“Thank you, Christabel. I’ll have to take precautions from now on.”
“As we all do. Mr. Fonko, those soldiers looked at me in a very disgusting way, grinning and leering and hungry-eyed. One of them said Arab women were haram, but the foreign women are halal. Does that mean what I think?”
“Haram means forbidden, like pork. Halal means permissible. Applied to women, I fear you are correct.”
“Then the stories I hear are true, that they are raping Filipina women when they find them?”
“I’ve heard similar stories, and from what I’ve seen I wouldn’t doubt them.”
“So far I have been safe here in the hotel, but the Iraqi soldiers come more frequently all the time, and I wonder if my safety will continue. What is it about these Arabs? How can they think like that? ‘Haram’ and ‘halal’? Aren’t Filipinas women too? No wonder they abuse their housemaids. They don’t think we’re even human. I’ve heard word that the Philippine Embassy is sheltering Filipina women and plans to evacuate them. Do you think I would be safer there?”
“If you can join an evacuation and get away from Kuwait, I think that would definitely be safer, yes.”
“I will look into that, then,” she said. “Thank you.” She ushered me back to the stairwell, and I returned to my room. Nothing seemed to be missing.
*
The next morning Christabel came in as she made her round of duties. She closed the door and said, “Mr. Fonko, I have discussed with my manager about the situation. He says he understands and will return my passport if I want to take refuge in the Philippine Embassy. The hotel will not pay me the money they owe because I will be breaking my contract, but I think leaving Kuwait is most important right now.”
“I can give you some money,” I said.
“That is very kind of you,” she said, “but I have money saved, so it is not a problem. What I most need is transport to the Embassy. It is a distance from here and it is not easy to get a taxi. And maybe not safe.”
“I can get a car and driver, so I’d be happy to take you there. When do you want to go?”
“I’ll pack my things. Perhaps in one hour?”
“Sure. I’ll arrange for the car.”
And so an hour later Christabel and I joined Raghu in the parking garage. I opened the rear door of the Chevrolet and she slid in with her suitcase. I took the passenger seat in the front. Raghu had a general idea where the Embassy was, and he drove slowly and deliberately past tanks, soldiers, smashed cars and shattered buildings. Wreckage blocked one road entirely, so he detoured into a side street. Street signs had been removed and he soon lost his way. He found an intersection he recognized and turned into a narrow lane that would get us back on track. We went by clumps of Iraqi soldiers lolling in the shade as he picked his way through scattered debris. Just before we reached the intersection, two roughneck Iraqi soldiers stepped out from the shade of a shop overhang and with rifles pointed at us waved him to a stop. I imagine they originally intended a shakedown for a little baksheesh, but then one of them spotted Christabel. He threw open the rear door, grabbed her arm and jerked her out onto the street. The two of them appraised her with bright, animated eyes. They had a brief argument in Arabic over who got firsts. The one in possession prevailed and put his rifle down while the other one stood there covering us.
Then he got the bright idea to make the infidel watch the proceedings. He motioned me out of the car with his gun barrel. There I stood, hands in the air, while his buddy proceeded to rip little Christabel’s bodice open and grab her breasts. She screamed and he clamped his hand over her mouth and started dragging her to the shelter of the overhang, where their sleeping pads lay. The other soldier was so transfixed by the scene that he took his eyes off the car. Unfortunately for him, he was standing in front of it, and suddenly Raghu floored it and ran right over him. I took the opportunity to spring over and grab the other guy in a headlock from the rear. Reluctant to let go of Christabel, he didn’t put up much of a fight. I wrestled him off her, smashed a forearm hard in his face, threw him to the ground and dropped a knee into his throat.
Raghu had quietly gotten out of the car and picked up the discarded rifle. He inspected it, chambered a round and shot the man I’d just dispatched in the head. Then he squatted down, lined up a shot at the man under the car and killed him too. “That’s two of the bastards, anyhow,” he muttered.
