Mama Hissa's Mice

by Saud Alsanousi

  She didn’t notice your silence and went on. “Saleh’s father, may God have mercy on his soul, was a man who loved Gamal, recording his speeches. He was always either listening to them or to Umm Kulthum. As for Saleh, may God set him straight, every day was something different: with them, against them, with them, against them. Once, he shortened his dishdasha; another time he wore Western. He liked to put up photos: sometimes Abdel Nasser and other times the resistance fighter, the one with the plucked-out beard.” Even though she wasn’t happy with her son, she talked about him fondly. She remembered when he came back during the break after his first semester in Cairo, in a brown suit with parted glossy hair and a fine mustache. He stood in front of his bedroom mirror, dressed like an Egyptian, listening to Abdel Halim Hafez and holding his hairbrush close to his lips as he sang along.

  She interrupted herself, as if she had remembered something important. She spoke to you about the time when the Iranians revolted against their shah. Saleh carried a picture of Al Khomeini, telling his parents about the man who had come back from exile for the sake of the Islamic revolution. “And his father and I, God help us, didn’t understand what he was saying, except about the Islamic revolution itself. By God, long live the revolution; anything Islamic must be good, right?” She groped around in the dark for some water. She said bismillah. She took a gulp before she went on. “They had carried out their revolution. Saleh then took down all his photos from the walls during the Iran-Iraq War. He hung up Saddam Hussein’s photo instead. I don’t know what came over our children, for from that day on, each one thought God was only on his side, and against the other. We didn’t know anything about this, wallah . . . Such strife . . . such strife . . . God, You alone are enough for us. Such fighting is filthier than a mouse’s tail!”

  She confided in God, asking Him for spiritual guidance for Saleh and Abbas and to have mercy on her and her neighbor Zaynab. She let out a heavy sigh. “Just like how maggots crawl out from a man’s own stomach to eat him, this foolishness of theirs will only bring bad things. Boy! Do you hear me? O, boy . . . Are you asleep?”

  THE SECOND MOUSE: BLAZE THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE

  THE NOVEL

  Chapter 7

  Bordering on its second month, the occupation soldiered on. The situation had deteriorated. The occupier’s grip on everything grew ever tighter. The nearby gunshots at dawn made your blood run cold. ’Am Saleh came back from Fajr prayers at Maryam Al Ghanem Mosque, carrying bread; it was said that a youth had shot at military vehicles on their way to the Jabriya area. Imagine if the occupying forces heard him saying that forbidden name for the area! All of the areas had taken on the new names imposed by the occupying forces; your Jabriya became Al Ahrar, liberation neighborhood. Your Kuwaiti dinar after some days became Iraqi. Your residential areas—Al Salmiya, Salwa, Al Khaldiya, and Al Shuwaikh—had new names: Al Nasr, Al Khansa, Al Jumhoriya, and Al Rasheed. If it went on like this, you soon might not recognize yourselves either. You rubbed ’Am Saleh the wrong way when you asked him, “Why all the name changing?”

  “You don’t let up, do you?” he said, his voice raised.

  Only Mama Hissa responded. “So that Kuwait is no longer Kuwaiti.” Her answer left you on edge. You hoped that a new name wouldn’t take hold of Surra, too.

