Princess, More Tears to Cry, page 34
Yasmeena's Choice reads like a thriller. As the Americans and other allies march into Kuwait and the Iraqis flee, Yasmeena escapes. Eventually she finds a safe harbor where Jean Sasson interviews her and records every horrific element of her experience.
Jean Sasson has wanted to write this story for many years. But she knew that the sexual explicitness and the violence would make the tale difficult to publish. A year ago, Yasmeena's story and the choices she was forced to make invaded Sasson’s dreams. She realized that now was the right time to share the story. And so here it is, Sasson's testament to an articulate, angry, brave young woman who not only survived but who was eager to share her story with the world.
Excerpt from Yasmeena's Choice
Chapter Two: Captured!
Iraq Remaps Kuwait as Province 19
Baghdad, Iraq – This nation redrew the world map Tuesday, erasing Kuwait from the face of the globe and making the former emirate its new, and clearly its richest, southernmost province. In a decree from President Saddam Hussein, Iraq spared no effort in removing every reference to the name of the nation that was its southern neighbor for more than a century, officially designating Kuwait as Province 19. The same decree ordered that the nation’s capital of Kuwait City will now be known as the provincial capital of Kadhima, an ancient Arabic name for the region.
-Los Angeles Times, August 29, 1990
Kuwaitis stumbled in shock for the first few weeks of the Iraqi occupation. The Kuwaiti government had fled the country on the first day of the invasion. They were now operating out of the mountain city of Taif, Saudi Arabia. The Kuwaiti military had been quickly overrun. Civilians were left to deal with an aggressive Iraqi army with no good deeds in their minds.
By nature, Kuwaitis were not a war-minded people. Those left to contend with the Iraqi military were mainly civilians of a small rich nation who had never in their lives known violence. The ordinary Kuwaiti citizen minded his own business, accumulated wealth, and didn’t think much about the routine disorder that too often visited the rest of the Arab world. At least that was Yasmeen’s opinion.
After the invasion, though, everything changed. The Kuwaitis, whom Yasmeena had once considered soft from so much wealth, soon proved to Yasmeena that the gentleness cloaked men of resolve and strength. Kuwaiti men rose up like angry lions to defend their country.
Yasmeena methodically noted the activities of the family that had offered her sanctuary. She soon recognized that the members were of one mind and that they would struggle against the invaders in any way possible. The two sons, both in their twenties, were deeply involved in the new Kuwaiti underground. The men bravely contested the Iraqi fighters, even after the Kuwaiti military was overpowered.
As for the Iraqi soldiers, they appeared stupefied to discover that Kuwaitis had no desire to be made a part of Iraq. Kuwait City was renamed Kadhima and declared the 19th province of Iraq, but the Kuwaitis rebuffed the claim and organized a hardy resistance. But Kuwaiti tenacity against foreign rule triggered a fiercer counteraction from the Iraqi soldiers.
Before long, the Iraqis assumed that all young Kuwaiti men were a part of the resistance, and targeted all Kuwaiti men of a certain age. When free travel in the country became difficult for the Kuwaiti men, the men tapped their sisters or cousins to transport weapons and important documents. For a time, the Iraqis didn’t suspect women as resistance fighters, so the plan initially met with great success, at least in the beginning.
Although the nighttime belonged to the Kuwaiti resistance, the Kuwait’s cities were calm during daylight hours. In monotony of the tedious days, jaded Iraqi soldiers sought distraction. There was little entertainment available because the entire country had been gutted, including the amusement parks, which were now stacked in colorful metal piles all around Baghdad.
The Iraqi soldiers imagined perhaps that the “silent Kuwaitis” who had not yet joined the resistance might issue invitations for dinner or parties. But they were wrong. Although the Palestinians and some other nationalities working in the kingdom cooperated with the Iraqis, Kuwaitis scorned the invaders. The bored Iraqis were easily offended, developing quick-trigger tempers that erupted when Kuwaitis spurned their offers of friendship.
As the days passed, the Iraqi soldiers grew even nastier. Far from home, they did what so many soldiers of war have done since the beginning of human civilization: They began raping women.
From Kuwaiti neighbors, Yasmeena heard whispers that Iraqi soldiers were attacking women in their homes. Yasmeena and the other women of the household listened anxiously when it was reported that the soldiers had established a routine. They would break down doors, truss the men with ropes and secure them in separate areas. Then they would force the women to strip and would take turns raping any and all females from the ages of twelve to forty…or even fifty if the older woman had maintained a youthful appearance.
Other accounts reported that soldiers sometimes eyed the women at established roadblocks. If the soldiers found any of the female passengers physically desirable, they would hold the Kuwaiti men at gunpoint and quickly take the women away to be raped.
Several gun battles broke out at roadblocks when armed Kuwaiti men defended their women.
Due to these stories, the women of the household didn’t protest when the men of the house told them to hide if they heard unknown male voices.
