Fleeing from Fahaheel

BY S’HA SIDDIQI

On August 2, 1990, a thunderous boom rattled the streets of Fahaheel, Kuwait. It was early morning and 26-year-old Asma Ahsan had just returned to bed after nursing her infant son back to sleep. Her eyes fluttered open as she shot up, clutching the sheets to her chest. Her husband rushed to the eastern windows of their ninth story apartment but only saw the calm waters of the Persian Gulf. They lived adjacent to Kuwait National Petroleum Company (KNPC) facilities and feared there might have been an accidental explosion.

In the confusion, neighbors rushed into the hallway and word spread from the west side of the housing complex.

“The communication tower down the road had been bombed,” Asma recalled.

It was the start of the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait that would culminate in the First Gulf War.

Asma Ahsan is now 54, and lives in Toronto with her family. A Pakistani expat, she spent several years in Kuwait where her husband worked for KNPC. With recent news of Islamabad and New Delhi escalating hostilities this week, she worried that the conflict could intensify to full-scale combat. Scuffles between the two South Asian states are common, but Asma said that her blindsiding experience in Kuwait 30 years ago has left her perpetually cautious.

Within hours of the missile strike in Fahaheel, the phone lines were down and stranded expats had no way of contacting their family in Pakistan. The TV broadcast nothing but static and there was a run on the bank. Without a news source, Asma and her neighbors, like everyone in Kuwait, planned for the worst – immediately racing outside to stock up.

Her husband stood in a line a block long to access the ATM, managing to take out the maximum withdrawal of 500 dinars or approximately $2000. Ten minutes later the machines ran out of cash entirely. He rushed to the grocery store, gabbing as many dry food goods as possible before the shelves were bare – biscuits, rice, roti and bread.

Someone in the building had access to international radio and relayed the news that Iraq was invading. By evening they could see it themselves as tanks rolled into view, armed soldiers walking through the deserted streets.

“They were showing their presence,” she said. There was no bloodshed, though, and no one bothered the expatriate oil workers.

If it wasn’t for her three children, all under the age of 5, she would have almost said it was quiet as the city’s operations shut down. Saudi Arabia had closed its borders to all non-Arab refugees and Iran had closed its waters to those trying to flee Kuwait by boat.

Asma’s family remained there in a stagnant state for two weeks before a soldier came to their door. He demanded food and explained that Iraqi forces were looking for a place where they could observe the coastline, and Asma’s building had a perfect vantage point. The army would be taking over the complex in the next few days.

Asma’s family had to move – quickly.

The only path they had available to return to Pakistan was through Iraq itself. They still had no means of communication with phones lines down and flights grounded in both Kuwait and Iraq. They made contingencies to vacate as soon as possible – hoping to take a flight home from Turkey.

They made plans with an acquaintance and another family they knew, including a Pakistani air force pilot who had been on loan to Kuwait. Together, they set off by car, making their way along the highway through hostile territory.

The sound of gunfire and missile blasts were common as they made their way through the desert, eating bread and biscuits, stopping only to refuel or use the bathroom. They didn’t use air-conditioning because their car was old, relying on rolling down their windows to negate the 120-degree heat.

They overtook busses filled with Iraqis and Kuwaitis trying to flee, often overloaded as refugees begged the drivers of passing cars for water. Many were collapsed in the sand from dehydration, but Asma’s group had 800 miles to travel before they reached Turkey and no one had any water to spare. 

I asked Asma if she had been afraid. She told me it was stressful thinking about it now, but back then she was on autopilot. “My brain was just frozen. I focused on one day, a few hours at a time.”

She told me that there was one exception, but it had nothing to do with the jets above or the tanks on the ground. She was concerned about getting stuck in a displacement camp.

They made it as far as Baghdad when news came that Turkey had closed it borders, so they spent a few nights in a hotel to regroup. The only route left open was Jordan, but it wasn’t allowing anyone into their cities – only to refugee compounds. The television was showing scenes from the temporary settlements which were almost exclusively made up of Asian expats since only Arabs had permission to leave through the Saudi border. There wasn’t enough food or water, and diarrhea and illness were widespread. People were dying and families were separated.

“I was afraid we would be stuck. I was afraid for my children,” she recalled.

Their friend from the air force insisted he had a plan — although he wouldn’t divulge it — so they continued forward. At the border they joined a long queue to make it past the checkpoint.

A small number of cars were pointed left to Amman. Everyone else was diverted right to the camps.

When they pulled up to the gate, the soldier asked Asma if they had any weapons. They didn’t, but before he could wave them towards the camps, their friend spoke up.

He showed them his military credentials and told them he was part of the Pakistani air force and had been stranded in Kuwait. 

“I have explicit instructions to go to Amman and report directly.” He said. At that point, he drew the attention of two more guards. They questioned him further.

The pilot, Asma’s friend, held steadfast.

“It’s urgent,” he repeated, over and over.

The Jordanians stared at them as they considered, whispering between themselves as the silence stretched thin. Asma fidgeted with her wedding band, her spine stiff as they waited.

Then the initial soldier sighed, a gun strapped over his shoulder as he stepped back and gestured past the barricade.

“Let them through.”

The gate lifted and they were directed left – to the capital.

Asma’s husband didn’t hesitate before driving forward, afraid the Jordanians would change their minds if he lingered

Their friend had been lying, but it didn’t matter. He’d helped them avoid the refugee camps. They contacted the Pakistani embassy when they arrived, and arrangements were made immediately for them to return to Karachi. Asma cried on the phone when she talked to her mother for the first time in a month. Until then, no one had heard from them or had known if they were safe.

 For Asma, memories of Kuwait in 1990 connect directly to her fears about war today between India and Pakistan. She and her husband both still have family in Pakistan, and she said she was wary of any situation that could start a war. While she may be safe in Canada, her loved ones were still at risk.

She told me that it was dangerous to assume everything would be okay, and that the recent skirmishes should be taken at face value. To her, the statistical likelihood of conflict didn’t matter. She’d lived through the Kuwait Invasion and knew exactly how fast situations on the ground could change.

It was always worth being careful she told me: “You never know what happens next.”