by Puja Guha
Mariam wasn’t sure how long she stood there, glued to the spot as another group of soldiers repeated the same process to get into the next house and then the next, moving down the street toward them. Mariam turned to her cousin. We should leave, she thought to say, but fear had stolen her voice and the words wouldn’t come.
Dinah’s housekeeper Janhvi ran out into the yard and grabbed Dinah’s other hand, “Madam, we have to go. Sir said we should go. We need to get out of here. They’ll be at this house any second.”
Mariam heard the words, but she was still unable to react, the situation couldn’t be possible. She had to be dreaming, how could there be Iraqi soldiers approaching their doorstep? The situation was so far from any reality she could ever have imagined. A second later, the meaning started to register, and she repeated Janhvi’s words.
“We have to go. Dinah, we need to get out of here. Is there anywhere we can hide?”
Dinah looked as stunned as Mariam had felt moments earlier, so she nudged her hard, “We need to leave.”
Before Dinah could react, a gunshot woke her from the spell, the crack echoed through the air from across the street. Janhvi yanked Dinah’s arm and gestured for Mariam to follow her. She led them to the side gate of the garden and out into the narrow alley that ran between their house and the neighboring one. Large dumpsters and trash cans lined the walls and they crouched behind one of them. With the narrowness of the alley and the size of the dumpsters, the soldiers wouldn’t be able to see them from the street ahead.
Mariam peered around the side of the bin, attempting to discern what was happening on the street. She could hear the shouting which had continued more or less nonstop, “Kuwaitis, this is Iraq now,” like a video playing on loop.
A truck pulled up in front of the alley and Mariam’s heart stopped. She had convinced herself that Dinah’s house was somehow invisible to the soldiers. Some part of her still felt as if this was some sort of nightmare and that she would eventually wake up.
Mariam heard her cousin’s breathing turn even more shallow. She placed her hand on Dinah’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, wishing there was something that she could say or do.
“Where’s Fahad? Where’s Fahad?” Dinah whimpered, her eyes moving frantically between Mariam and Janhvi. “Where is he?”
“Madam, shh,” Janhvi hissed. “Sir is back at the house, he said to help you both hide.”
“He’ll be okay,” Mariam said softly to Dinah, wishing she could be more convincing.
Salmiya, Kuwait – August, 1990
Fahad looked down at the backyard from the window of the second-floor landing and let out a sigh of relief as Dinah, Janhvi, and Mariam disappeared into the alley. Thank God. He had no idea what the Iraqi soldiers on the street would do to them, and his one thought had been to get them to safety. Now that they were at least hiding, he could consider what to do next. Perhaps he should run himself, join them in the alley? The soldiers would move along once they had ransacked the house.
A surge of panic gripped him, and he bolted toward the steps; flying, panting as he reached the first-floor landing. He willed his legs toward the backyard just as a loud creak came from the front yard where the soldiers had pushed through the gate. He’d been meaning to have the joints oiled so that it wouldn’t make such a jarring noise, but now he thanked his procrastination as he rushed toward the back door. Just a few more steps.
That thought was his last before he found himself faceplanted on the living room floor. He cursed the unanticipated step and sprung to his feet.
They’re here! Move! he commanded himself. The living room suddenly seemed immense as he fought for breath. Finally, Fahad reached the back door and fumbled with the lock. He jerked it several times. Come on, you son of a… finally the bolt gave. He was just about to step outside when a shot rang out and a bullet embedded itself in the drywall inches above his head.
“Freeze, Kuwaiti!” a voice demanded.
FAHAD KNELT ON the ground with his hands clasped behind his head, trying to maintain his composure as a group of soldiers spread out throughout his house. He couldn’t see them all, but there had to be at least five. A loud thud reverberated from the floor above. Six, he realized there must be at least one more upstairs.
