Fear and Loathing in Kuwait

Kuwait is a country of first-world amenities and third-world efficiency. The airport retailers offer “George of the Jungle” DVDs, and cosmetics by Christian Dior and Estée Lauder. The loudspeakers blast a pan-flute Muzak-y version of “Say You, Say Me.” A sign for the restroom says “Gents toilet”–as if a leftover relic from Kuwait’s days as a British protectorate. (Brits, here, are thick on the ground, walking around with the proprietary vim they often exhibit when visiting a former colony that they believe has gone to seed.) As if newcomers are not gambling enough on their very presence, they are encouraged to experience the “Power of Instant Winning” in Kuwait’s scratch-off lotto game. All of this is set off by immigration officials in mismatching uniforms and billowy pants, who seem to misplace your passport for hours at a time, and who are hell-bent on delivering us through customs well after our rental car agents have called it a night.

As a colleague and I itch to make it to the Thrifty Rentals desk before they run out of Mitsubishi Pajeros (the 4-wheel vehicle of choice for those planning on making a run to the border in what journalists are already calling “the 51st state”), we watch an anorexic cat cross the baggage return terminal. He saunters up, hops onto the conveyor belt, and disappears through the rubber fringe, beneath a sign that warns “Please don’t sit or stand on the conveyor.”

The closest thing to command and journalism central in Kuwait City is the Hilton Resort, a five-star abode that abuts the Persian Gulf, and an ideal Americanized refuge in what a U.S. News colleague has called “McArabia.” The Hilton boasts a Starbucks and a Pizza Express. At its various high-end retail emporiums, you can buy boutique items like gourmet kitchen knives, tweezers with an attached magnifying glass, and honeysuckle foaming bath gel with myrrh extract–a necessity for any war.

But to make it a true Saigon-worthy war correspondent’s hangout, it is lacking one vital element: booze. Kuwait is a dry country, and consequently, many suggest that after we liberate Iraq, instead of marching on to Iran or North Korea, we might want to turn our attention back to Kuwait. There are ways around prohibition, of course. One newsweekly colleague, who made it here before I did, suggested sneaking in your amber spirits of choice in a Listerine bottle and your clear spirits an Aquafina bottle. Due to host nation considerations, I’m not saying whether I followed his advice. But suffice to say, the cleaning ladies are looking askance at us when we finish the day with a nice tall glass of Listerine Antiseptic. Such is your lot, I tell them, when you have a really bad case of gingivitis.

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 19–Not to belabor the point, but we being journalists, the booze quandary comes up in every fourth conversation. An Air Force captain tells me he is looking at the mandatory teetotaling as a “fitness opportunity.” When I ask him if there’s any bathtub gin operation, as has been rumored, he says, “Ask the Brits, they always seem to know about these things.”

Later, in the business center, which boasts high-speed DSL connections, even though you are only able to place international calls on every fifth attempt, I do just that. A British journalist tells me a robust black market existed for weeks, but recently, “it seems to have gone to ground. The (provider) has probably gone to prison.” Until it dried up, Scotch, he says, was going for about $150 a bottle. Consequently, he adds , “I haven’t had a drink since Friday.” This being the following Wednesday, this is no laughing matter in most British newsgathering circles.

While nearly 700 journalists have embedded with troops, an additional 1,500 or so have elected to stay “unilateral,” as it is designated in bold red print on our press passes. There are many reasons for such a decision: self-preservation, cowardice, and a lack of options. Many journos believe that, contrary to what the philosopher Kris Kristofferson sang, freedom is not just another word for nothing left to lose. One of the most oft-cited reasons for remaining solo is that when you embed, you are totally dependent, journalistically, on the same subject. Your material is a slave to the disposition of the troops you are stuck with, or as the troops would likely cast it, who are stuck with you.

