Mama Hissa's Mice

by Saud Alsanousi

  Khala Aisha kept giving Tina something or other to do. Anything, just so she wouldn’t stay sitting with us in the living room, not working. Without peeling her eyes away from the screen, Mama Hissa commanded, “Sit down, Tina!” Blood boiling, Khala Aisha withdrew to her room. Fahd and Sadiq watched her depart in silence. They then started commenting on every sentence the Olympic Committee chairman uttered during his speech, as if they were in competition to show off who knew more. They listened closely to him. “There are people in some countries, starving, fearful of destruction,” the chairman said.

  Fahd and Sadiq fought to answer him. “Somalia and Palestine!” Images of metal donation boxes I had seen, seemingly ubiquitous, sprang to mind: in the stores, the mosques, the schools, and even in Fahd’s bedroom. One box that had the picture of the Dome of the Rock on it and another that had an African boy, a tear running down his cheek, with the following phrase emblazoned above him: Will you wipe away the tears of this poor boy?

  “Let us call out in the name of peace . . . and make amends between one neighbor and the other.” Jostling each other, each boy responded to the chairman, giving priority to the country they were raised to respect—“Iraq and Iran” or “Iran and Iraq”—and I, who wanted to build bridges between my neighbors, wished I could’ve jumped in before the both of them saying, “’Am Abbas and ’Am Saleh!” or “’Am Saleh and ’Am Abbas!”

  Sometimes I found myself, like the others, following what was happening on the TV. Other times, I found myself like Tina, watching the faces around me, each pulled in by some different aspect of the opening festivities. Fawzia watched with a smile weighed down by a sadness I didn’t understand. Maybe she was craving some of the frozen contraband that was in our hands, or maybe she was wishing that she could be one of the dancers on-screen, reliving her heyday. I sensed her cursing her days now, as a seventeen-year-old woman, a woman bound by her elder brother’s authority, who saw some shortcoming or other in everything she did. Fahd, as if hypnotized, sat on the floor, his legs folded under him, watching eagerly, mouth agape, his scarcely blinking eyes unmoving from the screen lest a single scene pass him by. I knew that the soccer games themselves didn’t mean much to him. After all, Muayyad Al Haddad hadn’t been called up to the national team; it was rather Abdulkareem Abdulqader’s singing in the opening ceremony that drew him in. He listened with a delight incongruous with his young age. Maybe he wasn’t as interested in the song’s lyrics as he was in his favorite singer’s voice, and his presence at the heart of the throngs of students belting out his songs. Mama Hissa wavered between nodding her head while smiling and being on the verge of soundless tears—perhaps no one saw her but me—during the Palestinian musical performance led by Abdulkareem in harmony with the voices of the groups around him. “And when a voice calls out, when will my country return?” they sang. She blew her nose into her tissue. She then wiped her face before exploding, “Jewish bastards!” All the while the dancing groups repeatedly sang, “We’ve drawn the red line under this: Here, we may only be children, but on the battlefield we’re adults,” fueling our zeal.

  These songs would inspire Fahd, Sadiq, and me, propelling us into action, to the point where we became obsessed with gathering rocks from houses under construction in Surra, we who had never previously gathered such things unless it was for a good old game of anbar. Our dishdashas would be folded up into pouches to be filled with stones. For such occasions we adopted new names: Sabhi, Mazin, and Mustafa. One day, hidden behind the sand heaps and cement bags, we pelted some construction workers on a scaffolding frame. A worker carrying a large electric drill caught our attention. We turned and aimed at him, unleashing our loads like rain, repeating breathlessly before taking off with the wind: “If you have a cannon, I have a stone . . . Here, we may only be children, but on the battlefield we’re adults!” I remember Fahd catching his breath, kneeling down in the courtyard after our reenacted resistance to the imaginary occupation. “Man, if only we were Palestinian,” he said wistfully.

  “So Abdulkareem would sing for us, ‘O time, look at them, our children—who is like them?’” Sadiq concurred, completely on the same page.

