When painful disappointment turns into the luckiest escape of your life.
Picnics - always after sunset to avoid the heat.
Living in the Middle East was always going to be full of surprises - I knew that when I signed up for it in 1978. Twelve years of sights and smells, awe and wonder, and a generosity like I’d never known - but I hadn’t signed up for what was about to be my biggest test yet.
It was the height of summer in this piece of desert called Kuwait - where life was one big bubble of air conditioning, gold bangles dangling in shop windows, and weekends riding beautiful Arab horses followed by a dip in the pool to cool down.
The children loved it. I loved it.
But it all changed on 1 August 1990.
Iraqi troops had invaded Kuwait - we were five adults and three children taking refuge on the outskirts of Kuwait City. Two weeks had now passed since we fled our apartment, and reality was sinking in.
My sister, Glynis, had phoned me three weeks earlier - I could hear panic in her voice as she told me that Saddam Hussein had sent his troops to the Iraqi/Kuwaiti border - what was happening, she asked?
I laughed. Come on, Glynis, I remember saying - if anything was going on, we’d know about it.
We had no idea. Turned out she was right.
Days rolled into each other with endless games of Uno to keep the children entertained, and checking Najwa’s video collection again to see if we’d missed any English language videos to watch that might break the day up and be a good distraction for an hour or so.
I found myself sizing up the fresh meat in the fridge wondering if there was enough for all of us - heaven knows when we’d get fresh meat again - and the vegetables? Hopefully Abbey and Nader would find some today.
The daily washing and drying of those towels that Joanne and I had spent hours on the cold tiled floor cutting up into squares to replace toilet paper - we’ve all experienced a shortage of toilet paper now, haven’t we - thanks to you know what.
However, this was all a stark cry from driving around in our big air conditioned American cars, or walking in to supermarkets, eyes opened wide with sheer delight like a child in a sweet shop, at the variety of imported fruit and vegetables that I missed from home. Or the Haagen Dazs coffee shop on Thursday evenings tucking into ice cream with Joanne and Frances, whilst our children squealed with delight on the next table.
The Hunting and Aquestrian Club - you could always find me there most afternoons.
Now we wondered if we had enough food to go round - we had already eaten our way through Najwa’s freezer, and now relied on the daily rounds of the supermarkets by Abbey and Nader.
Anything they found on the shelves we were grateful for and nothing got wasted - we no longer had the luxury of that.
Expats and wealthy Arab families abandoned Kuwait each summer to escape the heat, but not Joanne and I that year. Heavily pregnant with baby number 3, I was grateful that she hadn’t gone home - but that year was different - she was fighting her own battle with chemotherapy. We found comfort in each other’s company - we’d tune into the BBC World Service and listened to it humming quietly in the background. We’d mastered the art of tuning in with one ear, whilst listening out for the children with the other. The English accent was quite soothing - but we weren’t hearing the news we wanted to hear.
TV was something I avoided, but it was on 24/7 in the living room in the hope that it would tell a different story that day. But it never did - instead, monotonous tones of propaganda boomed from the screen hour after hour showing the world images of military achievements to date - destruction, looting, smashed shop fronts and men dangling high from cranes as ‘a warning’ to the rest of us.
And then one morning we woke with news that offered a glimmer of hope.
Westerners were instructed to meet at the SAS Hotel on the seafront that day. Maybe this was our ticket out.
But it wasn’t up for discussion.
If we weren’t horse riding, we were swimming!
It was clear from the raised voices, tone and choice of language that this announcement was viewed with great suspicion by both Abbey and Nader. As I listened with despair, I knew Joanne and I wouldn’t be joining the other Western families at the SAS Hotel - our only hope of getting out right now.
Instead, armed with cigarettes, Abbey drove there to check out what was happening.
In those early days, if anyone needed to leave the villa, Abbey was our best bet. Being Iraqi and able to talk his way out of most situations, he was the obvious one to send out - and in the blink of an eye, he left.
From a safe distance, Abbey observed families pulling up in their expensive American cars with hope in their eyes, tightly holding onto babies, toddlers and young children.
The military were everywhere - shouting instructions and directing families onto buses with gestures, frustration in their voice and weapons pointing and prodding confused families.
In this unforgiving heat was a scene of chaos and confusion - but if anyone could find out what was happening, Abbey could.
Cigarettes ready, he walked up to a group of young Iraqi soldiers and offered them a light. Taken off guard for a moment with the unexpected yet welcome opportunity to inhale some much needed nicotine, they dropped their guard and took the offering.
Greetings were exchanged.
It was safe enough to dig a little deeper.
A few hours later, Abbey arrived home. It wasn’t good news.
Hours later, the world were shown images of the families being herded into key buildings in Baghdad to be used as hostages.
Saddam Hussein knew how to keep his key buildings safe - fill them with Westerners - nobody will bomb them now.
It was time to step back, reflect and decide how to move forward as it dawned on me that we had just had one of the luckiest escapes of our lives so far.
Time for another game of Uno.
- “Realize that everything connects to everything else.”
Leonardo Da Vinci
Anne absorbs your world with curiosity, love and wonderment, delivering a photography experience that provides business owners with a curated image collection that tells their unique brand story.
- It’s not until you take the time to listen to someone’s story that you begin to understand.
Our stories are the cornerstone of who we are - giving space for acceptance, clarity and vision which shine through all the shoots I create for business owners.
Anne Thomas
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