Twas Brillig

Flashback Friday!

Tonight while packing up some things at my old house, I came across a box full of my Gulf War memories (more about that here)–newspaper clips, some journal entries, a calendar, a gas mask box cover. These little things transport me.

January, 1991.

I’m twelve years old. It’s the middle of the night and I’m sitting in bed, fully dressed, staring out my window towards Jerusalem’s Old City, of which I have a crystal clear, unobstructed view.

It’s always hard to calm down after an air raid. Tonight it seems particularly difficult. When the siren sounded a few hours ago, we’d raced to the bomb shelter, as usual, carrying our gas mask boxes and our shelter bags. Chairs and blankets were already set up, waiting for us in the shelter. The first item of business upon arriving at the shelter was to put our gas masks on–we must always assume that Saddam Hussein is using chemical warfare, because one of these times he might be. We know he has the capabilities.

Some of the little faces in our shelter are too small for gas masks, so for toddlers there are special plastic hood-style masks and for infants there are “tents” which look like incubators. Some of the babies scream. They don’t want to go in there. It breaks their parents’ hearts to shove them in. But because it could mean the difference between life and death, it just has to be done.

Our shelter, deep within our fortress, is full of interesting people. While there aren’t very many employees left at the BYU Jerusalem Center, there are a few, and most of them have, upon invitation, brought their families to live in the Center during the Gulf War. It’s just safer here. So, Arab and Jew alike, security guards and kitchen staff and Professors all camp together in the shelter. Because there are no students and very little staff here, there’s lots of room and all are welcome. Still, there are only thirty or so of us all together. We’re a myriad of colors, faiths, and languages, and most communication is done through pleasant smiles. Whatever might be going on out there, we all get along in here.

Once gas masks were on, we sat for a minute, getting oriented, hearts beating, wondering how soon we’d know if it was a false alarm or whether conventional or chemical missiles had fallen in Israel, or if they were on their way–or what?

The American man who is the Center’s director is trying to finish the Bible before he goes home in a few month, so he opened his big scripture and balanced his glasses over the outside of his mask–a comical but reassuring picture of serenity. Our appearance is difficult to describe–we look like large insects, or maybe aliens. J, my 15 year old brother, and I pulled out blankets and set up a board game instead of trying to sleep–we both knew we wouldn’t get any sleep, even if we’d tried. A game was better. Anything to take our minds off of things unknown.

One of the old women in our shelter who we’ve come to know and adore, suddenly exclaimed to her husband, having just come in contact with her own morning breath in the personal intimacy of her rubber mask, “how have you stood it all these years?” J and I nearly laughed till we cried.

After awhile, one of the Arab guards checked on his children. Recently the Jerusalem Post has reported that an infant and three elderly women suffocated in their masks. He leaned down over his young son wearing the hood-style mask–he touched him–no response. Shouting, he pulled the boy to his feet and ripped the hood off his head. Suddenly, the boy inhaled and started to cry. His mother pulled off her mask and, crying out, grabbed the boy, holding him in horror against her. J and I watched from our corner of the room with terror and relief all at once. Soon everyone calmed down. Everything was okay. But I confess to having shed a tear or two.

Soon the all clear siren sounded, and we were allowed to back to our apartments. Which brings me back to now, as I stare out my window.

This city outside my window seems so vibrant, so alive, so eternal. There’s an aura of peace, even among all the terror. I often find myself looking out the window, just to make sure it’s still there. And sure enough, after 3500 years, it is. It’ll take a lot more than a Desert Storm to shake it.

I jump a little as the phone starts ringing. I hear my father answer it before slamming it down. “What was that?” my mother’s muffled voice asks him. “A man, saying that he’s planted a bomb in our apartment and we’re all going to die.” My father sighs.

I just shake my head. We know it’s a lie. We’ve had similar calls in the past. No one can possibly get into our home here, our fortress. But they attempt to use the power of fear against us. It hurts me in my heart to think of their hatred for me, simply because of the color of my skin and the nationality on my passport. We’ve seen pictures on the news of our Palestinian neighbors, sitting on their rooftops as they watch scud missiles fly overhead, cheering. I’m too logic-driven to understand this. I asked my dad why they would cheer rather than seek shelter for themselves. He smiled sadly and explained that some people don’t care if they die, just as long as we die too. We know that this is just a small handful of people, a vocal minority, and certainly not the feeling among all.

