"You should probably hide in the footwell."

Growing up as a Middle Eastern "expat brat" makes the ability to do the following things impossible:

- Enjoy British KFC.

- Answer the question "Where are you from?"

- Go out without a coat on even in the middle of Summer.

- Put up with Anti-Islamic bigotry.

- See a white pick-up truck without assuming it's going to cut you off.

- Tell people about your past without it sounding like a pack of steaming lies.

The last point is particularly important in the context of the story I'm about to tell. 

On the 29th of May, 2004, seventeen members of a terrorist group calling themselves 'The Jerusalem Squadron' attacked two oil-industry buildings and a foreign workers' housing complex, The Oasis Compound in Al Khobar, Saudi Arabia. 

I was at school that day for the dress rehearsal of my GCSE leaving ceremony (OWN CLOTHES DAY, YEAH!) We were all lined up on the stage, our form class tutor directing us, when one of the other teachers hurried into the room looking concerned and whispered something into their ear. We were quickly hurried to what was then deemed to be "The Study Room," (which nobody ever used EVER) and waited. And waited. And then we did some more waiting. Several hours passed before we were informed of what was happening. The head of KS4 entered the room, solemn to the bone, and explained that Oasis compound had been attacked, with several people taken hostage, most of which were either severely injured or dead. 

Back then Oasis was considered a "posh" compound. It was expensive and shiny and the swimming pools were amazing and most importantly it was across the road from mine. I panicked. Knowing that my mama was at home and that my then 11 year old brother was at school within our compound, I felt my heart rise up into my mouth. "Has it spread outside of Oasis?" I asked, not particularly wanting to hear the answer. "We don't know. We know that there are a few members of the terrorist group roaming around  and a couple of oil company buildings have been attacked, but we honestly can't tell you anything else." Thankfully nobody in my tutor group were living on Oasis at the time, but the room went deathly quiet regardless. My father was and still is in the oil industry, and for years we had heard horror stories of Westerners getting blown up, pulled out of cars and shot, attacked in the street... My mind became flooded with unpleasant what-ifs, but all we could do was wait. Our school was on total lockdown, along with several others in the city, and we were expressly told that we weren't allowed to leave until further notice. Not quite understanding the severity of the situation, several other students spent the remainder of the afternoon moaning about how they were bored and mumbling "why can't they just let us leave for God's sake?" We were told that we could have our phones on us for keeping in contact with family and thankfully, a few hours in, mine rang. 

I had never been so happy to hear my dad's voice in my entire life. "Sweetheart, I'm coming to pick you up. Be ready." he said. 

As I walked across our vast and seemingly never-ending school carpark, I noticed that the walls surrounding our school had twice as many security gunmen as usual, and this time... there was a tank. In fact, there were two tanks. I saw my dad's car and ran as fast as I possibly could. His brow was furrowed and he gestured for me to get in. Quickly. My school was almost in the middle of nowhere, and as we were flying down the exit road he turned to me and said "You should probably hide in the footwell." I wasn't quite expecting to hear that, but I ducked down anyway. I watched him for the entirety of the journey home, his eyes flickering left and right as we drove through the deserted streets of our usually busy city. We were the only car on the road for a good 90% of the journey, and I felt like we were in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. 

When we finally arrived at our compound, the security was 10 times what it usually was, and we were held at each checkpoint for 10 minutes while they ran mirrors under our car and checked our identification. After what felt like an eternity we were allowed inside. My mum was sat up in the bedroom watching the ticker updates on any and every news network that we had access to. Some of the hostages were British and as such, it was even on BBC News. And so we sat there, on my parents bed, watching the situation unfold in surround sound as military helicopters passed overhead.

We watched as an enormous helicopter spilled open, men tumbling out of it (and one falling over in quite a spectacular fashion) and I uttered "fucking hell" before realising that, even in situations like this, it probably wasn't cool for me to say the F-word in front of my parents. 

Whenever I have tried to explain that day to anybody, they either look at me like I'm speaking in tongues, or I can see the phrase "what a load of bullshit" forming in their mouths before they decide not to say it. My teenage years were somewhat... interesting, and while certain events were terrifying at the time, the stories make for great ice-breakers. Sort of. 

We still laugh about that guy falling out of the helicopter 9 years on, and I hope we never stop, because life is far too short to take seriously.