My Story
Field Editor Arthur Hagopian shares his experiences of a mysterious meeting against the backdrop of the turbulent Middle East of the 1960s
IT WAS JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT and I was slogging through the graveyard shift, putting the finishing touches on the morning’s lead story at the Kuwait Times – whose CBD office was located just a hundred metres from Kuwait’s Old City gate – when the phone rang.
It was Yousuf Alyan, the owner and editor of the daily tabloid. A former diplomat, he spoke English and French equally fluently – the latter having picked up from his Parisienne wife, Christine. An Armenian born in Jerusalem, I worked in Kuwait from 1963-68. At the time, Kuwait, like much of the Middle East, was experiencing rapid economic growth because of its oil riches, and had opened its doors wide to expatriates whose expertise could propel its
progress – against a backdrop of political upheavals in the region and the lingering repercussions spawned by the Suez Crisis of 1956.
“Can you be ready in 15 minutes?” Alyan asked me. “We’re going on a trip.” With less than 30 minutes left to put the paper to bed, I quickly explained it was a bit tricky for me to leave now.
“Let Josh handle it,” he replied, referring to our subeditor.
“Bring a coat – it might be cold,” Alyan added. “And don’t tell anyone, not even Josh. The whole thing is deniable.”
All he would tell me was that we were crossing the border. I didn’t have a visa for either Saudi Arabia or Iraq, but this didn’t bother Alyan. “You worry too much,” he replied. “It’s a border crossing. We’re travelling in the minister’s convoy.”
Sheikh Jaber, a senior government minister, was a man with a cryptic smile and rugged features. An uncompromising conservative, he had once threatened to deport me for an article I had written for the Canberra Times describing an incident in which another government minister had slapped a high-school girl. “There is no censorship here, but next time you write something like that, I’ll put you on the first plane home,” he’d warned. We patched up our relationship when he gave me a scoop about oil tankers.
Half an hour later, we were driving south towards the desert kingdom of Saudi Arabia. It was a moonless night, phalanxes of clouds scudding in silent array across the sky where stars had long taken over. Alyan sat in the back, reading directions from a map with a cigarette lighter.
We scooted along a paved road, a straight silver streak in the pitch darkness, interrupted sporadically by the ghosts of sand dunes that stretched into the distance.
The paved road ran out before we reached the randomly marked border with Saudi Arabia.
We were all dressed in the traditional white dish-dasheh (shirt) and kefiyyeh (head scarf): we looked like uncertain phantoms under the starlight.
A half hour later, the sound of engines erupted in the silence and the darkness was shattered by twin pinpoints of light coming from the direction of the kingdom. It was our escort.
Two Land Rovers, with no markings, stopped a few feet away, and a squad of black-clad men toting M16s jumped out. Their leader moved towards Alyan and rubbed noses with him in the traditional Bedouin way of greeting. He told us our destination was 15 minutes away, but we had to wait for Sheikh Jaber. He then ordered one of the soldiers to remove the Kuwaiti licence plates from our car so we could put them in the boot.
Thirty minutes later Jaber’s Cadillac crunched to a halt and he waved to Alyan and the two chatted for a few moments. Once his car’s licence plates were removed, the convoy started on its way.
We drove along a winding sandy track with dust clouds trailing our rear.
Alyan then explained we were heading towards an undisclosed location to witness a sulha (peace-making process) between two one-time warring Iraqi clans.
The secrecy was important because it was a matter of saving face. “We will not be allowed to report on the event, just witness it,” Alyan warned. The Arab practice of sulha is centuries old and is based on negotiation in front of third-party mediators.
Two Land Rovers stopped a few feet away, and a squad of men toting M16s jumped out
IN THE DISTANCE AHEAD, a black monolith, studded with twinkling lanterns, rose out of the darkness. It was a huge camel-hair Bedouin tent, where the meeting was to take place. Rows of American sedans and limousines flanked the tent on one side.
We left our car there and walked towards the tent where heavily armed men checked our names against a list and then ushered us inside.
I had been inside one or two Kuwaiti palaces before, and this tent was a modest replica: no water fountain and no curtains, but heavily carpeted. The tent soon filled with people.
Once seated, an elderly Bedouin served us mint tea and dates. The tea cleared the cobwebs of fatigue and I soon began to relax on the carpet.
The tent flaps parted and two groups of men entered from different directions. There was a flurry of nose rubbing and handshaking before they settled down for their peace parley on either side of a low table. An imam read the Fatiha, the opening sura (chapter) of the Qur’an, and then the talks began.
Alyan sat with the Kuwaiti delegation but I was too far away to hear the frenzied discussions that went back and forth. At one stage, the two opposing clans looked like they had reached an impasse, but whatever had caused it was soon settled, and the talks resumed.
Two hours later, their conflict was resolved and an accord for reconciliation attained. The assembly heaved itself up like a tidal wave amid hugging and handshaking.
It was now time to celebrate the agreement. A massive feast was laid before us: plumes of rice towering over dunes of two roasted sheep, sprinkled with pine nuts and a concoction of spices.
Everyone dug in using their hands with the samneh baladyeh (rich homemade fat) dripping down their arms. You don’t use knives or forks here: the trick is to grab a little fistful of rice and meat in your palm and flick it into your mouth. For the Arab guests, it was no big deal. For me, it was no joy: I ended up with more food on the floor than in my belly.
The banquet lasted almost as long as the parley, and the stars were beginning to fade as the exodus from the tent began. It had been tacitly understood that the business at hand needed to be settled before dawn.
We returned to Kuwait City in time to pick up an early morning copy of the Kuwait Times fresh off the press.
Once seated, an elderly Bedouin served us mint tea and dates and I began to relax
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