Mama Hissa's Mice

by Saud Alsanousi

  Fahd rushed inside to ask Tina to take out the garbage, while you stayed outside with the young man. He was looking at your house. He went and stood between the cloth-covered cars, examining the house like a potential buyer would. His wide black eyes were striking, piercing whatever his gaze landed on. He had a delicate black mustache and carefully sculpted eyebrows. Fahd returned, Tina trailing him, carrying bags of garbage. “Who rang the bell?” came ’Am Saleh’s raised voice as he exited the diwaniya.

  “The garbage truck, ’Am.”

  He approached the young man. He recognized him. “Abdellatif?” He pumped his hand, greeting him. “God bless your efforts!”

  Tina and Fahd threw the garbage bags in the back of the truck as ’Am Saleh said, “We don’t see you at Al Ghanem Mosque anymore.”

  The young man appeared in a rush. “I’ve been praying at Al Rubayan Mosque.” He was looking at your house while he answered.

  “There’s no trash over there . . . They’re lucky to have left the country before”—Fahd’s dad paused to look around, then lowered his voice—“before those people came in!” The young man nodded his head, his gaze piercing through the now-empty house, its inhabitants gone. He hopped onto the back of the garbage truck and clung to a metal handle as the masked man revved the engine and moved on to the next house. “Dad, do you know him?” Fahd asked his father.

  “That’s Abdellatif, Abdullah Al Munir’s son.”

  The third week: Iraqi voices on Kuwait National Radio called for the citizens of the nineteenth province to practice their professions and return to their workplaces in the ministries and other establishments. “Whoever fails to do so will find himself on the wrong side of the law,” the voices averred. A month had passed since the second of August, and we were all in the living room. ’Am Saleh had just come back from the Surra co-op supermarket, his face red with frustration. He described the panic on the faces of the shoppers who were trying to verify the accuracy of this news amid myriad rumors. It was said that some Palestinians living in Kuwait were joining the ranks of the Iraqi national army. Mama Hissa interrupted, “People say many things.” ’Am Saleh disregarded his mother’s comment and carried on as she scowled, describing what he saw in the co-op—shopping carts bursting with food items, their owners seemingly preparing for extended hibernation, years long. Cans, sacks of rice, bread, sugar, and bottles of mineral water. There were posters on the electronic gate to the co-op urging inhabitants of the nineteenth province to replace their license plates. They were obliged to drive with the new Iraqi-Kuwaiti license plates or be barred from refueling. The TV made it clear that the final deadline to replace the plates was September 26. Whoever failed to do so would have their car confiscated if they were lucky; otherwise, they themselves would be taken in.

  Hours passed by. An unflagging ’Am Saleh went out now and again to the sidewalk to investigate his neighbors’ cars, examining their plates. If one of them had replaced his license plate, then it would relieve him of the awkwardness when he removed his own. “I’m not the first to do so,” he could then say. But the Kuwaiti plates were all still in place. The cloud of worry that surrounded Fahd’s dad floated to you. Because you didn’t understand much and because your questions were too annoying to everyone, you tried to gauge from adults’ eyes how you should be feeling at any given time. Their eyes held only heavy anticipation for the unknown, the yet to come.

  What was odd was that you didn’t miss your parents. You only missed the peace you had felt at the Al Bin Ya’qub household and the freedom it had given you. Maybe what did kindle your yearning one day was when Mama Hissa called out to you. “Come here, listen to this.” It was your mother’s voice on the Kuwaiti Calls program being broadcast in Saudi Arabia, where your parents resided at the time. It was a radio show set up to help the Kuwaitis abroad send messages to those inside the country.