  That day, your mom’s brother Hassan called to confirm that the soldiers were carrying out random searches of homes, looking for those involved in the attack on the military convoy next to the Jabriya Bridge. Your uncle cautioned Fahd’s father that none of you should go near or inside his sister’s house, under any circumstances. And if any of you were asked about the house and its owners, you should claim that you didn’t know anything except that the family was traveling. ’Am Saleh started pacing the living room. “Hassan’s up to something!” he yelled at both of you, seized by the fear of a surprise visit. “You and Fahd, follow me.” You both trailed him to Fawzia’s room. He ordered you to search her room thoroughly; maybe the crazy girl had kept some contraband that would cost you your lives. He opened the cupboard and started rummaging through the clothes and shelves with his son. He looked at you and gestured to the drawers of the small desk. “Look there!” Fawzia, her face swollen either from sleeping or crying, her hijab stuck to her naked scalp, understood the reason for your intermittent glances at her. She didn’t object. She gestured toward her desk drawers, urging you to investigate. You approached the desk; in your head fluttered the image of her as a pink butterfly. Long black hair reaching past her butt, as her mother would say, or past her back, as she herself would say. No sooner had you opened the first drawer than you closed it, quickly moving to the drawer below. Without meaning to, you’d attracted ’Am Saleh’s attention. He charged at you and ordered, “Open it!” You opened the bottom drawer. “The first,” he demanded. You looked in Fawzia’s direction. She nodded. You slowly opened it, revealing many chocolate Mackintosh’s bars atop a plastic bag with “Al Budur Bookstore” written on it. You held your breath in anticipation. Fahd’s dad opened the plastic bag and investigated the contents: three Ihsan Abdel Quddous novels. He let out a sigh of relief. He returned the bag. Picking up the bars of chocolate, he left one behind. “This is bad for your health,” he said, closing the drawer. He didn’t say anything else. What about what is muddying her mind and morals? you asked yourself. As you made to leave her room, ’Am Saleh turned and looked kindly at Fawzia. “If Kuwait comes back”—he allowed himself a smile before going on—“you’ll go to college.”

  That afternoon you all gathered in the living room to listen to the Monte Carlo radio station, following the details of the much-anticipated Jeddah conference, a conference that brought together the government in exile and different groups of Kuwaitis, among them politicians, businessmen, and voices of the opposition that had arisen since the dissolution of parliament. The emir’s voice as he read his speech wrung the hearts of the women in the Al Bin Ya’qub household. Fawzia shed tears. Mama Hissa, as if she were talking to someone, kept on nodding her head, repeating “Yes . . . yes” after each phrase from the 1960s head of parliament, Abdul Aziz Al Saqr, as he delivered his speech, championing the Kuwaiti cause. ’Am Saleh listened, his eyes narrowing. You didn’t understand why he suddenly flared up in anger, kicking the radio. “Shut him up!” The radio crashed to the ground after Al Saqr’s insistence that “the stance of some Palestinian leaders won’t affect our staunch solidarity with the Palestinian people in their just struggle to free their country.”

  Mama Hissa picked up and cradled the radio like a baby. She looked at her son. “Have you gone mad?” You didn’t know the reason for her reaction, whether she supported what had just been said in the official statement or was only worrying about her radio.

  She turned it back on. Al Saqr’s voice rattled through. “We want to announce that despite our pain and injuries, despite the calamities and disasters that the hostile, sinful Iraqi regime has visited upon our people, we don’t harbor any ill will or hatred toward the Iraqi people.” The old woman shut off her radio, silent, distracted.

  A voice rang out from the street. “Ice cream! Ice cream!” Abu Sameh, the Palestinian ice-cream seller, at the worst time possible.

  At the prospect of ice cream, your heart beat fast, but your joy was cut short as ’Am Saleh shot up from his seat, his eyes wide, something clearly on his mind. “That bastard! How dare he!” His words shocked you. He usually didn’t speak like that in front of the other members of the household. The seller’s hawking didn’t last long when faced with a louder voice that overshadowed his. Fahd’s father clambered outside in his house dishdasha to see what was happening. You and Fahd followed him. You found your neighbor ’Am Abbas yelling at the man standing behind his cart and broken red umbrella. “There’s no good in any of you people, you’re all sons of . . .” ’Am Abbas lifted the lid of the ice-cream cart while Abu Sameh tried to hold him back in vain. ’Am Abbas then bent over the ground in front of his house and scooped up a handful of earth.<
br />
  Weakly, in a dialect that took you all back to school, Abu Sameh pleaded, “What have I done?” ’Am Abbas threw the dirt on the ice cream in the cart. Abu Sameh cradled his head in his hands in disbelief. “Ayb! Shame on you . . . Haram!” The two words were strung together in a different way than when you asked your questions: ayb, haram; shame on you, forbidden.

  ’Am Saleh’s anger boiled over. “Do you guys even know what haram is? Damn you and your liberation movement, you bastards!” You two cried, or nearly did—you and Fahd—at the sight of the man pushing his cart far away from your houses. You thought of what Abu Sameh had said about the cart that had put his three sons through college. Neither of you had anything to do with the liberation organization. Neither of you had anything to do with what you didn’t grasp. Neither of you had anything to do with anything except for the man whose name on your tongues was synonymous with vanilla, chocolate, and caramel. He left with his middle-aged face, his beard sprouting white fuzz, and skin roasted by the sun. The calls of “Ice cream! Ice cream!” disappeared. Abu Sameh left along with his song: “Fill the Jug Up for Me.” For so long, you had wanted your two neighbors to get along. Their unlikely agreement finally came over something you didn’t actually want.

