Saddam’s Head and the Revival of the Diorama

With a touch of reservation, I will add to the “must see” museum category the Kuwait House for National Works Not To Forget Museum Saddam Hussain Regime Crimes (aka, Kuwait House of National Memorial Museum, aka “Do Not Forget Museum”) – and if ever there was a need for an acronym, I think this is it. But, unlike the Tareq Ragab or al-Athar Islamiyyah museums, do not go expecting Islamic wonders and never-before-seen treasures. “Do Not Forget” is all about Saddam’s invasion and the revival of the diorama.

Now I don’t fault Kuwait for never wanting to forget; it’s certainly something that needs to be remembered. But I think they could have done it with a little less kitch and horror. In sum, this museum is a 9th grade diorama project, coupled with hideous photos of burned and tortured victims of Saddam Hussein, and culminating in the head of Saddam’s infamous statue.

First off, getting there was a test of true patience and fell well within the “just how much do you want this” category. But for those of you who really want to go, even after reading the following, you take Gulf Road all the way around towards the Port, past the NBK building as the road turns and then right before it merges onto the Coastal Road, take the u-turn and you’ll actually see a sign for “Kuwait House of National Memorial Museum”. After the u-turn make your first right and look for the cannons out front on the right. And note that like most other Kuwaiti museums, they’re closed from noon to 4pm, so plan accordingly.

The museum starts you off with a walk through a dark windy hallway, with a loud speaker spouting the narration of the invasion and subsequent war. With each progressing scene, a diorama is illuminated in turn, culminating with fire-fights and eventual victory. I wasn’t sure whether to bring the baby through this, but the kind Egyptian running the “show” turned down the blaring narration so I pushed the stroller through, keeping her well ahead of the explosions and light shows. It wasn’t gory, just loud, but I would definitely not bring children who might be frightened by the dark or loud noises or who might just be artistically offended by the silly little dioramas.

At the end of the dioramas, you end up at the back of a theater. We weren’t sure where to go, but headed towards one of the doors and then found ourselves in another hallway. This lead us through a nice tribute to many of the 38 countries that assisted Kuwait in Desert Storm. Then it ended, and lead to another hallway housing some astounding photos of the destruction around Kuwait, as well as some horrific photos of the victims, including children. There were still no signs indicating any exit, and the only door, other than the one we came through at the far end, was at the opposite end of a side room entitled “The Iraqi Regime Crimes.” This was lined floor-to-ceiling with photos of atrocities I just didn’t want to see, so I raced through it with the stroller and found myself outside at the front door of the museum.

It felt very final, like, “Thanks for coming, here’s the exit, have a nice day.” However, I knew from the tourism-blog-searches that I had done, that the whole reason for coming here was to see Saddam’s head. So, without really thinking, I said, apparently rather loudly, “But where’s the head?” To which, a Kuwait man on his cell phone peered around the corner at me and casually indicated we should go through the unmarked door in front of us.

So, much like Alice, we entered the next tunnel of the rabbit hole and found ourselves in another room surrounded by more horrendous photographs. After zipping past them, we then found ourselves in a long hallway. At one end were three life-sized dioramas/rooms depicting, what I’m assuming were, Saddam’s men torturing more victims.

But then, glancing down at the far end I could see perched slightly askew on some 2x4s on the ground was Saddam’s bronze head. As a conclusion to the rather surreal experience on the whole, it somehow seemed fitting. But at the same time, also seemed a bit of a let down. Regardless, I can guarantee you that we will never forget the “Do Not Forget Museum,” which in the end is really what matters.

Gems & Germs: Exploring Kuwait’s Tourism Side

Kuwait is certainly not known for its tourism draws. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that their official tourism board is staffed by one lonely guy burning up his iPhone's battery flinging angry birds around, merely glancing up once a month to hand out a flight schedule to Dubai to a wayward visitor.

Despite this assumption, I was bound and determined to find something worth seeing in Kuwait. When we lived in Cairo and had visitors, I spent hours trying to figure out how much we could cram in considering daylight, traffic, jet lag, and nourishment requirements. Conversely, in Kuwait we’ve had just one visitor and to be honest, my mother came to see her granddaughter, not Kuwait. But, with our departure from Kuwait looming, and never one to turn down an opportunity to drag someone around with me, I gathered up the “Kuwait Bucket List” that I had amassed from various blogs and lured Mom into the car and off we went!

In hindsight, and in full honesty for any others who are seeking “things to do in Kuwait”, I think we were about 50/50 for finding gems versus germs. The biggest “germ” was the alleged Ahmadi Japanese Garden located on the Kuwait Oil Company (KOC) compound.

