When Home Was Left Behind
By Nita Bhatkar
Special to The Times
There are journeys you remember for the places you visit. Then there are journeys you remember because they change who you become.
When Iraqi forces invaded Kuwait on 2 August 1990, life stopped in an instant. Nobody knew what tomorrow would bring.
Thirty-six years later, I can still relive those days with startling clarity.
I was just 14 years old, born and raised in Kuwait, the only home I had ever known. Then, overnight, we became refugees.
This year, those memories feel especially poignant as I remember my late uncle, Narendra Khambete, my father’s closest friend, who passed away recently. He, along with his wife and son, became my companions on that unforgettable ten-day convoy journey from Kuwait to India. It was my first time away from my parents, and I had little understanding of what lay ahead.
We travelled through Kuwait, into Iraq and onwards to Jordan. Every checkpoint brought fresh anxiety, and every delay left us wondering whether we would make it out safely.
I still remember our first night in a makeshift camp. The women and children slept inside a tent while the men stayed outside, guarding our belongings through the night. I slept peacefully beside my aunt and cousin. By morning, my uncle and the other men returned covered in dust after enduring a fierce desert sandstorm. It was only years later that I truly appreciated what that night must have been like for them.
By the time we reached the Azraq refugee camp in Jordan, survival had become part of everyday life. Fresh food was limited to khuboos, yoghurt, apples, tomatoes, cucumbers and the occasional tin of sardines. As families departed on evacuation flights, we searched the tents they left behind for anything they could not carry. One day, we found rice and a few spices.
Using the tomatoes we already had, we cooked what we proudly called our “Hyderabadi biryani.” Whether it resembled biryani or not hardly mattered. It was a hot meal and, for a brief moment, it tasted like home.
Bathing meant filling buckets with water and carrying them to makeshift bathrooms erected over the desert ground. No matter how thoroughly you washed, your feet were muddy again the moment you stepped outside.
After days of waiting, we finally boarded an Air India flight to India, having spent an entire night at the airport. By sheer luck, we were upgraded to First Class. I can still remember the taste of the biryani served on board. After days of camp life, it was the most comforting meal I had ever eaten.
Landing in Mumbai marked the beginning of a new chapter. My parents soon joined me, and together we began rebuilding our lives in India. Following Kuwait’s liberation, we were fortunate to return to the country we had always called home.
But the journey never truly ended.
Those ten days, and the two years that followed in India, shaped the person I would become. They taught me resilience in uncertainty, gratitude in hardship, compassion for those forced to leave everything behind, and a profound understanding that home is more than a place. It is the people you carry with you, and the hope that carries you forward.
Some journeys end when you arrive. Others become part of who you are forever.