  Your mother’s voice came through, broken. “Your father and I are okay,” she said. She urged you to leave Kuwait with whomever was making their way out to Saudi Arabia. She could barely catch her breath, making the most of the few seconds allocated to each caller. “My son is in your care, Um Saleh; my son is in your care.” She burst out sobbing before another Kuwaiti caller started, searching for another someone who couldn’t answer. You were all scattered, somewhere between being refugees and cut off from the world. This Saudi radio program made you all realize just how helpless you were. On the show Kuwaiti Letters, the broadcaster implored Saudi citizens to donate to their “Kuwaiti guests” residing in Saudi Arabia. They referred to the increasing number of families as “refugees.” Families living in the classrooms of Saudi schools. The radio broadcasters’ calls reminded you of the donation boxes that used to have the Dome of the Rock or the image of an African boy on them. Now they had a picture of a child draped in the colors of the Kuwaiti flag. Fahd read your mind. “A donation box for Kuwaitis. Who will wipe the tears of this poor boy?” he said. You took pity on those who had left. You loved the Al Bin Ya’qub house. You loved Surra even more.

  Since you had been entrusted to Mama Hissa’s care, she ordered, “Don’t go outside!” And whenever you countered that Fahd whiled away most of his time in ’Am Abbas’s courtyard, she’d cut you off, saying, “His father is in charge of him.” Your uncle Hassan called you, letting you know of his plan to take you along to Basra to make some international phone calls to your relatives abroad. You were afraid that you’d never return. You offered your missing passport as an excuse for not being able to go, not knowing that there was no need for a travel document between the provinces of what was now effectively one country. “The boy is in my care, Abu Dhari,” Mama Hissa cut in.

  You were rooted to the spot in front of the windows, the sole source of news you understood, unlike the radio bulletins, which only the adults could wrap their heads around. You would keep an eye on the occupying soldiers whenever their jeeps rolled by, hoping that they wouldn’t stop in front of the house to storm it. You noticed Fahd and Sadiq, along with Samir and Hazim, in the small garden of the courtyard next door, under the shade cast over ’Am Abbas’s house by the sidra tree. They were bent over, collecting things from the dry grass. You didn’t have to guess that they were . . . rocks! They had a small mound of them. That was more than enough of a good reason for Fahd to stay away for long periods of time at Sadiq’s house, far from his father’s gaze. Your concern for them, or perhaps it was actually your jealousy over their meeting without you, pushed you to snitch on them to ’Am Saleh. “Fahd is collecting rocks . . .”

  “Maybe they are for anbar,” he responded, unconcerned, until you finished with “At ’Am Abbas’s house.” He whirled around and asked angrily, “At Abbas’s house?” You nodded your head meekly. You told him that both Fahd and Sadiq were collecting a lot of rocks. Anbar, the popular child’s game, only needed seven.

  You sank your head between your shoulders, embarrassed at the sound of ’Am Saleh yelling from the middle of the courtyard. “Fahd!” No one answered. He looked at you and ordered, “Go get him!” The idea did not appeal to you. You didn’t find him in the courtyard next door. Instead, he was under Sadiq’s staircase in the living room; both of them were playing around with rubber bands and pieces of tape, trying to fashion slingshots.

  “Your dad wants you,” you told him, while you cast a cursory glance around the place. The walls in Sadiq’s house weren’t as they were the first time you saw them. You surveyed the living room more thoroughly: no family photos, no white horses, lions, or swords—the walls were completely bare. You glanced at the shelves in the TV console: there were only two photos—one each of Sadiq and Hawraa. The picture of the imam was no longer in the middle.

  As soon as Fahd opened the iron door to his courtyard, his father gave him a thunderous whack that rang in your ears. “Stones, you son of a bitch? And in Abbas’s house?” You didn’t understand why the man was cursing. What you did understand was that you were the reason behind that slap. He ranted, swearing at t
he rocks and those who owned them. He explained to his son that the occupiers didn’t know anything about the land they were occupying. The people who were known for throwing rocks in their own country, who “you’re imitating,” had been in cahoots with the occupier, being their eyes and ears, guiding them to the houses of wanted individuals. Just like you, Fahd didn’t believe what his father was saying. “Are you going to follow their lead?” ’Am Saleh screamed. You thought of Abu Taha and Abu Naiel. Is the zalamat house actually a danger to your street? You hated yourself for what you’d brought upon your friend by telling on him. You hated yourself even more when Mama Hissa called you out for what you did by naming you “fire starter.” She was known for giving nicknames so apt that they stuck forever: Ms. Principal, stray cat, soothsayer, the American’s hubby. You put up with her insinuations and comparing you to a monkey, even if they were made in jest, but you weren’t ready to accept this new nickname and the blame associated with it. After all, you had hated fire ever since she said the only thing you get from it is ashes.