I had found several references to it on blogs, even as recent as a few months ago, saying how beautiful it was, and how stunning the flowers were and what a little oasis it was. So, always in need of a little oasis stop, I figured it should be at the top of our list. It’s located just off Ring Road 30 on the expansive KOC compound. We drove around the compound loop once and I pulled in to a very empty parking lot where I thought it should be.

We pulled up to a large sign and read out loud, “Bioremediated Soil Park.” After we caught our breath and wiped our laughter-induced tears away, Mom got out to climb over the rubble to just confirm that there was nothing worth seeing.

Once confirmed, we turned around and headed home. When I told my husband that evening, he said, “You took my daughter to a land fill?” “Well, it was supposed to have pretty flowers,” I said. “Welcome to Kuwait,” he said.

Our next germ, and you may notice a trend here for my desperate need for anything nature-related, was to seek out the flamingos. My carpet weaving teacher, Hussain, had casually mentioned that there were hundreds of flamingos on the Gulf up by the hospital complexes. As soon as I heard this I pummeled him for exact directions and times. So one morning, Mom and I grabbed Bean and headed out in search of flamingos. I was so excited; real wildlife!! We drove out on the Gulf Road, merged on to the Coastal Road past the port, and then came to the sea of endless construction. We wound our way through the ever-changing traffic patterns and looked for the entrance to the maternity hospital. Hussain said it was best to head there and park close to the water.

Well, we missed it and in fortuitous fashion, found ourselves at the previously-discovered “Nature Reserve” that wasn’t. So I shared the desolate sandy tumbleweeds with Mom, we took a picture for posterity, and we turned around. Finally, we found the maternity hospital and drove as far towards the water as possible and gazed out with high hopes. Nothing. Not even a seagull. Just bobbing trash. I could just hear that evening's conversation with my husband, “Why do you think there’s anything worth seeing here?” “Because I have high hopes, dear, and a desperate unfulfilled need to commune with nature in a desolate mall-strewn country, that’s why. Now quit being such a poop.” (sigh)

I did have a few failures that weren’t quite germ-worthy, in that I took Mom to see the Heritage Souk and Fabric Souk in the middle of the day and everything was shut. I made an appointment for us to see the Mirror House, then couldn’t find it and missed our appointment. The Grand Mosque and Kuwait Towers both appeared to be under construction and currently not open to visitors. And the building that I though was the Dhow Museum, was actually the Dhow Builders Union headquarters, but we at least got to see some boats.

However, not all of our outings resulted in unmitigated failure. For all our “germs” we actually did find some genuine highly-surprising “gems.” Two of which were the Tareq Ragab museums. There’s the Museum of Islamic Calligraphy, located in Jabriya just across from The New English School, and the Islamic Museum, located a few streets away.

Both cost 2kd per person, but are worth it. And in a highly atypical manner, their website (www.trmkt.com) is actually helpful and informative, offering radical things like a map and hours of operation. The Tareq Ragab Islamic Museum was brimming with items from all over the world. Their collection of musical instruments was like nothing I’d ever seen before. They had thousands and thousands of items of jewelry on display, as well as clothing and ceramics and firearms and thousand-year-old documents. You can also learn how they amazingly managed to hide their collection of over 20,000 pieces from Saddam’s troops during the invasion.

If you don’t have a wiggly one-year-old to deal with, you could easily spend hours here and it would be well worth it. In addition, the Museum of Islamic Calligraphy was equally impressive. My one complaint is that there are fewer labels here, so you don’t know what you’re looking at. The displays are attractive and the calligraphy is beautiful, but it would be nice to have more information. For the items that are labeled, it’s informative and typically interesting. For example, seeing the Qur'an written on palm fronds sewn together into a huge book that’s over 500 years old is pretty impressive.

When we were there, there were only one or two other visitors, however there was also a crew filming in a back corner. Typically this wouldn’t have been an issue, however Bean discovered that the two-story open-style architecture provided excellent acoustics for her to practice her high-pitched dolphin calls. So I kept plying her with rice crackers and spent a lot of time trying to find less-echoey corners for us to explore.

One thing to note that is important for other potential explorers, is that most museums in Kuwait tend to be closed from noon to 4pm every day, which does not mesh well with napping babies, and is annoying on several levels, but we had no choice and adapted accordingly.

The one museum that is not closed for lunch and is actually open from 10am-7pm (Mon-Thurs and Sat, and closed Sun), is the Dar al-Athar al-Islamiyyah, which is also worth visiting, plus it’s free. It’s located on Gulf Road, up past the General Assembly building. It’s near the intersection of Gulf and Abdul Aziz Hamad Al Sager Street, and is allegedly in the old hospital building.

When we visited, they had a wonderful exhibit on “Splendors of the Ancient East” with beautiful displays, clear labels (which was such a delight after the post-it labels we found in the Cairo museum) and artifacts we had never seen anywhere else. 