You might get embedded with a unit of high-speed, hooah ground-pounders, or you could be in store for a lot of quotes along the lines of “We’ve received the best training and have the best equipment”–the professional soldier’s equivalent of the “We just need to focus” post-game locker room interview with jocks. For a while, such a choice was mitigated by the American and British public affairs officers’ running one and two-day stingers out to the field, where you could have the best of both worlds: documenting the military experience, while coming back to the hotel after a few days to enjoy their world-class mocktails (my favorite: “The Tenderberry: A subtle blend of strawberries, grenadine, double cream, crushed ice, ginger ale, and ground ginger.”

But the day of my arrival, the press office temporarily stopped this practice, in anticipation of troop movement and war. They shut down the whole third of northern Kuwait, meaning that if a unilateral wants to jump the border, they risk being the victims of friendly fire (on the off chance they can circumnavigate our own military checkpoints) as much as they stand to be finished by Iraqi guns. There is , of course, a certain relieved resignation in having no options. Which is why many of us have decided to watch the war kick off like the rest of America: by watching CNN.

Much of our day, consequently, unfolds in working out logistics. To get both a Kuwaiti press pass and a U.S. press pass, one must provide a host of documentation: from visas to passports to a letter of introduction from your boss to a mug shot. I came equipped with nearly all of these, though my mug shot seems to have disappeared when the airport immigration officials lost it under a stack of paper. Consequently, I am told I must find a place, locally, that takes local passport photos.

I set off for “Kuwait Magic”–a nearby strip mall that is indeed magical, coming complete with faux mosaic tile, faux rocks, and all manner of faux cartoon Arabic décor that stops just short of an animated grinning genie. Walking through the mall, looking for a photo kiosk, I come snout to snout with Kuwaiti culture. There is the authentic Kuwaiti food (Toblerone chocolate and barbecue Pringles), and native Kuwaiti recreation (a video arcade, where Kuwaiti children play “House of the Dead 2”). I finally find a photo booth at “Sketch Express, ” where a trio of giggly Kuwaiti girls take my picture and then, frowning on my offer of dollars in place of Kuwaiti dinars, insist on giving me a freebie. It’s just as well. Instead of a regulation-size passport photo, they snap an 8×10 Internet-looking printout that makes me look like a cross between one of the dimmer Gotti brothers and a Serbian war criminal. Desperate to obtain a regulation-sized photo, I go to the McDonald’s upstairs, where all the employees seem to have passport-size photos on their employee nametags. I ask them if they have a staff photographer. They don’t. But they offer me a McArabia meal–a grilled chicken sandwich on Arabic flatbread–no small consolation. My Sketch Express snap will have to do.

As I make my way back to the Hilton, I am stopped by security after navigating a series of speed bumps, sand moguls, and elevated metal plates. A suicide bomber might still have a go at our hotel, but if so, its going to be hell on his suspension. Additionally, Kuwaiti Army security makes drivers exit their vehicles and step into a trailer, where both we and our bags go through a metal detector. Standing in line, I ask the gentleman in front of me if he too is a journalist. He looks hurt. “Do I look like a journalist?” he says. It’s a fair point–he’s not wearing dark socks and cargo shorts, as is local media custom.

Shortly after exiting the metal detector, I encounter Abdullah, a security specialist. I read somewhere that Kuwaitis have a good sense of humor, and Abdullah is no exception. “Hello Bush,” he greets me, pronouncing “Bush” as “Boooosh.” I play along, adopting a Crawford, Texas accent and asking him if he is part of the “coalition of the willing.” He doesn’t seem to get it. He just repeats “Ronald Booosh,” confusing U.S. presidents. Americans–we apparently all look the same.

THURSDAY, MARCH 20–My colleague Steve Hayes and I are suffering the effects of both jetlag and pulling an additional all-nighter, but there is no rest for the weary as the U.S. fires nearly 40 Tomahawk missiles at Baghdad shortly after 4:00 a.m. We feel pretty ineffectual, watching it on television like commoners, so I make busy-work by hopping on a Radio Shack short-wave radio, hoping to catch American broadcasts to Iraqis, warning them of impending destruction. All I get, however, is Muslim calls to prayer and the warbling of Celine Dion, the latter of which could be a diabolical trick sponsored by the U.S.’s psychological operations. Cruise missiles or Celine Dion–it’s hard to say which is more deadly.