Some of the soldiers down the street stirred and started in our direction, though with the temperature above 110F they weren’t double-timing. “Let’s get out of here,” I suggested. We all climbed back in and Raghu sped off around the corner. I heard shots echoing off the storefronts behind us, but he got us away without taking any rounds.
Christabel worked at restoring her garments and her composure in the back seat. “Thank you, Raghu, Mr. Fonko,” she murmured.
“Any time,” I said.
I heard her mutter, “I can’t get away from these animals soon enough.”
Raghu found his way again and soon brought us up to the gate of the Philippine Embassy. Sited in a district of apartment blocks and streets of walled villas, it was a sand-hued, desert fortress-like pile with arched windows set in bare walls with rounded corners. Christabel was back in presentable shape, shaken but stirred by the thought of sanctuary. A brief discussion with the guards got her admitted. She turned and blew us kisses, then disappeared inside. To a safer place soon, I hoped.
As we drove away I remarked, “Raghu, you handled that rather smoothly.”
“I was infantry-trained,” he said. “I saw action at Amritsar and subsequently in quelling all the terrible uprisings that followed. These Iraqis troops are amateurs, nothing but thugs. Someone should exterminate the brutes,” he added.
I thought the better of swapping reminisces of Amritsar, considering that I’d sort of touched off that whole bloody mess.
Monday, August 13, to Thursday, August 16, 1990
The Iraqis sealed the border on the 13th. Thanks to heeding the CYA advice of the U.S. State Department to stay indoors and keep my head down, I missed any opportunity to join a convoy evacuating to Saudi Arabia. Big mistake, that. Not that I’d had much opportunity to convoy out. Talk flowed around the Hilton Hotel about driving south to safety, but mostly it was just talk because none of the guests had cars, and who would rent a car out for that particular trip? The few with connections to make a break for it, mainly Brits, issued me no invitations. The Iraqis controlled the airport and harbor, foreclosing the only other means of escape. So the rest of us sat tight, if anxiously.
International opposition to the invasion picked up momentum. The Arab League voted to commit troops to the buildup in Saudi Arabia, and the first Egyptian and Syrian units joined the Americans. Saddam Hussein issued a proclamation that Iraq might withdraw from Kuwait if Israel withdrew from its occupied territories in Palestine, Syria and Lebanon, knowing full well that he’d never have to cough up on that offer.
For me, time passed and that’s about all. I worked on keeping exercised, monitored TV and BBC radio, combed what foreign newspapers I could find for news, and watched the destruction and looting from my window as it continued. After Christabel’s heads up about the Iraqis on my scent, I kept both eyes open and one of them on my backtrail, my buddy Sarge’s perennial advice. I found spaces where I could hang out away from view and moved from one to another throughout the day. If they wanted me, they’d have to track me down.
So you can imagine my reaction when a be-robed Arab suddenly popped in as I was reading a two-day-old International Herald Tribune in one of my hidey-holes, an idle conference room. Bosnia-Herzegovina had recently declared independence, and as it was the region of my ancestors, speculation over that development interested me (never even imagining that I’d be caught up in that mess all too soon). The Arab entered alone with hands visible and no weapon, not an immediate threat but I hoped getting ou
t of there wouldn’t come to a brawl.
“Mr. Jake?” he said. I looked more closely. Bright eyes. Bushy beard. It was Lieutenant Haroun Asad Al Sabah, my erstwhile tour guide, out of uniform.
“Mr. Haroun?” I said. “What brings you here? I’d have thought you’d evacuated with the rest of the Al Sabah family.”
“The entire family did not evacuate, by any means. Many of us stayed behind. Ha ha, I almost didn’t recognize you with that beard. But we shouldn’t talk in a public place like this. One can never tell who listens in. Can we go to your room?”
I was agreeable, and there we went. Haroun closed the door saying, “Individual rooms at the Hilton Hotel are not bugged, except the ones where the Iraqis are staying. Mr. Jake, it is so good to see you again,” he said, giving me a big hug. “It appears you are all right then.”