Still, when I wander through the streets of the Old City, dropping coins into beggars’ hands, buying souveniers so that a father can feed his family tonight, and listening to a continuous stream of men offer my dad a certain amount of camels in order to take me as their wife, I can’t help but wonder if these are the people calling my house in the middle of the night with their bomb threats–the people rooting for my death.

It’s time to pull my eyes away from the window and go to sleep. Just before I close my eyes, I catch a glimpse of the pin on my bulletin board above my bed that says, “Free Kuwait”. I laugh a little. Who would have ever thought, when I was given that pin in London six months ago, that those two little words would have such a profound impact on my existence.

But I must rest now. Tomorrow this day will all start over again. I need to be ready for it.

Goodnight.

Photos courtesy of Jerusalem Shots.

I came to you with an open mind–too open. Not being a part of this particular conflict, but just an impartial observer, I wanted to learn about both sides. I was learning BOTH languages. I was studying BOTH cultures. I knew that this was all bigger than me, but somehow I thought maybe one day I’d be able to help resolve it all.I was only 12 years old. So were you.

We weren’t friends, or anything. We’d never met before. It was your assignment to show me around your school. I think we both thought that we could be friends.

You walked me through the hallways and discussed what you did at school and what you learned. You were learning Algebra. Hey, me too! You were learning biology, literature. We had so much in common.

At some point, we came to a glass-enclosed display. All I saw was cloth, stained and torn. I looked to you for an explanation.

And then your eyes changed. You grew dark, angry. It frightened me.

“Three weeks ago, three innocent men were killed. They are martyrs. This is their clothing here–the clothing they were wearing when they were brutally shot. You see their blood on their shirts. You see the bullet holes. We keep this here to remind us of our enemies and their wickedness. It reminds us of their unprovoked brutality towards us. They must be conquered. We must prevail.”

My breath caught in my throat. I considered telling you that you were wrong. Your eyes challenged me to do so. Thank heavens I didn’t–I likely wouldn’t have made it out of the country alive.

But I had been downtown the day those men lost their lives. These men, whose clothing hung here in a shrine, were no heroes. They had mercilessly slaughtered nine truly innocent people–three of them children–before the police had finally arrived and stopped them with their bullets. These three men were not martyrs, they were murderers.

“But you’re just children!” I said, instead. I had been forced to see blood, bullets, bombs. But I didn’t think that all children should have to. Certainly not at school!

“How else will we learn?”

And there it was–the great unbridgeable difference: My schooling taught me history. Yours taught you lies.
I couldn’t blame you for believing the lies. It was all you had ever heard. I couldn’t blame your friends, your parents, your teachers. It was all they had ever heard.

And now I was terrified. I couldn’t breathe. I had to leave. Your hatred, though not yet aimed at me, was suffocating and I couldn’t be there anymore. This place, this evil place, where children were taught to hate, was imprisoning me and I had to escape. I wanted to beg you to escape with me, though I knew you never would. I wanted to rescue you from this conflict, but you were too deeply entrenched. So I left you there.

We knew we could never, ever be friends.

I never said that the other side was right, but you are so very wrong.

And now I’m 28, as are you, and I think of you from time to time. I’m married. I have children. We live a safe, comfortable life. And you? Did you survive your hatred, or has it killed you yet, as it has killed so many of your countrymen? Is your life full of terror? Do you have children? Do you teach them what you were taught? Of course you do. You don’t know anything else. If you live long enough to raise another generation, that generation will be consumed with the same hate.

Someone has to break this cycle. I no longer think that it will be me. I can’t. I don’t understand. I feel helpless and hopeless. The more I learn, the less I know.

But I make an oath, here and now, that my children will never learn any form of hatred from me. And if that’s the best I can do, it will be a lot.

Welcome to yet another installment of Flashback Friday!

My daughter found this picture this morning and said, “oh Mommy! That’s a FUNNY hat!”

And today’s Flashback Friday was born.

Because no, Gentle Readers, it’s not just a funny hat. It’s my gas mask–the gas mask that defined a big chunk of my life.

In the summer of 1990, Saddam Hussein of Iraq invaded a little oil-rich country called Kuwait. It was an atrocious invasion and the world was up in arms over the oil unfairness of it all.

