Holidays are time off and normally time off is a good thing; an opportunity to relax, catch up on that book you've been meaning to read, or pack up for a four-star family vacation somewhere warm. As a young teenager this should have meant restful nocturnal days, hibernating in my room and nights spent anywhere but home.
This wasn't quite as relaxing as it should have been. It was mid March 2003 and I hadn't walked past the poorly painted, rusted school gates in three weeks. Things began to change slowly. It had started with subtle alterations to class schedules as teachers abruptly abandoned terms and contracts. Events escalated quickly to the point that the government machine had virtually ground to a halt and we were all advised to stay together - at home. Private school didn't trump national security, and so, here I was.
The first time I heard the siren was on a Thursday afternoon; the beginning of the weekend. I remember sitting at our mahogany dining table, trying to amply distract myself. My brother was seated opposite, gorging on what could be still be debated as Kentucky Fried “Chicken." My attention was focused past him, and on the television screen that my dad was gazing at intently; signature cup of coffee steaming at his side. I didn't understand all of the CNN political jargon or journalists’ questions, but I could tell that something big was about to happen.
I was unconsciously bouncing my feet under the table when a loud whine pierced the air. Initially I thought it that the police were after someone, but five seconds later, when the sound had not ceased, I knew it was warning we had expected but dreaded all the same; the presence of Iraqi scud missiles in Kuwaiti territory. I looked back and forth between my dad and brother, searching for any directional queues.
I lost control of my breathing and watched as time slowly stretched itself and my peripheral vision blurred. The siren faded into the background like a tired drone in a foreign language. I was shaken from my daze when hot water – hot enough to burn - splashed onto my foot. Mom was running with mopping buckets filled to the brim.
I scrambled for the brochure that had been slid under our door last week and quickly flipped to the side printed in English. It had directions on how to protect yourself in case biological or chemical “weapons” were released in the atmosphere. Dad had already tapped up all the windows in our apartment to prevent any leakages. The key was to inhale the vapour from a mixture of hot water and chemicals. The illustration showed a man leaning over the bucket with a towel over his head. It reminded me of when mom would make me do the same with Vicks "VapoRub" whenever I was sick. Although she was never as harried as she was now and I didn't feel any more confident that I my situation would be better in the morning.
I fumbled up from my seat to help. Help do what exactly, I did not know. I followed mom’s lead and just needed to feel active and retain some semblance of control.
Our front door burst open and I was sure that criminals or "insurgents", as the news kept calling them, had already started to descend upon us. "C'mon, we're going down to the basement!" yelled our Persian neighbours from across the hall. Mom and I looked at each other, dropped the buckets and readied a makeshift emergency supply.
All this time my brother had barely flinched and was still casually feasting away while dad had his ear glued to the phone as he paced the polished tile floors. "How can you eat at a time like this?" I screamed when he made no effort to move from the seat he was rooted to. He just shrugged and told me there was nothing he or anyone else could do to change the fact that America was invading Iraq and that he'd wait for dad to get off the phone and meet us downstairs.
We raced down the three flights of stairs to the basement; after all, everyone knew you were never supposed to use the elevator in situations like this. We huddled silently inside of the recently vacated basement suite; fear and adrenaline were hard to separate at this point.
Someone pulled out an old wind-up radio, and slowly cranked it. Each gear clicked against its counterpart to generate a fast whirr; a quieter version of the siren and a symbol of the collective breath we all wanted to release. It was tuned to an Arabic language radio station. I couldn't understand a word. All I could make out was the word "Kuwait".
I leaned over and grabbed Masheed, my neighbour's, hand. "What are they saying?" I asked, pleading for any encouraging news. She hung her head to avoid my gaze and whispered, "God, Help Kuwait".
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