“Except for the fact that I should have been in Los Angeles two weeks ago, I suppose I’m all right. Bored, as you might imagine, but the hotel is taking good care of me. What brings you here?”
“Several things. First and foremost I came to warn you of great danger. Iraqi intelligence seized our headquarters and took control of our archives and records. Soon enough they found your file, and my sources tell me they are most anxious to locate you.”
“I was told some Republican Guards showed up in my room while I was out.”
“Lucky for you, the warning. Rest assured they will return.”
“They may have already. I’ve been taking evasive action.”
“I would have expected no less from you. Let me bring you up to date on the situation, and then I will broach other matters at hand. I must apologize for having left you in the lurch, but the attack took us by surprise and left us scrambling to maintain control. The timing, I mean. Everybody knew Saddam would attack. However we never expected such an exquisitely executed blitzkrieg. Not only did his army attack from the north, but commando units converged on the city by sea and air. Our military people customarily sleep at home and report to base for duty, so the Iraqis timed their arrival at Kuwait City to beat our soldiers to the punch, as you say. Those on their way to base discovered Iraqis blocking their routes and had no choice but to turn tail. Many had to shed their uniforms and skulk home in their underwear, knowing they’d be killed on the spot otherwise.”
“That’s why J-One base put up no resistance?”
“Some Kuwaiti troops did assault J-One, and the Kuwaiti troops already on duty managed to fight the attackers to a stand-off for a time. A few of our other units fought bravely to little avail. The main Iraqi force bypassed the J-One base and went straight to Shuwaikh Port. You see, the Iraqis had a dock of their own there, for landing supplies for the Iraq/Iran war. After the war the dock remained with an Iraqi complement to tend it, who in the event served as spies. The advanced guard of the Iraqi force went straightaway to that dock, and from there they were led very efficiently by their countrymen to key points in the city. Kuwait City was taken before we knew what hit us. Some of our tanks were en route to J-One on tank carriers, but they were captured by the Iraqis before they could engage in the battle.”
“I heard that the government fled before the Iraqis arrived.”
“Yes, many did, Mr. Jake. Your CIA alerted them when the Iraqis moved across the border. Preparations had been made, so they had time to assemble and depart. They took the fleet of attack helicopters with them, seeing no point having them destroyed in futile combat.”
“Sad to say, but that was for the best. I hope they will be able to return home soon. What about those left behind?”
“It is not good, Mr. Jake. Clearly Saddam’s aim is to absorb Kuwait as another province of Iraq. The Iraqis leveled the Emir’s Palace—bombed it and burnt the entire compound to the ground, women, children and all; and the Emir’s younger brother died defending it. They are destroying all the public records—driver’s licenses, deeds, birth certificates, everything that was on computers. First thing, they looted all the banks, stole the country’s gold reserves, and they continue to steal everything else in sight! Many sixteen-wheel articulated transport trucks accompanied the invasion force, which they immediately commenced loading with factory machinery, new automobiles from dealers’ showrooms, spare parts… everything! And now private cars, vans, trucks and taxicabs arrive from Bagdad and Basrah to steal more. They raided the hospitals and made everybody go home, then stole all the medicines and equipment. They loosed the animals in the zoo and used them for target practice! When they have finished I fear nothing of the former Kuwait will remain.”
“It’s a terrible tragedy, that’s sure. So, you said there were reasons you came, besides to warn me?”
“Yes. I hope you will forgive my skipping over the niceties of Arab business etiquette, but there is no time to waste on chit-chat, so like you Americans I will not beat around the bush and come straight to the point.”
“Which is…?”
“I am asking if you would be so kind as to assist us, Mr. Jake.”
“Assist who? Doing what?”
