Chapter 4: The Invasion
I was fourteen when the war came. Our home, once a cocoon of routine and predictable chaos, was transformed overnight. The streets outside filled with the stern figures of soldiers, and the familiar rhythm of daily life was shattered.
Our house, an old structure of peeling paint and narrow corridors, had always been a silent witness to our family's secrets and struggles. Its creaking floors and drafty rooms bore the weight of generations of sorrow and resilience. In those rooms, laughter and arguments echoed side by side, and every corner held memories both bitter and sweet. Now, those very walls seemed to close in on us, trapping us in an atmosphere heavy with fear and uncertainty.
My father took charge, holding secret meetings with our Kuwaiti neighbors. Under the cover of whispered conversations, they organized neighborhood patrols to watch the streets, each man's face etched with worry. My mother, with a determined air, joined forces with the other women, gathering supplies from the tiny local supermarket - stashing away dry bread, freezing it to stave off decay, anything that could make us feel like we still had control over our fate.
Days blurred into one another, each moment stretched out in a slow-motion dream where nothing made sense, and yet everything was wrong.
Then, one day, my father told me to sleep in my brothers' room. I assumed it was merely to keep them under control. But soon, strangers began appearing in that room - foreigners hidden away in our home. I later learned that a decree had been issued: all foreigners were to be rounded up, and any Kuwaiti caught harboring them would be put to death. In our house, more than a dozen frightened souls squeezed into every available space. My father orchestrated their safe passage out of Kuwait with a quiet bravery that both awed and terrified me. Some even left their pets with us for safe keeping.
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The Soldiers at the Gate
One afternoon, in the last week of August, I was gazing out of our living room window - a small portal framed by faded curtains that had witnessed too many secrets - when an army truck screeched to a halt before our house. The sudden commotion shattered the fragile calm we had managed to maintain.
Two heavyset soldiers emerged from the truck, their boots thudding on the worn pavement as they marched purposefully toward the gate. My father, who had been deep in conversation with a group of local men, turned to face them. One of the soldiers demanded, in a voice as cold as the desert night, my father's full name.
My heart pounded so loudly I feared it would give away my terror. My mother, crouched beside me, trembled visibly as her eyes widened in silent horror. Without hesitation, my father replied, "That is me." In an instant, the soldiers seized him, roughly grabbing his arms and hauling him toward the truck. Before being thrown into its depths, his eyes met my mother's in a brief, heart-wrenching exchange - a look that said more than words ever could. Understanding this unspoken message, she swiftly closed the curtains, shutting out the nightmare unfolding outside.
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The Waiting
After that harrowing moment, our home transformed into a place of oppressive silence and despair. The once-familiar rooms of our house - those creaking halls and sunlit corners that had been the backdrop of my childhood - now felt like a prison. Every surface bore the weight of unspoken dread, and every shadow seemed to whisper of loss.
That night, my mother retreated to the bedroom with the landline phone clutched in her shaking hands. I watched from the doorway as she sat cross-legged on the bed, struggling to dial the number. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the buttons until, finally, a voice answered on the other side. In a desperate, broken tone, she declared, "They took him. I don't care what you have to do… but do it!" Her words hung in the air, heavy with urgency and despair.
For several long, agonizing days, we heard nothing. The silence was a slow, suffocating dream - a nightmare where time itself seemed to stand still, punctuated only by the intermittent sound of my mother's quiet sobs and the relentless ticking of the clock.
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He Was Not the Same
One afternoon, as I played outside with my siblings in a world that felt simultaneously familiar and foreign, I noticed a commotion near the end of the street. An army truck had returned, its presence sending a shiver down my spine. A group of men gathered nearby, and then I saw him - a figure being roughly pushed out of the back of the truck. Before he could hit the ground, several of the men caught him, steadying his faltering, and now frail body.
It was my father.
Yet, as I stared, I realized that he was not the man I remembered. His posture was slumped, his once upright and commanding walk replaced by a slow, stooped gait. His white tunic, always immaculate, was now tarnished - stained with dirt and splattered with dark blotches of blood that I dared not look too closely at. A profound sadness and shock gripped me. I longed to rush forward, to embrace him and confirm that he was truly my father, but something held me back.
He was changed irrevocably. As the group of men led him steadily toward our house, I understood in that silent, heart-stopping moment that nothing could ever return to the way it once was.