  “How I wish we were Palestinian!” Fahd gushed. He would try to get close to the children in the house where the Palestinians resided, interested in befriending Samir and Hazim, our classmates. He parroted a garbled version of one of Abu Sameh’s favorites, written after 1967 for the displaced Palestinians who’d traversed across Jordan and Iraq to settle in Kuwait: “Fill the jug for me, fill the jug for me, O Mother. Kuwait is far, and the desert will make me thirsty.” Whenever we expressed our admiration for Mahzouza and Mabrouka, Fahd would remind us who wrote the series, the Palestinian scriptwriter Tariq Uthman. Fahd would share with Samir and Hazim Mama Hissa’s lessons and tales, forever impressed in his mind, of the glorious oranges she had seen during her visit to Palestine as a girl. She swore that she had been able to put her hand out the car window and pluck the oranges straight off the trees; she’d raise her hand up high to reenact the scene, collecting imaginary oranges in her lap. “Like this! Just like this!” Mama Hissa would crow as she recounted her adventure.

  Such idealistic national sporting events brought everyone together. All household members, at least, in one house, at the same time, in front of the TV, consumed by being Arab. We genuinely believed what the national songs said. We’d be joyous or angry, or we’d cry, struck with emotion. After the Palestinian team’s segment, Abdulkareem chanted, “Lebanon’s for Arabs, not for wars . . . blood of the innocents covers the roads!” Mama Hissa pursed her lips, incensed. She couldn’t believe how the sons of one country could ignite a civil war. “Idiots!” she’d spout. If only she could have lived to see the idiots that we ourselves would become.

  In February 1990, the exact same scene took place in the living room on the opening day of the tenth Gulf Cup championship, hosted by Kuwait. At that time, despite the competition, we became more Khaleeji, prouder of our Gulf roots than at any other time. The television kept on broadcasting the famous song “Our Gulf Is One and Our People Are One.” The song was featured during both the Gulf Cup and at the GCC summit, only to sink away into the background—except it had a lasting effect on our collective psyche. It had been about a month since Fawzia had holed herself up in her room after the death of Ihsan Abdel Quddous. The Gulf Cup pulled her out of her self-imposed seclusion. She fed the VCR a tape to record the opening festivities. The members of the household, plus Tina and I, were all assembled; the only one missing was Sadiq, who had crossed over into the realm of puberty early. Seemingly out of nowhere, his mustache had appeared. Pimples cropped up across his cheeks, and his voice broke. He knocked on ’Am Saleh’s door that day, carrying dishes that Mama Zaynab was famous for: fatty dolma and damlooj, which we found even more delicious when additional powdered sugar and cinnamon paste were sprinkled on top. Tina took the food-laden plates in. Sadiq made for the inside of the Al Bin Ya’qub household, but was stopped by ’Am Saleh declaring, “You’ve become a man . . . You can’t be with the women any longer.”

  Before, I had been restlessly waiting for the outline of my mustache to make an appearance. When it did eventually emerge, I would remove the fine fuzz with a razor blade in the opposite direction of the growth. I would then rub the shaven stubble with castor oil, hoping that the hair would grow back more coarsely, like that of Hulk Hogan. Every day I would raise my arms up in front of the bathroom mirror, scrutinizing my armpits. I would feel my smooth pubic area, eagerly awaiting the imminent hordes of hair to colonize my body. I yearned for that world that Sadiq had beaten me to: the magical, miraculous world of adults. The dreams that he’d narrate to us were our only source of thrills. Every morning we’d listen hungrily to the infinitesimal details as well as his exaggerated embellishments, as he recounted dreams where voluptuous movie stars, TV actresses, and news anchors all came together. Fahd started stealing women’s fashion catalogs from Fawzia’s room. After he was done with the
m, he’d lend them to me and I’d page through the lingerie sections, pawing at the images, imagining what was under the blacked-out lines covering the forbidden parts on the model’s bodies, paving the way for my own dreams, champing at the bit for puberty. But at the same time, I dreaded it ever since Sadiq had been banned from entering ’Am Saleh’s house. I longed to be a child for the rest of my life, lest I also be forbidden.