The two in the living room—besides the one pointing a gun at him—had torn apart the cabinets that ran alongside the dining table. He’d heard the sound of glasses shattering as they threw them to the floor, just for fun. They had found his liquor collection, in a hidden compartment behind the glasses, and were passing a bottle of what looked like Johnny Walker Black Label back and forth, along with several bags of Nice Kitco chips from the cabinet below. The table was already covered with the crumpled-up remnants of four or five other empty bags. Even from his precarious position, Fahad was amazed by how much they seemed able to consume—in what couldn’t have been more than five minutes they had already eaten and drunk what would have taken a month for him and Dinah to get through. They could have gone for the quality single malt, and they went for Black Label. Fahad dismissed the point, wishing that was all that he had to worry about, he could always get more liquor, but not if he was in prison. Or dead, he repressed the bitter thought.
He looked out the corner of his eyes toward the backyard. He wasn’t sure if Dinah and Mariam were still in the alley outside or if Janhvi had taken them elsewhere. He wasn’t sure which was better—three women found wandering the streets could be just as bad as being found at the house, he had to hope that they would get away. He had to keep the soldiers from searching the backyard, if they did, they might find the side gate to the alley. If the girls were still hiding out there, that would be the worst possible outcome. Fahad suppressed a shudder, he didn’t want to find out what would happen if the soldiers found them.
Salmiya, Kuwait – August, 1990
Fahad cried out as his right shoulder slammed into the ceramic tiles of his living room. His left eye smarted from the impact of the blow, and it stung as he blinked, but it was nothing compared to the searing pain running through his shoulder. His right arm hung limp; he could no longer hold it over his head.
The beatings had started only a few minutes before, but he could hardly remember what his body felt like when it was pain-free. The soldier who had punched him—Fahad had lost count of how many times—looked like he had barely gone through puberty, he couldn’t be older than sixteen or seventeen. His superior, the lieutenant—Fahad heard the soldier call him Mulazim—who had been barking the orders, appeared to be in his early thirties, but barely seemed more intelligent than the one dealing the punches.
Fahad found his focus coming in and out of consciousness. His chin bounced off the tile and his head spun, coming into focus on the swollen big toe of one of the younger soldiers, standing a few feet away. Fahad realized that the soldier wasn’t even wearing real shoes, just what looked like a pair of bathroom slippers. The stream of normal thoughts dissipated an instant later as he jolted forward from another punch.
Fahad spat out blood and tried to form words, the pain in his jaw was agonizing as he opened his mouth. “I’ll give you anything you want,” he finally managed. “What do you want?”
The lieutenant drained the bottle of Black Label, tossing it behind him. He snickered as it shattered. “We already have what we want, Kuwaiti. All that’s left is for you to admit that you’re an Iraqi now, that we have control.”
Fahad flinched, even in his beaten state, acquiescing seemed unfathomable. He realized now what the lieutenant wanted: submission and control.
The lieutenant leaned over, bringing his face close to Fahad’s. His breath stank of raw onions and Fahad had to stop himself from recoiling. Instead, he shut his eyes, anticipating the next punch.
Footsteps on the staircase distracted the lieutenant as another soldier appeared and spoke to him in a quiet voice. Fahad strained his ears to pick up what they were saying—what were they planning to do with him? Could he bring himself to say th
ose words?
The lieutenant looked at him with a cunning smile. “Private Rahim here was upstairs. You have quite the lovely house, beautiful bedrooms.” He paced up the foyer and stopped as his smile widened, “And lovely windows. Do you know what you can see from one of your windows?”
The question felt like a knife to the heart. They could see Dinah and Mariam hiding in the alley outside.
Any strength that Fahad still had disappeared, he felt it seep out of him, still clinging to the hope that they might have gotten away. Please. Please, God. His mind flashed back to several years ago, one day when he and Dinah had had lunch together in the backyard. They were happy then, before all of the difficulties conceiving and the subsequent miscarriages. He knew she didn’t love him anymore, that he no longer felt as he had then, but he still cared about her. She didn’t deserve to be raped by these soldiers, and Mariam was barely more than a child. Please, God, he begged the sky again.
