When news broke of the invasion, the men gathered around the TV like birds at a feeder, unmoved by the lure of swimming, snorkeling, or skiing in the turquoise water that stretched out below the surface. Hussein had invaded Kuwait so that he could take control of the country’s large oil reserves to help pay off or cancel the oil debt that Iraq owed Kuwaitis. Hussein was a jackass, but no more than the Assad in Syria, the monarchy in Saudi Arabia, men who reveled in power while their citizens suffered.
At Jiddo Riyad’s house, the TV whispered from the corner of the living room. Jordanians were growing unhappy about the country’s dysfunction. Many Jordanians had seen the extreme rules put into place in Iran and didn’t want that to happen in Jordan. But it was hard to know what was really going on, and state-sponsored news kept a tight filter on information coming in and out of the country. The Muslim Brotherhood reportedly won a bunch of seats in parliament, promoting a return to religious-based law.
Never before had we had access to so much news — so much different news— so many hours of the day. The air raid sirens began to practice; their screaming was so loud you could feel it in your teeth. The days were filled with a terrifying monotony, with no end in sight. The Jordanian government issued a curfew and set limits to how much people could move around the country. After our traditional potluck Thanksgiving, the school closed as the American embassy evacuated its staff, including their children.
It took us about an hour to drive to the Dead Sea, where a ribbon of water carved through the desert. The driver followed the chaotic mass of vehicles to a bomb shelter carved into a nearby hill. No one said much, and I was surprised by how calm I felt. It would be a while before I did that again. I wanted the United States to get rid of the tyrants that we never could. Not a lot of people felt the way I did about American involvement.
In February, a few teachers and administrators came back to open their school in Baghdad. The walls of the school were painted with red paint: Saddam will win! Death to the Allies and Allahu Akbar. The TV showed the faces of American soldiers who had been held as POWs. Their lips were fat, and their eyelids were purple. The baby formula story gnawed at me. The busted faces of the POWs haunted me. I told my family that I would fast until the war was over. The war ended as abruptly as it began.