  Fahd stood in front of his grandmother, telling her what his father had said about all Palestinians being traitors. “All your fingers aren’t the same, are they?” she answered as she thrust her palm in front of his face with her fingers outstretched.

  ’Am Saleh heard her and countered, “Yes, they are!” She reminded him of the Kuwaiti man the occupying forces called the president of the interim Kuwaiti government. “Are you and him the same?” she asked him.

  You secluded yourself, far away. You blamed yourself endlessly until ’Am Saleh made up with Fahd that night. Usually, he would have bought him a toy from Walid’s Toys or Kids and Us. In those circumstances, at that time, the only gift he could offer was “Tell Sadiq he can come over here whenever he wants.”

  “Or I can go to his place?” Fahd suggested.

  “No!” his father barked decisively.

  THE SECOND MOUSE: BLAZE THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE

  THE NOVEL

  Chapter 5

  Brimming with curiosity, you would usually make a run for the phone whenever it started ringing. You were crazy about ringing bells: the phone, the doorbell, the school bell when it rang out announcing the end of a boring class. In these new exceptional circumstances, though, you hated nothing more than ringing bells. The doorbell most likely meant an inspection to see if all the family members were home or, at best, it meant Jasim or Abdellatif: the first distributing resistance pamphlets nestled in bread or money given by the exiled Kuwaiti government; the other asking for trash. The ringing of the phone would dictate ’Am Saleh’s next move, based on the news he received.

  He put down the phone and burned all photos of himself in military fatigues from the time he was conscripted. He put down the phone and made his way through the courtyard to the kitchen where, with Tina, he worked to fill up plastic containers with gallons of drinking water. He put down the phone and buried his hunting rifle close to the sidra in the garden. He put down the phone and hid the three cars inside the courtyard so that no occupying soldier would catch sight of the license plates that still said KUWAIT.

  We remained in this state of fear after every phone call that brought news or a rumor that could very well be true, from the occupier’s intention to cut off the water supply to the death penalty for anyone in possession of a weapon, even a hunting rifle, or being arrested for having any military affiliation—the mere possession of a photo from one’s former days of service would suffice. Fawzia was in her room most of the time and didn’t open up for anyone. She’d make an exception for you, though, whenever you knocked on her door with news that might interest her. Since you knew that Kayfan meant the world to her, you would bring her news about the exceptional resistance activity in that area, and how people were now calling it Kayfan Al Samud, perseverance personified.

  “Kayfan’s something else,” she said, beaming.

  “Surra too.”

  She poked your surra, your belly button, making fun of Surra’s name. You don’t know what came over you the moment her finger made contact with your body. An army of electrified ants scuttled up your spine to your head. You looked at her face, your lips slack.

  Her eyebrows knitted. “What’s wrong with you?”

  You ran from her room without a word.

  In September, the heat of the summer finally broke with the appearance of Shail, the Canopus star in the sky. Sleep rarely visited any of you. When the electricity was cut off, so there was no air conditioner, the nightly routine was to go out into the courtyard and sleep on the floor. The street was quiet, except for the chirping of the night suweer. Your only entertainment was the courtyard. The moon was full, giving you reasonable visibility in the dark. The old lady carried a cane with a spear-like knife fixed to its head in one hand and a flashlight in the other. As she made her way to the chicken coop, her milfah wrapped haphazardly around her head, looking like a ghutra, Fahd and you asked, “What are you up to?”