The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed, “You won’t answer? I’ll tell you. It looks like there’s an alley that runs alongside this house. But that’s not the only thing hiding in the alley—there are some trash bins and three lovely ladies. It’s so hot outside, they must be having a difficult time.” He fanned his hand at his face, “Maybe we should go out and get them? Bring them in here to the air conditioning?”
Fahad trembled. “Have mercy,” he whispered. “Let them go. They’ve done nothing wrong. I’ll give you anything—anything—you want. There’s a safe upstairs with gold jewelry, you can have the rest of my liquor collection—I have more in a cabinet in the kitchen. Just please, don’t hurt them.” He swallowed again, then repeated, “I’ll give you anything.”
The lieutenant drummed his fingers against his pant leg for a few seconds before he spoke to one of the younger soldiers, “Get him upstairs.” He turned toward Fahad, “Show me the jewelry. Maybe it’s enough to buy their sanctuary.”
Salmiya, Kuwait – August, 1990
Fahad watched as the Iraqi lieutenant dumped Dinah’s jewelry boxes out onto the bed and rifled through them. He picked up a white gold necklace with a series of diamonds nestled in the band and pocketed it, then examined a ruby pendant. Fahad felt the pinch, recalling how his mother had given that to Dinah shortly after their wedding, a piece that had been given to her by his father before he died. I was supposed to give that to my daughter. He hadn’t seen it in so long he had almost forgotten it.
“Seems as if you like this one,” the lieutenant let it dangle from his hand. He glanced at his pocket, then pursed his lips and inspected a makeup bag from Dinah’s dressing table. “This will do nicely,” he emptied its contents onto the bed, and stuffed the pendant along with several more pieces of jewelry into it, before shoving the whole thing into his jacket pocket.
“Is this all?” the lieutenant gave Fahad a stern look. “A rich man like you, with this house—I would have thought there’d be more.”
“The rest is at the bank…my wife has a safety deposit box.” Fahad considered saying more, telling the soldier about the other safe, the one in his office but decided against it. There was only one piece of jewelry in there, and he would have gladly given it up, but the other items in that safe were far too valuable—that was where he kept their passports. Their Kuwaiti ones were apparently useless now, but their British ones still had to be worth something. Fahad had lived in London as a teenager; his father had worked at Barclays Bank there for several years. He’d rarely used his British passport other than to avoid visa restrictions when traveling in Europe, but now those documents were worth more than all of the jewelry they owned. He had to protect them. It’s too late for me, but not for her.
The Iraqi lieutenant seemed to debate that point in his mind for a second before he rolled his eyes. “Get him out of here,” he shouted to one of the junior soldiers.
A FEW MINUTES later, Fahad’s skin went prickly as two soldiers dragged him out the front door onto his patio where the sun was beating down. He squinted, it took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the bright sunlight. When his vision began to clear, he kept his gaze focused ahead of him, other than a short glance toward the side wall out of the corner of his eye. The girls were probably just on the other side, although he prayed that they had taken the opportunity to run. If only. He resisted the urge to sigh, it’s not as if there was a safe place for them to go. All they could do was to run and hope.
Fahad’s stomach did a flip as he wondered if he had done enough to satisfy the Iraqi lieutenant. They’ll take the jewelry and the alcohol, and let me and the girls go, he wanted so badly to believe.
“It’s time, Kuwaiti,” the lieutenant said, snickering. “You still have to say it—you’re an Iraqi now, and you serve me, you serve Saddam. Say it, or I’ll send my men into that alley right now.”
Fahad opened his mouth and shut it for a second, gathering his determination. You have to do this… for Dinah.
“I’m an Iraqi,” he whispered.
“Louder.”
“I’m an Iraqi now. I serve Saddam.”
“Again, louder.”
“Ana Eiraqi…”—“I’m an Iraqi. I serve you, and I serve Saddam,” Fahad coughed, almost choking on the words.
“Good. Now lean over and kiss my boot.” The lieutenant moved closer to him so that his boot was less than a foot from where Fahad was kneeling on the ground.
