[A continuing series by guest author Dr. Dahlia Wasfi]
Finally, on Christmas Eve, I got a seat on a red-eye flight out of London and landed in Kuwait City on Christmas morning. Though I was tired, my excitement prevented me from getting any sleep. Exhausted and jet-lagged, I struggled through airport customs and the Kuwait border emigration process to get to Kuwait’s northern border.
It was raining, and my kind taxi driver waited so I could have shelter until the bus arrived to carry passengers across the several-kilometer no-man’s land between Kuwait and Iraq.
I peered out my rain-streaked window to see a soldier (whom I remember to be British), standing over what looked like an oil barrel and brushing his teeth using a small hand-held mirror.
It was a bizarre sight, and I started to ask myself where the hell I was and what was I doing.
Finally, after what felt like a long wait, the shuttle bus creaked into the make-shift parking area. Upon its arrival, numerous travelers emerged from the cars parked nearby, moving hurriedly with their boxes and bags to climb aboard and escape the desert rain.
The bus was old and weather-battered, and in my sleep-deprived fog, I wondered if it was the same bus my parents rode when they made the commute in the early 1970s. There I was that day, alone, isolated, physically and emotionally drained, and unsure of what was coming next.
Somewhere along that anonymous road, in the sands of a nameless desert, I burst into tears. I thought, “This was the stupidest plan I have ever come up with…why didn’t anyone try to stop me?!” Of course, many friends and family had tried to alert me to the dangers and difficulties of this trip. I had ignored them.
Now, there was no turning back.