I rush over to the press center in the hotel proper (we are staying in adjoining chalets), and am shocked and awed to find nobody present. The Public Affairs Officers, are dedicated soldiers all, but lest we forget, they are also government employees–no need to start work before 8:00 a.m., even during war. The only soul I encounter in the lobby outside the press center is a Japanese reporter for the Asahi Shimbun newspaper. He is nonchalantly smoking a Marlboro Medium, and he says that the only people he has seen since the war kicked off are the janitors and night watchmen. He has been in Kuwait for a week, and I ask him what is the most interesting thing that has happened thus far. “Nothing,” he says, helpfully. “I’m just trying to find a way to get to Iraq. Most of the journalists here are like me–the really good ones are already there. Like Christiane Amanpour.” She’s in Kuwait City, I correct him. “But she’ll probably be in Iraq after the Americans conquer it,” he says, defeated. “If she goes to Japan, I’m sure I can beat her out, but in an away game like this. . . . If North Korea fires off a nuke, maybe I’ll win.” “Maybe,” I second, impressed by both his professionalism and his conviction that the obliteration of mankind makes for excellent career opportunities. I ask him where he’s from in Japan. “Hiroshima,” he says.

Its not my place to question our military strategy, but the “shock and awe” campaign, turns out, in its initial stages, to feel more like “cough and spit,” so both Hayes and I retire for mid-morning naps. We are awakened by a siren that sounds like a fire engine trucking through our sitting room. It is supposed to warn us of possible incoming Scuds from Iraq. We both scramble to find our gas masks and chem suits. There is a military saying, that states “mask in nine,” meaning you are supposed to be wearing your gas masks within nine seconds of becoming aware of the threat. But considering our place is already littered/decorated in the style of bachelor-pad baroque–our gas masks and chem suits have to be dug out from under several layers of scattered clothes and discarded food containers. Mask in 3:09 was more like it, as we bump around like silent movie comedians, trying to shake off our dead sleeps while remembering how to properly suit up. As I slip on my mask, I motion for Hayes to tighten it. He does so, and pulls one of the straps clean off (a Millennium brand gas mask–in a deserved piece of free publicity). It turns out to be a needless alarm, one of many this day, though four Scuds do end up getting fired into Kuwait.

After we receive the all-clear signal, I make my way over to the hotel, and find that the Starbucks has been closed for the day. Sure, Saddam has gassed the Kurds, invaded Kuwait, and flouted U.N. resolutions, but closing Starbucks? Now, he’s gone too far. There is as much anger as there is fright in the halls of the Hilton Resorts, but fright wins the day when another alarm sounds, and all of us are escorted to a sweltering basement shelter. Taking my place in one of the white plastic lawn chairs that have been set out for such occasions, I fall into conversation with a Kuwaiti International Media press office official, Sarah Al-Deyyain, for whom this is old-home week. She was around during the Iraqi invasion of 1990. Her brother, after failing to produce the proper identification, was taken into custody and beaten bloody by Iraqi officials before being released. Others didn’t fare so well. Another good friend of hers had a relative who was snatched by Saddam’s forces. “There son was in Iraqi custody,” she says, “then his family got a call that he was being released. The Iraqis brought him back home, and as his family received him, hugging him in the doorway, the Iraqis pulled him aside and shot him in the head–right in front of his family.”

Alcohol restrictions aside, stories such as this–in no short supply–are the most sobering reminders of the stakes in this conflict. That, and the phone call my roommate and I received after the first Scud alarm sounded. A hotel employee rang for a previously requested wake-up call. “Mister Matt,” she said, “Are you sleeping? Or are you getting ready for war?”

Matt Labash is senior writer at The Weekly Standard.