’d choose my moment.

  My other worry was my wedding outfit. I didn’t have it sorted, and Daryna, who I was going to ask to be my fashion advisor, had left the country. Worse still, the souk, where I intended to have my outfit made, was out of bounds. It wasn’t far from the Pearl Roundabout and the troubled areas, and, being under house arrest, I wasn’t supposed to venture out.

  Then, in total disbelief, I watched the TV on the 18th March. No, surely there must be some mistake? The videoclip I saw on CNN was only seconds long, but unmistakable.

  In the early hours of the morning, the authorities moved in and tore down the iconic Pearl monument. The massive proud statue, that had stretched high into the sky, had been reduced to a pile of concrete rubble. It had been the most familiar landmark on the island, and now it was dust. One of its legs had fallen across a demolition vehicle, killing the driver. Another lost life to add to the many already claimed since February.

  The fallen Pearl monument

  The government insisted that the Pearl monument had been knocked down to make room for a new traffic system. We knew the real reason was that it had become a symbol of the uprising.

  Everybody, including the British Embassy, urged us to leave.

  “Don’t you think we should go?” I asked Joe again. “What’s next? What if the rumours are true, and Iran intervenes? They could supply the protesters with weapons. Why don’t you come to Australia, see Karly get married?”

  Joe shook his head. “No, I’m staying. It’ll be okay.”

  The British government laid on a charter flight to evacuate Brits from Bahrain. It went home empty. What people in Britain didn’t know was that tickets for the specially laid on flight cost far more than the regular flights that were leaving all the time, or so we were told. As we didn’t want to return to the UK, it didn’t concern us anyway.

  Parked in all the strategic places were armoured vehicles and tanks, their guns pointing up the highways. Manama was a chilling place to be. I wouldn’t be sorry to go to Australia, I only wished that Joe would agree to come too, but he was determined to stay. My flight was scheduled for the 29th March so I still had time to persuade him.

  On the 20th, in an effort to regain normality, ASS again opened its gates. N
o students appeared. Also there were very few teachers. Hawa was there, and so was young Mohammed, but most of the others had left the island. The wonderful Wayne, so admired by Mr. Brewster and Fatima’s mother, left, never to be seen again, and an expensive school projector disappeared at exactly the same time.

  By the 23rd, only twenty out of 120 Grade 6 pupils attended school. As usual, Hawa, young Mohammed and I combined classes, but we taught no lessons. With numbers so low, we decided to show our charges movies.

  “Mees, I brought a movie on my memory stick, can we watch it?” asked Mustafa Kamel.

  “I don’t see why not, I can easily set up the projector,” I said. “What is the movie?”

  “Mees, it’s called Eeet.”

  “Oh, ET? I love that movie! ET-go-home...” I growled, waving my finger like ET does in the film.

  Mustafa Kamel gave me a strange look but didn’t say anything. I connected the computer and projector, then spoke to the class.

  “Now, I’m going to leave you watching the movie. I’ll be just outside in the corridor, doing some grading. Behave yourselves, or I’ll be back in to give you a verb test or something.”

  “Aw...Mees!” they protested and settled down to watch the movie.

  The movie was obviously a big success because I hardly heard a squeak out of them. Mr. Brewster came along the corridor, with Mrs. Sherazi, the school owner, Miss Naima, and the Deputy Principal.

  “Ah, Miss Vicky,” said Mr. Brewster, “How many pupils do you have in your room?”

  “The whole of Grade 6,” I said. “Twenty, I think, They’re watching a movie. If we get more pupils in tomorrow, we’ll try to hold proper lessons.”

  Mr. Brewster nodded in approval.

  “What movie are they watching?” asked Mrs. Sherazi.

  “ET. They seem to be thoroughly enjoying it!”

  Mr. Brewster opened the door a crack, and peered into the dark room. The class was so rapt in the movie, they didn’t even notice him.

  “Good,” he said to me, quietly closing the door again. “That’ll keep their minds off things. Then to Mrs. Sherazi, “Shall I take you upstairs to see Grade 7 and 8?”

  The party walked off, and I continued grading and preparing until the bell rang. Then the door opened, and the class filed out, white-faced and silent. It wasn’t until the next day that I discovered why.

  25. Pictures

  ‘Lentil Dream’

  The next morning, a few more pupils came to school, and I was summoned to the Deputy Principal’s office. She looked worried.

  “Miss Vicky, I’m sorry to say that I’ve had three complaints from parents. They say their children had nightmares because of the movie you showed them yesterday.”

  “Really?” I asked, astonished. “I don’t understand...”

  “What movie did you show them?”

  “ET, you know, the cute little alien that gets left behind and wants to go home?”

  “Are you sure? Fatima’s mother says it was IT by Stephen King, and that Fatima was up all night, terrified by it. And Khaled’s mother said he wet the bed.”

  I gaped at her. No wonder they were so quiet!

  The Deputy, a lovely lady, understood that I’d made a genuine mistake. Somehow she smoothed things over and it was never mentioned again. I only hope I haven’t permanently damaged any young minds.

  Hawa, young Mohammed and I struggled on, day after day, as most of the kids returned to school. We were the only available teachers, so our days were heavy. Then, on the 29th March, I was due to fly to Australia. I’d left lots of work for the substitute teacher, but I knew this was a very difficult time to be leaving.

  “It’s not too late,” I said to Joe, as I kissed him goodbye. “If you change your mind, you can always catch a plane and join me.” But I knew he wouldn’t. There were very few teachers left in the High School, and even their Principal had gone. He was badly needed.