  “Al qumbar,” she responded without even turning around. ’Am Saleh guffawed at her joke. The suweer stopped chirping as she walked between the grasses by the coop. Mama Hissa faltered, afraid that she had trampled on it by mistake. She stopped for a few seconds until the chirping started up again. She smiled when it did, then leaned over the grasses, speaking to the insect of the night. She urged it to keep on singing so that its female partner could respond. She turned her back to deal with the traps, clearing them of the dead mice, using her spear. “Can’t you smell it?” You all shook your heads. “Clearly, you’re all still very smelly.” You and Fahd preoccupied yourselves stroking the stray kittens you’d all gotten used to. Mama Hissa welcomed their presence, no longer telling them to scat by saying “Tet! Tet!” and hoping they would keep the mice away from her chicken coop. If it hadn’t been for the surge of mice, she wouldn’t have been content with the cats, she explained, before contradicting herself, saying, “What a difficult time! Mice, cats, and dogs in my house!”

  She finished collecting the dead mice. You and Fahd left the kittens to their own devices. You followed Mama Hissa to the courtyard door. She sent you both outside to dispose of the sack of mice, on a dusty plot next to Abu Sami’s house. She stood examining the three palm trees, a smile of reassurance written on her face. “Hey, Mama Hissa, do you love the palm trees that much?” She appeared distracted as she responded, “And how I love their soul mate.” Her ability to humanize Ikhlasa, Sa’marana, and Barhiya surprised you. How Abu Saleh, God rest his soul, brought them here as sprouts from different places: Al Qaseem, Basra, and Al Ahwaz. He chose them from among dozens of palm trees to live next to him instead of planting them with the others on their farm in Wafra. He would travel a lot, and whenever he tasted delicious dates at his hosts’ houses, he would ask where they came from and pay everything he had to get his hands on a sapling from the mother tree. Then he’d carry it back home and plant it in his garden or at his farm. Mama Hissa told you two about her first meeting in the Kayfan house and how the fledgling trees got to know one another, each bearing its history on the nodules of its trunk. How fast they grew, one outdoing the other, offering the tastiest fruits out of love for their owners. She locked the outer door, returning inside the courtyard, praying for her husband’s soul and wishing her three Kayfan daughters a long life.

  You all circled around the radio on the rough blue-and-red-striped rug in the middle of the courtyard. The adults drank tea, the air tinged with a hint of moisture, listening closely to the news, as if it were different from listening in the living room. The chirping of the suweer stopped again. “It found its beloved,” Mama Hissa surmised. Resting your heads on the old lady’s thighs, the two of you gazed at the guest star in the sky, a sky whose blackness had been transformed into a dark blue by the full moon. Mama Hissa turned off the radio. “How beautiful the moon is.” She looked up at the sky, pulled in by nostalgia for a bygone era when the sky was closer, as she used to say, when she was in Al Murqab living in an old mud hut, whos
e rooms opened out into a courtyard roofed only by the sky. “We used to know the sky better . . . and it used to know us.” She exhaled. “It was a time of blistering heat before ACs, and we’d sleep on the roof . . . The floor was our mattress and the sky our blanket.”

  You looked at her face. She was staring at the full moon.

  “Mama Hissa, how old are you?” you asked.

  She bowed her head. “By God, I don’t know, my son. I’m ancient!” She looked out into the expanse as if she were chanting hidden words. “My mother, Sharifa—God rest her soul—told me, ‘You came into the world, Hissa, in the year of the storm, or two years after it . . . when the boats sank in the pearl-diving hubs of the Gulf.’” She stopped all of a sudden and continued just as abruptly. “Yes, that was a time and this is another time.” She said that she would tell you all a story as long as Shail—Canopus—remained a guest of your sky.

  “The story of the four mice?” you turned to her and asked expectantly.

  “No,” she said, clapping you on the forehead, “it’s too long.”

  “But we’re bored with the jinn stories!”

  “May they find peace in their home,” she murmured, casting your words aside and looking intently at the sidra in the dark. She stared out into the sky once more. She started recounting the legend of Shail the star. Shail, which brought the good news of winter or rain. If only it would give us the good news of the occupiers leaving our country as summer leaves us, the old lady wished aloud. Her eyes remained trained on the sky. “This story was told to me by the sweetest of women, my mother, Sharifa—may God have mercy on her soul—back when I was a young girl.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, starting the story in the usual way: “Zur Ibn Al Zarzur, illi ’umro ma kadhab wa la halaf zur . . .” Stroking our heads, she began to tell the story: “The mice came among Shail and his friend—”