President Bush (we call him “Papa Bush” around here) gave Hussein an ultimatum: Get out by January 15, 1991, or we will declare war on you. Hussein’s retort went something like this: If you declare war on Iraq, Iraq will bomb Israel to smithereens.

And, wouldn’t you know it, I just happened to be in Israel at the time.

I was already pretty used to a lot of stuff before all of this happened. There was constant gunfire outside my window. I was so used to it that I remember the day I woke up and realized that I could sleep through it now. I watch many riots. I heard many impassioned marches. I even distinctly remember (because it’s not the kind of thing you ever forget) seeing a man get shot and then watching them drag his body through the streets.

That was just part of living in Jerusalem.

Even so, none of us ever believed that insignificant little Hussein would actually go head to head with the US. We absolutely believed that he would pull out of Kuwait long before war would actually be declared. Call it American Bravado or naivte or just a misunderstanding of how crazy the man really was.

However, “just in case,” everyone living in our Center (a scant group of 10 or so–my brother Jeff and I were the only “kids”–I was 12, he was 15)

(here’s a pic of our center–the BYU Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies, and a veritable fortress)

went through a training of what to do if suddenly we were being attacked. We learned all the various sirens: Air raid, chemical warfare, all clear, and so on. We were each assigned a gas mask and we learned how to put them on and practiced and practiced to get the process down to just a few seconds. We packed emergency-preparedness bags, and we learned the quickest, safest routes to the on-site bomb shelter, and little tricks like holding up a blanket every time we ran past a window to protect us from shattering glass.

But as I said, we never thought it would happen.

However, on January 15, Hussein still hadn’t pulled out of Kuwait. And so on the morning of January 16, the US began carpet-bombing Baghdad. And on January 17, Hussein’s threatened retaliation became my reality.

I’ll never forget that first air raid siren. It was at about 2:00 a.m. and we had all been sound asleep. I remember waking up in a blur, and casually heading to the bathroom and beginning to brush through my hair. And then I was hit with the sudden realization of what that noise meant and it sent me into a brief panic where I dropped the brush and ran.for.my.life.

It was always to be assumed that chemical warfare was being used, and so our first item of business upon arriving in the bomb shelter was to put on the gas mask–fast. Here I am with my mom and my brother in the bomb shelter:

Left to right: Me, Jeff, and my mom

It was cold and mucky in the bomb shelter and it had a weird smell, but it would have been silly to complain. As I said, we lived in a fortress and we had an on-site bomb shelter. Many, MANY were not so fortunate, no matter what CNN was trying to lead you to believe. People were dying, hospitals were packed, the country is was in a state of devastation.

And here’s where I feel the need to address something that the mighty Gunfighter said to me in my comments of this post and which he may have thought I was “ignoring.” No, friend. I wasn’t ignoring it. He said something like, “our own government lies to us too.” And it hit very, very close to home.

The news was our lives. We had to watch the news in order to know what was going on. We had three main sources of news: The Jordanian (Arabic) news, which we knew would be full of crap, because that’s what their government was giving them. We heard day after day that Jerusalem had been obliterated and that Saddam was marching on to claim victory. But I could see out my own window that that was an absolute lie. Speaking of that, here’s the view from my window. Not much could happen in the main part of Jerusalem without my being able to verify it from my view:

And so, that was the Jordanian news. Not really a source of news, but often a great source of entertainment.

And then we had American news–in the form of clips from CNN. Guess what, Gentle Readers. CNN lied. A lot. Again, I don’t blame CNN, I blame the government and the LOADS OF CRAP that they were feeding to the news stations. This was a VERY bitter pill to swallow. We were the “good guys,” right? Maybe. But we were also big fat liars. And THAT may have been the hardest revelation of this whole thing.

And then there was the Israeli (Hebrew) news. Honest, though perhaps a bit biassed, but always accurate when it came to destruction and death tolls and what was really going on outside my window. They were our most (only!) accurate source of news. And when your life depends on receiving accurate news, it was disheartening to only have one source.