  Mahmoud, my favourite taxi driver, took me to the airport. We passed the Pearl Roundabout, now just a giant circle of churned soil and sand. Shaking his head, he waved a hand at the tanks and armoured vehicles. He was Shi’a and eager to tell me of the latest events on the island. He told me that journalists were being gagged and deported, preventing them from telling the world what was really going on. He repeated another story, which we’d often heard, about people being arrested and disappearing without a trace. He told me that there were underground jails in the desert, packed full of prisoners. Also of raids on villages, doctors and nurses being beaten, Shi’a mosques destroyed, torture, and dumped bodies. All very disturbing.

  On the airport road, we were stopped at a checkpoint. A tank stood by, gun-barrel trained up the highway, soldiers manning the post, cradling rifles. Two armed policemen rattled questions at Mahmoud, who replied politely, and they peered at me in the back seat. Their eyes raked me up and down. I tried to look friendly and courteous but my mind was on the contents of my suitcase.

  I always keep a journal and I’d kept notes as the uprising progressed. My notes included details of demonstrations, news reports of police brutality, copies of tweets, links to websites with articles and pictures of anti-government activity. Journalists had been beaten, imprisoned and deported for much less. And my camera was crammed with photos of graffiti, illegal checkpoints and the tented city under the (now fallen) Pearl monument. How could I be so stupid?

  One policeman stood over us as the other walked to the back and opened the trunk. I feared my heart would explode in my chest. However, they didn’t open my suitcase or ask me any questions. Hopefully they just saw an elderly, harmless-looking Western female. They waved us through. It took a long time for my heart to stop pounding.

  I travelled light as my trip was only for a few days. I hadn’t been able to get to the souk, but the Indian tailor had kindly come out to our apartment. Unfortunately, I hated the finished outfit he’d made, but it was the bride that was important, not the bride’s mother.

  The flight to Sydney was wonderful. The plane was practically empty, and after taking an American sleeping pill given to me by Colton, I stretched out over five seats, and slept the whole way there.

  Karly and her husband-to-be, Cam, had rented a lovely house in Narrabeen, in the suburbs of Sydney, for the wedding. I shared a bedroom with Karly’s bridesman, (no, that’s not a typo) Luciano, and my 40 year old niece, Becky. Becky and I shared a single bunk, and Luciano slept in the bunk above. We called the room the ‘dorm’. It was a trifle cramped, but great fun, reminding me of my student days. And it was lovely seeing Becky again. I hadn’t seen her since she’d come to visit us in Spain, when we had the Siamese cat family and Chox.

  I loved Luciano on sight, he was so gentle and thoughtful. I understood why Karly had kept in touch with him since university, and why she’d asked him to be her bridesman, along with her bridesmaids. Luciano put us to shame. Becky and I soon had our stuff strewn around, but Luciano’s clothes were always neatly folded and tidy.

  My son, Shealan, was there, with Hannah, his lovely new wife. And I got to meet Cam’s parents, Di and Barry, who were absolutely delightful, as were the rest of his family.

  The outdoor wedding was glorious, overlooking Sydney Harbour. Karly, Cam and his parents had worked hard, and everything went perfectly. The reception in a nearby hotel was lovely too, even though Karly set light to her veil when cutting the cake. But that’s another story.

  Karly and Cam’s wedding

  Joe kept in constant touch via email, and I was shocked to read the following:

  “Young Mohammed has been sent back to Lebanon,” he wrote. “The authorities are clearing out young men who may be Shi’a terrorists. Honestly! Mohammed a terrorist? Ridiculous!”

  I was sorry to hear of young Mohammed’s fate. Nobody could be less politically active, and I knew his family depended on his income.

  Too soon I had to return to Bahrain, although it was good to see Joe again and show him all the wedding photos. Daryna and most of t
he teachers had returned. However, there were some exceptions. Young Mohammed was still banished. The wonderful Wayne and the Athletics Director, Jane, who’d been involved in the basketball fiasco at the beginning of the year, and her hen-pecked husband, were never seen again.

  The Spring Break was over and the new term began. Before, there had been many pictures of the King and Prime Minister plastered all over the school walls, but now they seemed to have multiplied. Wherever one looked, the King was watching, smiling benevolently. Occasionally the pictures would be defaced or the eyes gouged out, but these were quickly replaced. There seemed to be a never-ending supply.

  I quickly caught up with all the ASS gossip. Daryna was a rich source, and she often popped in with the latest snippets.

  One day, Colton was in our apartment.

  “...me and my buddy Tucker, we always planned to make a raft like Huck Finn, y’know, ’n’ take it down the Boise River, but we never did. Folks would use all sorts, noodles, kids’ paddlin’ pools, inflatable killer whales...” He stopped as somebody knocked on our door.

  “Hey, that’ll be Jake,” said Colton, chuckling. “I’m gonna hide behind the curtain ’n’ give him a fright.”

  He slipped behind the full-length curtain as I answered the door. It wasn’t Jake, but Daryna, full of the latest stories about Brent.

  “Do you know? He’s lost all his class’s assignments for the entire third quarter? He’s making them do it all over again. His class came to see me today, en masse. They’re furious, and I don’t blame them!”

  Daryna chattered on, but I was only half listening, acutely aware of Colton hidden behind the curtain, just a few feet away.

  After five minutes, Colton had had enough. Casually, he stepped out from behind the curtain as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Hi, Miss Daryna, how are you?” he said to his Principal, and walked past her and into the kitchen to join Joe.