***
“After Iraq’s invasion, Kuwaitis are being subjected to looting, rape, torture, and executions. Based on scores of interviews with refugees, we have found a horrifying picture of widespread arrests, torture under interrogation, summary executions, mass rapes, and extrajudicial killings.”
-Amnesty International, September 1990
***
But after a few weeks, talk of sexual attacks diminished. Everyone believed that the worst had passed when they heard the erroneous report that Baghdad had ordered such lawlessness to cease. The truth was that Iraqi soldiers had recently devised a different scheme to seize females to rape.
After living a few weeks with her Kuwaiti hosts, one of the sons of the household asked Yasmeena if she would consider driving a bundle of leaflets to a different section of the city. She agreed, instantly eager to support the family that had welcomed her into their home. She knew that the resistance was growing more powerful, and that the Iraqis were on heightened alert for hidden weapons and other resistance materials, but at the time she believed that their focus was still solely on men. Just the day before, Yasmeena and her Kuwaiti friend had driven through a roadblock at which the Iraqi soldiers merely smiled and waved.
While getting dressed for the assignment, Yasmeena was excited. She was finally going to do something worthwhile.
***
Several hours later, Yasmeena was happy to be driving alone, feeling almost normal, free and happy. She was humming along to the memorable tune “Ya Habayeb,” or “My Loved Ones,” by Najwa Karam, an-up-and coming Lebanese singing star. Music had always lifted Yasmeen’s spirits and today was no different. Also, she was pleased to help her friends in the important cause of resistance.
She had no way of knowing that on that very day, Iraqi soldiers were implementing a new order from Baghdad. The Iraqi command in Kuwait had been told that all adults living in Kuwait, regardless of their nationality, sex or age, were now suspected of criminal behavior. All were to be halted and their vehicles searched. There were to be no exceptions.
Ignorant of the new orders, Yasmeena confidently went on her way. She felt no danger. She was familiar with most of the roadblocks in the area, and she had her documents ready to show, although she doubted she would need them.
Her mood changed quickly when she arrived at the first roadblock on Athilali Street, which was one of the most important streets in the capital. She smiled at the young soldier who stood by her window. The soldier did not return her smile. Unmoved by her youth and beauty, his expression was unwavering as he regarded her in a cold, brisk manner. After staring impersonally at her for a few moments, he demanded that she step out of, and away from, the vehicle while they conducted their search.
Everything quickly fell apart. Three soldiers attacked the automobile as though it were their dedicated enemy. They ripped apart the seat leather with a sharp instrument. They worked like robots, moving on to examine the underside of the automobile with a mirror attached to a long reed-like stick. They then lifted the hood, examining the engine as though they had never seen one before.
Yasmeena was numb with fear, for she knew that the brothers had hidden the flyers in the trunk of the automobile. Those flyers were tucked into the backs of ten large picture frames, each depicting a London landmark. Other items were scattered in the trunk, put there to divert the attention of any soldier conducting a search. There were several dolls and stuffed animals, all of which were quickly ripped to bits with a sharp knife. There was a bag of women’s clothing, which was examined before being brusquely tossed to the side of the road. The soldiers at first dismissed the picture frames, until one sharp-eyed soldier noticed that the frames were without glass, and that the London photographs bulged from the frames.
Yasmeena gasped for air when the soldier tore open the frame and flyers showered out. Yasmeena stared helplessly at the floating debris, whispering to herself, “I am doomed. I am doomed. God help me, I am doomed.”
Despite her fear, she kept her composure while showing the soldiers her Lebanese identity papers. “I am not even Kuwaiti,” she said. “I have no fight with you Iraqis. Why would I break any laws?” She gestured at the automobile. “Just yesterday I found this car. It had keys in the ignition. It was left with the doors open. I waited for an hour and no one claimed it.” She gazed meaningfully at the oldest of the men, the one with the most medals on his uniform, telling him, “You know that many foolish Kuwaitis are discarding their automobiles. I took an abandoned car. I have not even looked into the trunk of this car, believe me.”
The older soldier gave her a shrewd look, trying to decide if she was telling the truth. He knew that what Yasmeena said about the Kuwaitis and their automobiles was accurate. Soon after invading the country, the Iraqis announced that Kuwait no longer existed. All Kuwaiti documents and registrations were no longer valid. All Kuwaiti vehicle registrations were invalid. Everyone must register as an Iraqi because there was no such thing as a Kuwaiti. According to the Iraqis, Kuwaitis had vanished from the earth, just like the dinosaurs.
But Kuwaitis were outraged by the order. They were Kuwaiti and proud of it. They would not so easily discard their Kuwaiti identification papers and registrations. Rather than submit to Iraqi orders, they hid their automobiles, determined not to drive them until the Iraqis were driven from their country. If they were driving their automobiles and saw an unexpected roadblock ahead, they stopped and abandoned their vehicles and walked, instead. Some Kuwaitis burned their expensive vehicles, saying they preferred to do so than submit to Iraqi orders. It would be good for their health to take up walking, they agreed.
