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Mr. Anis Sajan
As I go back in time and think about 30 years ago, I still get goosebumps. I clearly remember each and every moment. Those days, something as simple as communicating that you were alive to your near and dear ones, was difficult.
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I was a young 19-year-old in the year 1990. On that fateful morning in August, I reached my office around 8 am, only to have my brother call me and tell me he was coming to pick me up. Saddam Hussein had invaded Kuwait. Just like everyone else, we went to the supermarket to stock up on essentials. Uncertainty was at its peak, no one knew what would come next. Even at the supermarket, an Iraqi soldier was seated at the cash counter. He would look at how full your trolley was and decide what you had to pay. The actual prices of the goods did not matter. In two days, Kuwait was taken over by Iraqi soldiers. From young lads of 16 to older ones of 50, they all held huge guns and ransacked the streets. Phone calls, our only mode of communication at that time, was cut off too.
My brother and I looked for opportunities and to be of service and earn some money. We decided to sell oil on the road for passersby who would need it. One day, I was sitting with some containers of oil, and an Iraqi soldier asked me what I was selling and for how much. So, I told him that it was oil and that it cost 5 Dinars. He then asked me what Dinar and by force of habit, I said, ‘Kuwaiti Dinar’ and in a flash, there was a gun at my head! The soldier told me how this was not Kuwait anymore, this was Iraq. If I said Kuwait again, I would be shot. He then took a container and left. It was a close call and obviously I could not do anything.
My brother, Rizwan, realized that sitting on the road was extremely dangerous. He looked for other ways to do social service. We decided to serve at the Indian Embassy. During this time, communication was difficult. Letters could be received and sent but it was taking an extremely long time as the post offices were only partially functioning. The fastest mode to communicate was telegram. However, telegrams could not be sent or received in Kuwait, the nearest functioning post office was in Basrah, Iraq, a four-hour drive from Kuwait. My brother made me sit at the Embassy every day and collect telegrams and messages that the people wanted to send. He would then drive down till Basrah to post these telegrams and come back. It was risky to drive through the check posts and borders to get to Basrah.
The trying times only escalated. Then came the turning moment that made us decide to go back home. One day as Rizwan was driving to Basrah and the rest of the family were at home, we saw four Kuwaitis shot dead right opposite their building. It was visible from the balcony and was a truly frightening sight. Staying in Kuwait was not safe anymore.
I remember how my brother refused to leave me alone. In Kuwait, it was just the four of us; me, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my nephew who was just a one-year old baby then. We approached the embassy to be repatriated back to India and waited for our slot. However, when our slot came, we were informed that only my brother and his wife could go back with their baby. I was above 18 and could not fly with them. My brother strongly put his foot down and refused to go back without me, and so, we had to wait two months before we could fly back.
We had to leave everything behind and sell our car and furniture at throw-away prices. There were few people who chose to stay back, but with a baby with us, that was not an option. We were at Bombay safely, and two years later we reached Dubai, Danube was formed, and the rest as they say is history!
Finally, on 2nd October 1990, our family, the Sajans, were repatriated home. We took a bus arranged by the embassy to Basrah and then were flown to Bombay via an Indian Air Force plane. It was truly a one-of-a-kind experience. We landed in Bombay on 3rd October and felt a sense of relief. We were finally home.
I would express my gratitude to the Indian Government of that time. The Indian Foreign Minister at that time was IK Gujral and the Prime Minister was VP Singh. These are two names I could never forget. They were extremely helpful and supportive. In fact, IK Gujral flew down to Kuwait to meet with the Indians and assured us that we would all be taken care off and flown back.
30 years since the invasion of Kuwait, and I still have goosebumps recounting this story. The sounds of bombing, the gun shots, the fear that at any time we could have been on the wrong side of the story and could have lost our lives. 30 years on, and these experiences still shape the person I am.
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