Fahad shut his eyes and leaned forward, a tear mixing with the sweat and grime that covered his face. For Dinah, he thought as his hands grasped either side of the colonel’s boot. For Dinah, he brought his lips to the stiff leather toe and pushed himself back into his upright kneeling position. Don’t spit, he could barely stop himself but somehow maintained control. He made eye contact with the lieutenant. Please, let this be over now.
The lieutenant sniggered and motioned to one of his men, “Search the alley, find the women and bring them to me.” He turned back toward Fahad, “Your luck has run out, Kuwaiti. Those women are mine for resisting arrest, and there’s nothing you can do to save them.” He pulled a revolver from a holster at his waist, pointed it toward Fahad, and cocked the hammer.
“Dinah, run!” Fahad shouted as loud as he could before the lieutenant pulled the trigger.
Don’t let me die for nothing.
Washington D.C., USA – February, 2016
Nadia looked around when they entered the exhibit hall searching for her mom and uncle. They continued down the hall past the painting of the oil fires she had been looking at earlier, then on into the extension. When they reached the end of the exhibit, she frowned, “Hmm, maybe we passed them on our way here?”
She turned back toward the other entrance and stopped to glance at her phone, “Huh, it seems like we just missed them,” her brow furrowed. “My mom just sent me a message that she decided to take my uncle home, he’s not feeling well. I’m surprised she didn’t let me know beforehand, I would have driven them.”
“She probably wanted you to stay and have a good time. I’m sorry we missed them.” Dinah gave her a considerate look, “I definitely want to meet her some other time. I hope your uncle’s okay.”
“I think so—he said his stomach hurt a little, but it didn’t seem like anything serious. Maybe things got a little too emotional for him?” Nadia glanced at Mariam and explained, “My uncle was a P.O.W. so he wanted some extra time in here. It’s an amazing exhibit, but it’s incredibly sad.”
“Of course, I’m so sorry,” Mariam said.
“It’s okay, he’s fine, I guess. She just sent another message not to worry,” Nadia looked up from her phone with a relieved expression. “He’s just a bit worn out, so he needs to rest at home. She sent me three messages repeating that I should have fun.” Nadia shook her head. “Moms are so sweet.”
“They are,” Dinah agreed, giving Mariam a knowing glance.
“I have to admit, I don’t mind that they left,” Nadia continued. “I’m not that close to him. Honestly, he can be a bit of a control fr
eak, and I’m not really the best at handling it. Mom says I should take it easy on him, but that’s easier said than done, sometimes. I shouldn’t speak too poorly of him though, I know he’s been through a lot, more than I can imagine. He’s just a little intense.”
“I understand, we all have those relatives,” Dinah nodded. “Let me know if you need anything for him, tonight or this weekend. It’s not always easy to take care of family.”
“Thank you.” Nadia raised her glass. “Anyway, we should celebrate, that’s what tonight is for.”
“Absolutely, we’ll meet another time,” Dinah touched her glass to Nadia’s.
“Definitely, I bet she’ll like you more than she likes me. Anyway, let’s take some pictures together. You both look amazing.”
Washington D.C., USA – Three days later, March, 2016
Mariam was on a high as she raised her glass across the table from Dinah and Nadia. “To both of you,” she beamed, “thank you for showing me such a good time in D.C.” She took a sip, savoring the earthy tones of the Nero D’Avola wine. “Have I told you how much I love this wine?”
Dinah and Nadia both burst out laughing, and Dinah said, “Yes, my dear, I think you have… maybe a few times.”
“What can I say, I’m a lightweight,” Mariam giggled and looked sheepishly back at her glass before taking another swig.
“Don’t worry, we’re not far behind you,” Nadia continued to chuckle. “Hopefully they’ll be ready to seat us soon.”
Mariam craned her neck to look around the Il Pizzico restaurant, “I think so—they said it would be about thirty minutes and it has to have been that long. I can’t wait to try the food; this place looks incredible.” She drained her glass and set it down with a pouting expression. “We should not order another bottle, right?”
