Another Gulf War story

The ubiquitous air raid siren tower

Thanks to all who read yesterday's post and to you who wrote heartfelt comments.

Here is another story from January or February 1991 about the Gulf War.

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I was working then as the Hebrew-English translator of a foreign embassy [which shall remain anonymous] in Ramat Gan. Very early one morning the First Secretary called me at home and said, "Ms. Dina, come quickly please! The embassy was partially destroyed by a Scud missile last night! We all have to work quickly to salvage the papers and equipment." (He meant quickly, before nightfall, when the next salvo would undoubtedly be unleashed on us.)

I came and found that a Scud had exploded in the street, damaging or destroying all the surrounding houses. Our roof had caved in, right onto the Ambassador's desk. What luck that no one lived in that house at night!

The three Embassy personnel and their wives and I started packing up whatever was not broken. Israel's Foreign Ministry would bring a shipping container to put the stuff in, to store until we could find a new place to rent.

His Excellency, in his suit and tie, fielded questions from a front yard full of reporters. He had been keeping a neutral stance toward Iraq till then. The foreign reports kept asking him, "So, Mr. Ambassador, how do you feel toward Iraq NOW?"

Even I was allowed to give one interview, because it was a TV crew from my hometown, Chicago. They were expecting and hoping I'd shout some expletives at Saddam Hussein or shake my fist at the Iraqis or break down and cry, or something dramatic. Sorry to disappoint them. I said something like . . . I was not about to let anger take over inside me, and that all we wanted was to get on with our lives.

My son was on leave from the army that weekend and he came to help too. He found some jagged, twisted pieces of metal from the Scud. Souvenirs from a crazy dictator.

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We had been awake and working a long time. No one thought about food or drink. I was so deeply touched when the Ambassador of Japan came to convey his concern, carrying several boxes of hot pizza! Hawaiian pizza, with pineapple! God bless him. The kind of humility that makes a man great.

We ate, made an end to the packing, and each of us went home, each carrying his government-issued cardboard box with a shoulder strap that everyone had to carry with him during the war. It contained firstaid against chemical warfare--a syringe that you could poke in your thigh (right through your jeans), some kind of powder to put on affected skin, and the gas mask. Oh, and a rubber tube which could be inserted through the mask if you needed to drink water.

Household hint: to stop the gas mask glass from steaming up and obstructing your vision, rub the inside with a raw potato.
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