  Immediately after you all returned inside, you found the old lady waiting silently. Fahd asked his father, “Dad, was ’Am Abbas right?”

  “Of course!” he asserted. You and Fahd looked at each other in confusion that ’Am Saleh picked up on. He patted his son’s back and clarified, “Me and my brother against my cousin . . . and me and my cousin against the stranger.” But the only strange things about that day were first, how ’Am Saleh had described his sworn enemy of a neighbor as his cousin, and second, how he had labeled Abu Sameh a stranger.

  Involuntarily, your eyes flitted to Mama Hissa, believing that she would say something about the novelty of the description.

  But . . . she didn’t.

  THE SECOND MOUSE: BLAZE THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE

  THE NOVEL

  Chapter 8

  Just before sunset, the three of you were in the courtyard, in front of the Hitachi camera fixed atop its metal tripod. Fahd wore a yellow Qadsia club jersey, pretending to be Muayyad Al Haddad, the top scorer in the Emir Cup of 1990, while Sadiq was in a green Al Arabi jersey. They kicked the ball back and forth between them near the sidra, pretending all was well for the camera. While they did so, you spoke to the camera, making a video to send with whomever made it to Saudi Arabia in the hope that it would reach your father.

  A few days ago, you had received an audiocassette with voice messages from your parents. It was delivered by someone who had snuck in illegally over the closed Kuwaiti-Saudi border. You didn’t have to fake your smile in front of the camera while speaking to your parents. You truly were happy with everything, except the danger of what was going on outside of the house: news of arrests, and stories of inmates in the occupying forces’ makeshift prisons tortured to extract confessions. You waxed lyrical for the camera. You grinned as you said, “Mom, we’re well.”

  Your eyes glisten when saying, “Mom.” You choke back a sob. The word lands painfully at a time when she can’t hear you. The horn of the garbage truck blares. You rush before Abdellatif’s likely visit interrupts you. “Don’t worry about me—I don’t ever go out . . .”

  “Start again . . . from the top!” Fahd and Sadiq interject, gesturing toward the sky where a reconnaissance chopper is flying over your heads, its whirring dispelling the safe haven you had all played a part in fabricating. You stop filming, waiting for the chopper to pass over and the sound of its rotor to fade away. You then resume your roles. Your two friends assume their places in the background, kicking the ball back and forth, stuck in their repetitive, silent roles. You address the camera, saying, “I don’t go outside the house, Mom . . . I sleep in Mama Hissa’s room on the floor . . . I still haven’t seen an Iraqi soldier. Don’t worry . . . Actually, there aren’t any soldiers in Surra!”

  Gunshots at the end of the street cut you off. In desperation Fahd yells out, “Ohhhh!”

  “We’re pooped,” Sadiq says as he falls to his knees.

  You try to get them back on track. You smile hopefully. “Again . . . just one more time,” you urge them. You start rolling again, repeating your words, not leaving anything out except your smile, which had been there just a few moments before. Beads of sweat drip down from the hair behind your ears, sticking to your back. Behind you are your friends, beyond exhausted, their collars blackened with sweat from kicking the ball around; their faces worn-out, eyebrows furrowed and ears finely attuned, on guard for any sound that might bring the idyllic scene you have set up crashing down.

  You barely managed to complete your video. You replaced the video cassette with a new one, all of you collectively creating a “fun” atmosphere, exhausting all possible game options inside the courtyard: football, anbar, hide-and-seek, and tug-of-war. You detested the last game. Every time you switched sides, sometimes pulling with Sadiq and other times with Fahd. You hated being in that position, between the two, with no choice but to join one against the other in a game solely based on strength. You abandoned those games and decided to kill time with some improvised acting. In front of the camera Fahd pretended to be Abdulkareem Abdulqader, imitating his hand gestures and his voice as he emphatically sang, “Patience is for someone else . . . Enough, the heart has let go of you.”