“The Kuwaiti resistance. Kuwaitis are organizing resistance units to guard homes, protect families, secure food supplies and keep essential services operating. So far the Iraqis have mostly confined their depredations to the city center, key facilities and public utilities. They have not as yet stormed into the residential districts. They know they would be at a disadvantage, being sniped at from rooftops and behind thick walls, with their tanks easy prey for Molotov cocktails in the narrow streets. Our units attack by night and increasingly the Iraqis dread the nights. But lately troops have been released from the Iranian border and brought to Kuwait. Their numbers grow considerably, and obviously their next move is to loot the residential blocks. “
“Who is left in Kuwait? What size force do you have?”
“Let me explain about Kuwait, Mr. Jake. Before the invasion there were approximately 800,000 native Kuwaiti citizens—that is, of the original Arab tribes around whom the country formed. Already large numbers have become refugees elsewhere, close to half perhaps. The Iraqis have been seizing our men of fighting age and either killing them or putting them in prison, so that means fewer numbers. Before the Iraqis came we were a minority in our own country, only about 27% of the total population. As you have seen, foreigners do most of the work here. They numbered nearly a half million Palestinians, and several hundred thousand each of Egyptians, Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis and Sri Lankans. Plus one hundred thousand of Filipinos and Thais. Most of them still remain and the Iraqis are keeping them in their usual employments to run the city. It is unfortunate but true that Kuwait can survive without the Kuwaitis. We just gave orders to the foreign workers and paid them with our oil money. Anyone can do that, you know. Many of our men are sent overseas for education, but they aren’t inclined to sully themselves in practical occupations. They expect to be proprietors and bosses.”
“The foreign workers aren’t so against the invasion, then?”
“It is very bad for those not Muslim, because the Iraqi soldiers have been given leave to have their way with their women, and the men they regard as inferior dogs. The Thais are fighting back. They include along with their workers men with military experience, for the sake of security for their own people, you see. Arabs look down on Asians and Africans because they are godless peoples, so the Thais protect their own, and they have lately taken to assassinating Iraqi soldiers. This disturbs me, that infidels are killing Arabs. And on our own soil.”
“Perhaps they are defending the honor of their women?” I suggested.
“What honor?” he huffily replied. “I’ve been to Bangkok. Their women are all whores.” I thought it best not to argue the point. “But with the Palestinians it is different,” he continued. “They are Arab brothers, so they have been welcomed here, for we Kuwaitis respect and sympathize with their plight regarding the Israelis. But many of them resent Kuwaitis bec
ause, despite our contributions to their cause, they feel we do not sufficiently share our wealth nor pay them enough for their work here. That son of a she-pig, Arafat, endorsed Saddam’s invasion, and many of the Palestinians here actually rejoiced in his victory. The fact that Palestinians occupy many high managerial positions in our corporations, banks, industries, merchandising, education, and power and transportation companies further complicates matters, for Kuwait would collapse without the Palestinians. Certainly the Iraqis could not run the place themselves. So how can we now trust the Palestinians? They are everywhere in Kuwait City, and I am sure many act as spies and operatives for the Iraqis.”
“As much as I would like to help you I do not see how I would fit into your operations.”
“Oh Mr. Jake, again you are too modest. I have seen your record regarding combat, intelligence and espionage. We would welcome your leadership with great enthusiasm.”
“And I’d be doing this from the hotel here?”
“Oh no, oh no. You will come to stay with me in an Al Sabah villa. We conduct operations from there. My cousin Salah Melik Al-Sabah is heading the group.”
“And you are well supplied?”
“Every villa that remains occupied had stockpiled provisions, and the food shops are still operating in any case. Kuwait, being import-constrained, has months of foodstuffs in storage to avoid shortages in the event of disruptions. As for weapons, the armories were opened to us before the Iraqis arrived. We secured the guns and ammunition before they fell into their hands. We can hold out for quite some time, I think.”
“Can I have some time to think your offer over?”
“Of course, of course, Mr. Jake.” He wrote a phone number down on the telephone note pad and gave it to me. “Call this number and say you wish to speak, nothing more, no names. I will come here immediately upon hearing from you.”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 51