They also have a nice gift shop, which is rare here. There are a few more museums that are still on my bucket list that I will just have to drag my husband to. But overall, I’m pleased with the gems we discovered. There was one more museum that we visited that deserves its own write-up. So, stay tuned for the museum featuring Saddam Hussain’s head.

Weaving Is Such Sweet Sorrow - and Really Hard!

Under the category of “Ways to Keep an Expat Spouse Busy” you will often find something dealing with textiles. Whether it’s buying them, dyeing them, quilting, sewing, studying or weaving them, textiles tend to be an item of interest regardless of what country you’re in. So, not one to mess with tradition, and always looking for my next temporary craft diversion, when I was asked if I wanted to take a weaving class here in Kuwait, I said yes.

A month later, seven of us expat women (six Americans and one Aussie) gathered at Terry’s house where we met Hussain, who would be our weaving instructor for the next two months. There were actually only four classes, but he gave us a month between the third and fourth to actually finish our rug. And when I say rug, please don’t envision anything actually large enough to put on the floor; think more like a large mousepad.

But even at its mere 12x12”, it still took us all the full two months to complete. Hussain was a great teacher, and very patient with all of us. He has an amazing story of escaping Afghanistan as a child with his family, and heading into Iran. There, he learned the art of carpet weaving and from the time he was twelve or so, he worked as a weaver. Eventually, he made his way to Kuwait, where he now lives with his own family and he and his brother run their own rug shop in the Heritage Souk. He’s definitely not in love with Kuwait, but speaks with great fondness of Iran, which frankly, in our social circles, is something I hadn’t heard. So it was interesting.

Despite Hussain’s great skill as a weaver and a teacher, I don’t think he was able to spark a new found love of weaving in any of us students; however, he did foster in us enormous appreciation and awe for the hand-woven rugs we see everywhere. He showed us some breathtaking rugs from Iran, with over one million stitches in them. They were like nothing I’d ever seen before. It was mesmerizing, like fluid stained glass. When we learned that it can take one weaver (typically a woman, but not always) a year to finish a floor-sized rug (or one like the million-stitch one, which you’d only hang on the wall in a museum), I could instantly believe it. And with a good weaver (not like us), she will still throw away five times the weight of the rug in wasted wool/yarn before she’s finished. I think Hussain said we were averaging about ten times wastage, which I’m assuming he figured into the cost of the classes.

So, although I have no desire to weave another rug, I am darn proud of my little paisley masterpiece and will keep it locked tightly in its loom for fear that someone may not realize its infinite value and may use it for a trivet under Tuesday’s chili.

Driving. I know, I Just Can't Get Over It

I know I kvetch a lot about driving in Kuwait. But if you threw yourself into the melee with each outing, you'd be stressed, perplexed, astonished, and filled with international road-rage as well; I assure you.

Because of the preponderance of speeding idiots, we try to keep our road-time to a minimum. In doing so, we have managed to survive life in Kuwait without any accidents; though there have been far too many near misses. We have, however, been witness to many many post-accident scenes (keeping us well-stocked in horrendous car-cass photos). I did witness my first actual accident, from conception to crunching, just on the Gulf Road by our house a few weeks ago. I was at the stoplight, waiting for a green left-hand turn signal, but the traffic to my right was continuing straight as they had a green light. Opposite us they had the same configuration, with a turn lane with its own signal. But apparently their signal was optional, as I watched Mr. Idiot pull into the left-hand turn lane, and without any care, or a noticeable pause, made an immediate u-turn into the steady flow of traffic, causing an instant four-car pile-up. Luckily no one appeared injured, but I may have swallowed a fly when my mouth was stuck in the what-the-*#$! position.

Bean and I have also seen two fly-swallowing feats during our Gulf walks. First we saw two motorcycles come racing towards us (we were waiting at the light for our cross-now-quickly signal) and as they passed us, they both popped up on their back wheels and continued racing down the road, perched high on their bikes, no helmets, no sense. Two o’clock in the afternoon, no parade in sight. I think Evel Knievel and Darwin both would have shaken their heads at that one.

Then, as we were walking home another time, crossing at the same light, we noticed a police car parked in the intersection. This was just days after we witnessed the four-car pile-up, so I thought maybe they were there to discourage speeders and idiots. However, as I walked by, I noticed at the driver had a leopard-print neck pillow tucked under his sleeping head and the passenger was absorbed in whatever electronic gadget he held in his hands. To snore and protect, indeed.