  You and Sadiq begged him to stop imitating Abdulkareem. “We’ve had enough of him!”

  “Last song, wallah, I swear,” he promised. Reluctantly, you both gave him time to choose a new song.

  He stood still, his arms wide open in front of the camera. He drew in a deep breath. He shut his eyes tightly. He opened his mouth. He started singing in a voice that, while not exactly like Abdulkareem’s, matched its cadence to an astonishing degree: “A voice calls out . . . When will my country return?”

  Sadiq warned Fahd once he finished his song, “That Abdulkareem song is about Palestine.” Fahd bobbed his head, but said nothing. You and Sadiq stood, acting out different personalities, exchanging fatuous, improvised dialogues. Fahd and Sadiq eventually went back to soccer. Sadiq moaned about not being able to go out and play in the Gamal Abdel Nasser Park. You stood behind the camera, following their game. You commented as Khalid Al Harban would: “Fahd Al Bin Ya’qub . . . He’s got the ball . . . He crosses it . . . Gooooooal!”

  The urgent chirp of the doorbell jolted you. We exchanged horrified looks. The unknown finger continued pressing the doorbell. You hoped that it might be Abdellatif, despite not having seen him since he last accompanied the garbage truck, whose driver was content to simply honk his horn whenever he was on your street. Fahd made for the door. “Don’t open it!” Sadiq hissed, warning him. The ringing stopped, giving way to forceful knocking on the iron door.

  We almost ran inside, but a loud voice commanded, “Open the door!”

  Sadiq’s face turned sheet-white. “Bibi Zaynab!” He dashed to the door to see why she had come. Her appearance unnerved you all; she was wheezing, barefoot, without her abaya, looking somewhat thinner, her milfah loosely wrapped, leaving strands of her graying hair flying in all directions. She scurried inside, yelling, “Abbas . . . Abbas!” You followed after her, faces blanched. She stumbled at the doorstep. Sadiq propped her up. Everyone raced to the hallway, prompted by the wailing of your elderly neighbor. As soon as she saw ’Am Saleh, she clutched his hands and cried, “Abbas . . . They’ve taken Abbas!” Her knees betrayed her. She fell to the ground. ’Am Saleh stood dumbfounded. The reddening of Sadiq’s ears spread to his face.

  “Dad!” he sobbed.

  He raced out of the house. Khala Aisha and Fawzia rushed to support Bibi Zaynab while you stared at Mama Hissa’s face, examining it. She remained standing, looking at her son. Confused, he was unable to meet his mother’s gaze. His lips exploded angrily, “It’s all that Palestinian’s doing!” Abu Sameh came to mind. Mama Hissa st
ayed silent, looking at him with eyes that asked, What now? There was nothing left for him to do as the sole man among all the women, except to go to his room to fetch the car key. Khala Aisha followed him.

  Mama Hissa raged at her, yelling, “Aisha! Stay here!”

  ’Am Saleh came out of his room, a red ghutra hurriedly wrapped around his head. He padded outside, head bent, in his house dishdasha. His wife yelled at him, demanding to know where he was going. “Surra police station,” he stammered as he kept walking.

  She followed him, pleading, “For God’s sake, don’t go . . . My heart is aching!” ’Am Saleh looked to his mother’s eyes. She was still staring at him. He kept on walking. Aisha persisted, hanging on to the excuse: “But the license plate . . . it’s Kuwaiti!”

  ’Am Saleh halted in his tracks at the edge of the hallway, deep in thought. He glanced at his mother. She was still staring intently into his eyes. He bowed his head, frowning. You’d never seen him as weak and confused as at that moment. He caught you off guard when he called you over. You looked at him, your stomach in knots. “Where’s your bike?” he asked you.

  THE SECOND MOUSE: BLAZE THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE

  THE NOVEL

  Chapter 9

  Someone had trod a path in the accumulated layers of dust in the courtyard of your house; the footprints started from the gate and disappeared behind the inner door leading to the living room. You then also spotted a separate trail returning from the inside out. It troubled you. They certainly weren’t yours or Fahd’s from the day you had searched for your passport, which was now over two months ago. You almost entered your own house, crossing the courtyard, but failed to—fearful that a stranger was lying in wait for you, coupled with your obedience to Khal Hassan’s warning not to go in.