Anyway, the war went on for about two months. Often we would be sent to the bomb shelter many times during the night. Sometimes we would get the night off. Sometimes the air raids didn’t happen at night at all, but during the day. It was hard to lead a normal life, but we did our absolute best. We kept up in our studies, we kept a schedule. We even enjoyed exploring all of the abandoned tourist sites that would normally have been packed but were now left utterly desolate. And as my mother was a resident expert, we always got the best tour possible. We were too adventurous to be diminished by a little bombing.

It wasn’t really terrifying, oddly enough. Very “high-key” and the whole thing kept us very much on our toes. Looking back it scares me more than it actually scared me at the time. The nightmares came AFTER the war, not during it. I’m not sure why that is…

On Purim, the Jewish holiday that celebrates Queen Esther and her liberation of the Hebrews, the war “ended” (though you will all remember that Hussein was left in power… which was, how shall we say, a little teeny tiny mistake. Thanks Papa Bush. You and your son are such a cute team…). Gas masks were returned, bomb shelters were re-sealed, life went back to “normal.” Sort of. We were all eternally changed. And the death threats and bomb threats from neighboring villages didn’t exactly stop… and being Americans, we weren’t exactly considered “friends” by many. But still. The worst of it was over.

But then the nightmares begin and you forget to “key-down” when you’ve been so keyed-up. Any police siren would stop me dead in my tracks for years, because it sounds so much like an air-raid siren. The sounds of gunfire or anything that might resemble it would make my heart race out of control. During the war, I had literally had to ran for my life. For years after, I wanted to run, but I had no reason to run and I had no where to run to.

Anyway, whew! Flashback Friday was so serious today! Hahaha. Thanks for bearing with me!

When I was 15, I found myself back in Jerusalem. I knew I’d be going back. I’d prepared myself. Jerusalem held a huge chunk of my heart, but it also held my worst memories–the stuff that nightmares are made of. Real nightmares, not just dreams.

But I was strong. I could be okay. I could smell the spices and hear the prayers and see the towers out my window. I was strong. Everyone had already decided that I was, so I must have been.

One night, as I slept in my bed, an explosion went off nearby. I leapt out of the soft realm of sleep into the harsh world. One explosion. Then another. And then the sounds of shattering glass.

I knew these sounds already. But these were close, much too close.

But where were the alarms? Where was the air raid siren? And why was I the only one who seemed to be aware that we were under attack?

My heart was racing, my ears were throbbing to the point that I could no longer hear anything but my own pulse. It was all up to me. It was all on my frail shoulders. This building housed nearly 200 people but no one seemed to be hearing what I was hearing. That realization was terrifyingly lonely and too overwhelming. But they had to be saved, and apparently they had to be saved by me.

I ran to the living room but from there the fear or the responsibility or both paralized me. I just stood there shaking and gasping for air, for time, for clarity.

And then another explosion.

Except that there was lightning with it.

And with a wave of relief, as though someone were pouring warm water over me, I suddenly understood that there was no bomb, no fire, no shattered glass. Just thunder and lightning and hail hitting the windows. I giggled, I guess, because maybe it was funny. But the giggles quickly turned into sobs of despair as I collapsed into a pathetic heap on the floor. I had just learned something about myself, something too unbearable: I wasn’t over it yet. For all my preparation, all my rationalization, all my suppression, I just simply wasn’t over it yet!

How could I not be over it? It had been years by now. And I was so strong! I cried and cried and prayed for forgiveness for my weakness. I was so sorry–so incredibly sorry. I was letting everyone down. It was unacceptable to act like this. I wasn’t allowed to feel fear or despair, and here I was breaking all the rules. And I was so ashamed.

And I knew that I could never tell them that I wasn’t over it. It was hard enough admitting it to myself, and then to God. And besides, to them, there wasn’t ever really anything to get over. And it would be terribly, terribly inconvenient to them for me to suddenly let them know. They were all counting on me to be okay. And if I wasn’t, then they’d have to deal with me, and what did they know about that?

So I resolved never to let them know. They would never know about the fool I’d made of myself that night in the living room. I would go on acting as though it had all just been an interesting history lesson. Emotionless, for emotion was weakness. And by now, I was so good at the role I had cast myself in and I had the whole script memorized. It wasn’t going to be so hard.

And so I willed my pulse to stop racing and the tears to stop falling. I pulled myself up off the floor and walked slowly and deliberately back to my bed, back to being strong.

I had been awakened to my own frailty that night. But when daylight arrived, they would never know the difference.