Then, as if the idiocy of the drivers wasn’t enough fun, there are other issues to contend with on top of the incredible rates of speed, carelessness, and overwhelming dearth of concern for others. The first can be summed up as: Traffic, traffic everywhere, and not a street to be signed. All over the city, street signs are either missing, have been swallowed by a nearby tree, or have been placed so close to the exit (for instance, on the highway), that you were given no notice you needed to get over and you’ve subsequently missed your exit. This latter one can then lead to the often-used double-u-turn, which is always a hoot and can add a good 20-60 minutes to any trip. Of course, if you’re a typical Kuwaiti driver, then you shun safety and physics and the silly double u-turn, and just throw yourself and your Lexus LX570 across five lanes of speeding traffic and into those folks who somehow got word and queued up on the off ramp ahead of time. Sadly I’ve seen it done more often than not. Luckily without any crunching, crashing, or spilling of bodily fluids.

The second obstacle, is the “no left-turn” problem. This one can also lead to hours of fun. The only place you can make a left turn in Kuwait City appears to be at a stoplight; and there seem to be about twenty of those. So in order to turn left, you have to employ the next available u-turn lane (of which there are thousands) or the traffic circle (of which there are hundreds). In theory it works, and even in practice it works, for the most part. But there are some places where the next available u-turn is two miles down the road, so relax and enjoy the view, you have no choice.

So, add up the combination of no left turns, absent street signs, and speeding reckless idiots and you’ll find that driving in Kuwait can be physically, emotionally, and psychologically painful. Apparently it causes also continuous venting to occur as well. (Sorry, folks)

Expat Blues

It’s a fairly common theme, at least with me. I’ll be plodding along, enjoying my overseas life, then WHAM; I get hit with the blues. I’m sure it’s typically triggered by something or someone, but honestly I haven’t been keeping track. However, this last time I know exactly what it was; girlfriends.

Bean and I were at the mall. We had an exciting day of buying batteries ahead of us, and were also using the mall space to get in our 10,000 steps a day. Typically we go to the mall after dropping Daddy off at work, which means we’re there before the employees are. So, for an hour or more, we walk the quiet halls and enjoy the wooshing of the zamboni-like floor washer in the distance. By the time we’ve clocked 10,000 steps, the shops are opening and we can buy our bread, veg or Ikea purchases, which is pretty much all we buy.

However, this past week Bean and I got to the mall just before noon, so it was already buzzing with shoppers and employees and those who just tend to mill about. So, as we were clocking our steps, we were dodging group after group of women in bunches. They were everywhere. Walking along in small clumps, shopping and cooing over overpriced items together, pausing for a spritz of the latest must-have perfume being offered by the poor woman whose job it is to offer to spray people, sitting around tables stacked high with little mezza plates (typically appetizers like hummous, baba ganoush, tabouleh, etc.). It’s not that they were doing anything extraordinary, but that they were doing it together.

By the end of our 10,000 steps, I was thoroughly home-sick and missing my girlfriends. Now, I have met some great women here in Kuwait, and I am forever grateful for their friendship and shared kvetch-time, but it’s not the same as the girlfriends who have known you for twenty years. They know your secrets, your triumphs, your lower-than-lows and higher-than-highs (emotionally and/or chemically). They know when you’re lying, they know when you need to confess something, and they know where all the bodies are hidden and probably brought the shovel. These are friendships that I felt could endure anything.

There were five of us. When we all first met, we ranged in ages from 20 to 31. We survived boyfriends and husbands, hirings and firings, knock-down fights, moves to India and Portugal and back, two of us got married, one had a baby. If you’d have asked me ten years ago if we’d remain friends forever I would have screamed yes at the top of my lungs. But I would have been wrong.

Two of them are still in my life and are as dear to me as ever. But two have faded away through apathy and lack of effort, on both our parts. Initially, when my husband and I moved to Cairo six years ago, I did everything I could to keep in touch via email and phone. But I came to realize that some people just don’t want long-distance friendships. So I accepted that and stopped hoping to hear from them. When I came home I always contacted them to get together and initially they were receptive. But by year three, they were suddenly too busy to see me when I flew home 5,000 miles, so I eventually stopped asking them.

It hurt a lot to lose them. These were women whom I considered sisters. But I also came to realize that our dissipating friendship wasn’t because I moved overseas. And no matter what I did, or didn’t do, it wasn’t really anyone’s fault. This very well could have happened if I’d remained within a mile of them. Maybe it was just fate’s course. It doesn’t make it any less painful, but at least I don’t assign blame.

So, as I travel the world and see clumps of women sharing their lives, whether they’re in wellies in a café in London, or in full burkas in a café in Kuwait, I smile and allow myself a little envy for them. Then I say a silent thanks to the amazing girlfriends I still have in my life and send out a wish that these representative clumps of women enjoy every second they have together. Maybe they’ll truly be BFF, or maybe they’ll just be BFFN (for now), but regardless, enjoy the chattering, the sharing, the laughter and tears, and don’t forget to pass the hummous. Now, whose turn is it to keep the shovel?