  We observed the festivities in silence. Mama Hissa stretched out her legs and rested her wool-clad feet on the radiator. Aisha was turning over the chestnuts above the duwa, releasing the smell of burning and cracked peels from above the embers. She left the brazier and headed toward Mama Hissa’s twin, to ensure that we all appeared in the video being recorded. Fahd was buoyant, as Muayyad Al Haddad had made the team and Abdulkareem was taking part in the opening ceremony. His voice completely whisked Fahd away to another world. Fawzia’s eyes flickered, looking at the clock, anxiously waiting for the beginning of the Kuwaiti team’s display in the parade.

  ’Am Saleh was another matter. I had never seen him as radiant and ecstatic as he was at that hour. How could he not be? The opening performance had started by praising the picture of the man in his hallway. A section of the audience raised colored boards, which once combined formed the slogan of the Iraqi Republic. An enormous hot-air balloon floated skyward with the Iraqi president’s picture, the very same one framed in the nearby hallway. The duet by Abdulkareem and Abdullah Al Rowaished started to the beat of the kasour drum:

  “Hail the Arab sword, in my right hand I hold you

  Come on, he whose origins history praises

  Come on, he who planted his palm tree

  And watered it from the Shatt River.”

  The lyrics themselves didn’t mean much to me, except for the Shatt Al Arab. I linked these words to Mama Zaynab, who came from there, something Mama Hissa reminded us of every time she warmly greeted her friend, “Hi to you, Old Lady Shatt!”

  “Hi, back at you, troublemaker!” Bibi Zaynab would retort.

  Mama Hissa would always tremble reverently and then reply, “May God spare us from hellfire!”

  ’Am Saleh raised his fist up high, as was customary for Sheikh Fahad Al Ahmad. “O God, O God, Abu Uday!” exulted ’Am Saleh, who was enraptured by the lyrics dedicated to Saddam. The dancing troupes repeated a welcome to the Iraqi national team, “Halla bilhajaiie.” “What’s the big deal with Abu Uday? It’s Abdulkareem who’s singing!” Fahd wondered aloud, his voice betraying his exasperation. ’Am Saleh didn’t pay any heed to his son’s observation; he ignored Fahd and continued listening to the rest of the duet:

  “Baghdad, you’re on a long road

  The eye and the caretaker

  O heavy-footed thoroughbred horse

  Saddam is your rider.”

  He was still pumping his fist in the air, repeating the rhyming ends to the song’s lines: “The caretaker . . . your rider . . .”

  Fawzia, who appeared to be frowning the whole time, waiting for the other nations’ displays to end, left the couch to check that the tape was still recording before the Kuwaiti team began at the very end.

  The opening ceremony ended in a song for Kuwait. The hijacked plane loomed in my mind. Fawzia was on cloud nine, and so were we. I remember her wide smile, which lasted until the end of the ceremony. Afterward, the sound of the vacuum dragging across the floor grew louder. Fawzia, Fahd, and I set the living room back into shape. We helped Tina pick up the husks of long-eaten nuts from the carpet, singing as we worked, “I’m Kuwaiti. My word is . . .” The annoying thrum of Tina’s vacuum silenced us, while ’Am Saleh and Khala Aisha returned to their room, singing softly as they went, “Halla bilhajaiie, welcome to you.”

  THE SECOND MOUSE: BLAZE

  In my mouth a drop of water grows

  It grows

  And on both sides the flame yells

  Is there more?

  Us and the rocks, we were the fuel

  Us and the rocks, we remain the fuel

  —Khalifa Al Waqayan

  THE SECOND MOUSE: BLAZE THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE

  THE NOVEL

  Chapter 1

  The final week of July 1990: your parents traveled to spend the rest of their summer in London. Summering in London wasn’t exactly a penchant of yours; you’d be alone without any friends like every other year, the same humdrum most of the time, trailing your mom on Oxford Street, bent over, laden with her shopping bags while you anticipated manhood. You pressed Mama Hissa to do something, begged her, kissed her forehead, but she cut off your pleading. “Don’t put me in an awkward spot with Ms. Principal.”

  When you stopped going over to the Al Bin Ya’qub house to protest her giving up on you so easily, she sent Fahd your way with a message. “Mama Hissa says, ‘We’ve beaten up the dog that bit you.’” So she had decided to deal with the issue and put an end to your boycott. You smiled at Fahd, urging him to go on. “She’ll call your dad.” You flew as happy as a free bird when she, your elderly neighbor, succeeded in convincing your dad to let you stay behind in Kuwait. Your mom, on the other hand, got all worked up about it. She refused outright. She raised her finger to the sky, and would have sworn an oath if you hadn’t hugged her, covering her mouth with your hand.