Soon the Iraqi soldiers realized that the ordinary Kuwaiti was bolder than the average Iraqi. Long ago Saddam had beaten the spirit out of the Iraqis. Of course, this happened after Iraqis learned the hard way how Saddam Hussein responded to disobedience.
The Kuwaitis still had a lot of spirit and plenty of pride.
Yasmeena was not worried that her exposure would endanger her Kuwaiti hosts. The automobile could not be traced to the family. She knew that the resistance employed automobiles abandoned by fleeing Palestinians or Indians or other nationalities so that the vehicle could not be tracked back to any Kuwaiti family still living in the country.
Yasmeena felt a brief flicker of hope. Perhaps the soldiers would believe her lie that she had found the automobile and decided to take it. How could she know that the resistance had stuffed some of their flyers in the picture frames? She knew that there was no date stamped on the flyers so the timeliness of her travel could not be gauged.
The old soldier could not make up his mind. Had the moment not been so grave, Yasmeena would have seen the humor in his indecision. He pursed his lips and sighed and stared at Yasmeen, then his eyes crossed two or three times, for what reason she did not know. But caution overcame his desire to release her, for finally he motioned for Yasmeena to be handcuffed. She was then pushed into a military vehicle where she sat and listened to four soldiers discuss where to take her.
The soldiers briefly debated before one of the younger men determined her future. Rather than deliver her to the prison especially for resistance members, the soldier said that he knew of a special prison suitable for her. After a long pause, the old soldier agreed for him to take her. Yasmeena stared at the man, her eyes pleading, but the old soldier turned away to question another driver.
Yasmeen’s fate was set from that moment. She was too numb to protest further when the soldier ordered her to move from that vehicle and follow him to another. Yasmeena was thinking, remembering that she had recently heard that Kuwaiti men discovered transporting items for the rebellion were always tortured before being executed. Was she being taken to be tortured and executed?
Never had she felt so helpless. Rescue would be impossible because no one had any idea what was happening to her.
She was relieved not to be blindfolded and thus observed everything around her. Her thoughts were whirling, her mind moving as fast as a spinning propeller. Perhaps she would get an opportunity to escape and if she did, she wanted to know which direction to run. Soon the soldier turned into a side street and drove to an unfamiliar area of the city. By this time, Yasmeena was certain that she was being taken for torture and execution. Or perhaps they executed prisoners on the outskirts of the city, perhaps in the desert? But before they left the city, the soldier stopped at a squat, nondescript beige building that was clearly a neighborhood prison.
Ordered to leave the vehicle and go into the prison, Yasmeena did as she was told. As she was walking toward the prison entrance, two Iraqi soldiers were leaving. It took her a confused moment to realize that the two men were pulling a young Arab woman by her hair. The girl was weeping.
Yasmeena gasped. Weakness went through her entire body until her legs sagged like soft wax, making it nearly impossible to stand. She paused, trying to gather her strength as she attempted to learn what was going on with the young woman. Her guard shouted at her and pushed her into the building. Quickly she heard a barrage of gunshots and knew that she was being taken to a prison where executions did occur.
At that realization she yearned that her arms might sprout propellers so that she might soar over the building and fly like a bird with powerful wings away from those sounds of death, but her all-too-human body grounded her.
Her unsmiling guard warned her that girls who did not cooperate were eliminated. That menacing man used his finger to slice across his own neck. A second guard appeared. He looked at Yasmeena and grinned, then hissed like a cobra, bringing to mind the shocking time a real cobra snake carelessly handled at a street fair in Bombay was flashed near to her face. As the snake passed inches away, its head got even larger and its cavernous mouth opened wide and it hissed loudly. Yasmeena had nearly fainted at the sight. Now the hissing man caused a similar shock. She stood without moving until an unseen hand pushed her into an empty cell. A gravelly voiced man curtly ordered to stand to attention, “Don’t move!”
There she stood with her brown eyes shining with tears, her hair gleaming, and her face frozen in panic. A dozen men walked back and forth, all looking at her with alert eyes, their heads moving like automated robots, scanning every inch of her from her head to her toe, with protruding eyes lingering longest on her chest area.
For the first time in her life her breasts felt like enemies who imperiled her life. For a menacing moment she thought they might burst from her bra and entice the eager men to come after her. Yasmeena resembled her mother, who had large perky breasts and now those inherited breasts were prompting grown men to scheme what they might do if they could clutch them in their hands or use them as a pillow for their faces. The scene of eager men plotting assault on her body was like watching a perverted movie. She could barely think, although her head pounded with the knowledge that she was in the worst predicament of her life.
Then a muted but deep voice was heard and the men quieted. A tall Iraqi with a look of stern command suddenly loomed before her, his unexpressive gaze so unlike the other men. After a few moments, he nodded and said, “This one is mine.” The other men scattered, their interest vanishing for a woman they knew that they would never possess. Their Captain had spoken.
The man they called Captain meandered down the long hallway, leaving Yasmeena’s vision without once speaking directly to her.
Jean Sasson, Princess, More Tears to Cry
