My retail job vanished as stores shuttered during the occupation, but the shortages of food, electricity, and drinkable water did not lessen the number of women with bushy eyebrows. In fact, with most salons closed, I had more customers than I could handle and I used a room in Um Buraq’s house as a makeshift salon. In part, it provided a small income for her. She loved my company as much as I did hers, and our friendship grew in the common ground on the margins of honor. There was also the matter of her having saved my life after the abortion. She never spoke of it again, which made me appreciate her all the more.

Um Buraq’s house became known as “Yaqoot’s Salon.” I abandoned Almas. Nahr was for the purer part of me. And Yaqoot was everything in between.

I did hair, makeup, wax, and eyebrows, while Um Buraq and Deepa served coffee and tea to customers. We women passed the time in gossip, idle chatter, and dirty jokes. None wanted to talk about the occupation, the military, or war. Few knew anything about politics anyway.

But, of course, it was unavoidable. Usually I was the one mentioning something I had read in the newspaper. I might say, “I heard that the Americans are lining up tanks on the Saudi border.” Someone would respond, “God help us,” then we’d move on to stories about rich Kuwaitis partying it up in London nightclubs. Or, “The deadline for Iraqi withdrawal is in three weeks.” God help us. “Iraqis just executed two Kuwaitis in the resistance.” God help us. “Saddam said he’s going to give the Americans the mother of all battles.” God help us. One woman said once, “Palestinians will pay dearly for betraying Kuwait, even though most have nothing to do with it.” I said, “God help us.”

Um Buraq and I began making body butters and facial moisturizers from olive oil, goat’s butter, herbs, myrrh oil, and frankincense. It was a craft she’d learned as a little girl from her grandmother in Basra. We sold everything we made.

Saddam imposed Iraqi currency, and Um Buraq and I split whatever came in. We didn’t know it then, but the money we made from threading all that facial hair and cooking up toiletries would become worthless overnight. I kept those green banknotes emblazoned with Saddam’s portrait, a reminder that the world can pivot at any moment. It wasn’t much, just a few hundred dinars, because I often accepted noncash payments, such as bread, produce, looted appliances. And when we had more than we needed to live on, Um Buraq and I shared with those around us. I made sure our home had enough food and clean water. Mama in turn shared with our neighbors. Um Buraq also took care of her neighbors, ensuring they had bread and water when the shortages hit. We didn’t need much money in those days. Our lives became wonderfully simple, clearer somehow in the fog of occupation. Folks with money—the creditors and landlords—had fled the country, leaving the rest of us with a new freedom to exist. We didn’t have to pay rent for six months; no one was there to collect it.