  “No, Mom, please don’t!” You were lucky, or maybe not, when she just glared at your father instead.

  She tried to sway him. “The old woman says the boy will be well taken care of,” came his frank response. She was still determined to have the last word. He placated her. “Think of it as a honeymoon!” Begrudgingly she left you behind, for the sake of the so-called honeymoon.

  You shifted to the Al Bin Ya’qub household after your parents left without you (only after an endless list of promises had been made to your mom). At night, the neighborhood was quiet, like every summer. Silent except for the beating wings of the night suweer and the occasional sound of a car passing through. Most of the house lights were off, and the cars were wrapped up in dusty fabric covers under canopies, their owners on holiday. Your joy at being in your neighbor’s home turned into heavy regret only one day after your parents’ departure when ’Am Saleh decided to keep Abu Sami’s dog in his courtyard while its owners were in America. At first, Mama Hissa refused. “A dog? In my house?” she asked defiantly, as she beat her chest with her palms, before explaining that a dog in the house would chase away the angels. ’Am Saleh tried to change her mind. “Our street is so much darker now. Too many people are away. The saluki will be good for security. It’s just for a few days, and then he’ll go back home.” She didn’t budge.

  “Abu Sami is our neighbor,” he reminded her. He didn’t need to elaborate that the Prophet entreated one to respect their neighbor, even those seven doors down. She reluctantly assented. You never imagined that the day would come when both you and the dog would be brought together in one place, with you trembling at the saluki’s faintest bark. During playtime, you divided the courtyard up between the both of you: the dog in the corner, his zone dictated by how much leeway the leash would allow; for you, your zone started from the building adjoining the house and overlooking the courtyard—where the kitchen and diwaniya were—and ended with the chicken coop near the sidra. You hated how scared you were. You were afraid that others would smell your fear. Now and then, the round-the-clock news on TV would mention of the Iraqi-Kuwaiti fracas, whose every detail ’Am Saleh was intently following.

  You were sitting inside the house with Fahd’s dad, pretending to be watching TV, rooted to the spot. News about Crown Prince Sheikh Saad Abdullah Al Sabah’s visit to Saudi Arabia to partake in what the media came to dub “the Jeddah Dialogue,” corralling together Iraqi and Kuwaiti delegates for the sake of resolving their lingering issues. You asked Fahd’s dad why. He answered and you still didn’t get it. He simplified his answer further and again you didn’t grasp it. He broke it down even further.

  “Kuwait is stealing Iraq’s oil . . . That’s what they’re saying.
”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “The Iraqis.”

  And when you asked him what he thought, he kept silent, preoccupying himself with what was on TV. Five months before that day, Iraq had put forth an official request to lease two Kuwaiti islands, Warba and Bubiyan; such matters were things that you would come to know about when you grew up. You hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on around you except for how perturbed people were over what was on the news and their unsatisfactory answers to your big questions. The one thing you do remember vividly was what ’Am Saleh told your dad that day as they stood on the sidewalk opposite Maryam Al Ghanem Mosque in Surra: “If I were in power, not only would I agree to lease out those two islands to Iraq, but I’d throw in Miskan Island, too, as a cherry on top!” In ’Am Saleh, your father saw an unhinged man captivated by the Iraqi president’s personality, blindly believing all his allegations, a man biased against those in power in Kuwait since the dissolution of the parliament, brainwashed by the opposition who organized the Monday protests, the diwaniyas. Your neighbor ’Am Saleh saw in your father an opportunist who was only interested in money; the “crisis trader” as he called him, exploiting the collapse of the Al Manakh stock market by buying shares at unbelievably low prices; a man who approved of parliament’s dissolution as a solution, as unconstitutional as that was; a man who voted in the national assembly elections—an illegal substitute for the Kuwaiti parliament—justifying his involvement by saying that it was for the sake of stabilizing the country and helping it recover from its economic crisis.