Kuwait is burning -- physically, politically and spiritually. Kuwait City, where 80% of the prewar population of 2 million lived, is a sad, lonely town. The skyscrapers are abandoned, their ground-level shops have been looted, and nearly everything is covered with an oily soot, a reminder of the ongoing conflagration outside the capital -- the hundreds of oil-well fires depleting the nation's lifeblood at a rate far greater than anyone had predicted.
Wherever one travels, nerves are raw, tensions deep. Many of those who remained while Iraq pillaged and raped their land resent those who fled, and sizable numbers in both camps want nothing less than the wholesale expulsion of Kuwait's Palestinians, despite evidence that most opposed Saddam's perfidy.
If one complaint binds all, it is rage at Kuwait's government, which had months to plan for the nation's recovery but has so far performed incompetently. Many who had been effectively shut out of the nation's political life organized themselves admirably to survive Iraq's occupation; understandably, they now want a say in public affairs. Across all groups and all issues, the question since Kuwait has been freed is simple: Freed for what?
At 3:30 in the morning on Sunday, March 3, in the shadow of Kuwait City's Maryam Mosque, a Kuwaiti resistance member who calls himself Mike leaned his French-made automatic rifle into the chest of his childhood friend Mustafa al- Kubaisi. He whispered, "This is your last night," and fired. Unsatisfied by the effect of the single shot, Mike used his 7.65-mm MAB pistol to put another round into Mustafa's head.
Mustafa al-Kubaisi, who was 29, was born in Kuwait to Iraqi parents. He worked as an overseas telephone operator and enjoyed the cradle-to-grave benefits of Kuwait's welfare state, but he could never be sure of his status. Because of his parents' Iraqi origins, and despite his having been born in Kuwait, he had to have a work permit to remain in the country. Naturalization, common throughout the world, is virtually impossible in Kuwait.
Mike, 33, is the son of wealthy Kuwaitis. He graduated from San Francisco State University and trained to be an airline pilot, but he quit to manage his family's real estate empire. Mike's house is within shouting distance of Mustafa's, and he recalls being something of a "big brother" to Mustafa. Mike advised him about work and girls and gave Mustafa rides in his Ferrari. He also supplemented Mustafa's salary. "Nothing big," says Mike, "but on a fairly regular basis."
When Iraq invaded Kuwait, Mike lay low. But then another childhood friend, a woman named Esrar al-Ghabandi, was killed. Unlike Mike, Esrar had joined the resistance immediately. After Esrar had made four trips to Saudi Arabia to deliver information about Iraqi troop movements in Kuwait, Mike and some friends discovered her mutilated body. Esrar had been axed in the head and shot seven times in her breasts and vagina. Within days, Mike and his friends formed their own resistance cell, which operated apart from the more organized efforts of other Kuwaitis. They met frequently to plan strategy, and Mustafa was usually present. "Why not?" says Mike. "We had known each other all our lives. I didn't think we had any secrets."