The variety of booze on hand was more than the usual black-market scotch. Wine, beer, vodka, and many other liquors I’d never heard of filled the bar. The other women already had glasses, but I refused, requesting sparkling water instead. The men laughed, but one of them brought me a glass of water, which I did not drink. The two women and I communicated with our eyes. We would go along to buy some time, and they would slip Valium into the men’s drinks. Drugging them to slip away was a stupid plan, because there were still guards by the doors, but it was better to be stuck there all night than be mauled by drunk, offensive men. I did my part and got up to dance. One of the women dropped a pill into one of their drinks, and I began to believe the threat would pass if we could subdue them through the night. But before too long, four men surrounded me, pawing and pushing up against me.

I could not fight them off. Nor could the other girls help. I had always wondered if such a day would come, though I didn’t believe it would. I began silently praying, begging God, the angels, the heavens for help. The men ripped my clothes and pinned me down. Four or five of them. One of them lifted his dishdasha, lowered his sirwal, and pushed himself between my legs. His dishdasha fell over my waist, concealing his limp member as he pretended to thrust himself in and out of me, while the others fondled my breasts and pushed their erections against my face. I heard the other girls crying, beseeching God, begging them to stop. Memories flashed through my mind. All the choices and circumstances that had brought me to that moment.

I thought I was going to die that night and lashed out with all the force I could, digging my long, manicured nails into someone’s skin enough to draw blood. “Whore, daughter of whores!” one of them cried, slapping me so hard the room spun. It was no use. I stopped fighting, thinking I had a better chance if I didn’t resist. I lay there, tears falling down the sides of my face. I watched the second hand of a clock on the wall jump fitfully from one second to another, round and round. The clock watched me back. And I began to count.

One hundred thirty-two seconds ticked on the clock until it read four minutes past 2 a.m., when new voices, slamming doors, ringing phones, and alarmed faces began to fill the room. The men were scrambling, fleeing out the doors. I thought it a police bust and panicked, though I didn’t move. But the police wouldn’t dare go against such powerful men. I lay there, frozen, eyes and legs wide open. One of the girls finally came in and pulled me off the sofa.

“Almas, the men are gone. We have to get out of here,” she said. “Saddam Hussein is invading Kuwait! Iraq’s army is in the streets!”