Mama Hissa's Mice

by Saud Alsanousi

  Khal Hassan stopped the car in front of the security headquarters. He got out and accompanied Aisha, Fadhila, and the twins, while you and Dhari stayed behind in the car. The courtyard in front of the headquarters was overrun with cars, on them new Iraq-Kuwait license plates. Many families were asking about their sons, trying to confirm their whereabouts. A long time passed. Dhari bit his fingernails as he stared at the entrance to the building. “My d-d-dad is late!” You asked him why he was worried, not understanding his speech pattern, unfamiliar with it. His eyes were fixed on the door. His breath condensed on the passenger window. “I’m scared they’re going to take him.” Some of his worry washed over you. His lips quivered before they opened to say, “They murdered Abdellatif. Fayez Kan’an too. And shot someone else.” He started to describe the scene on the pavement in front of his house. Once again his stuttering caught your attention as he tried to express himself. For many years you hadn’t understood what had happened to his tongue. How had Dhari become D-D-Dhari?

  You asked him about the third person. It could be the Ibrahim Mansour that the ice-cream seller mentioned. He shook his head and went back to chomping on his nails as if he were going to wolf down all his fingers. You felt a moist warmth spread under your right thigh, soaked up by your shared seat. While gazing out the window he added, “I saw them from my b-bedroom two days ago, the old brown bloodstains s-s-still there, bloodstains and a p-piece of the skinned scalp on the sidewalk, hair and blood and . . .”

  He clammed up. You needed some time to piece together that it was Abdellatif Al Munir who had disappeared. The garbage truck was now being driven by a masked man who just honked while making his rounds in the area, after Al Munir had gotten involved in armed resistance. Dhari’s face lit up when, after nearly two hours of waiting, the door to the security headquarters opened to reveal his father.

  Khal Hassan returned with disheartened faces in tow. You looked at Aisha and Fadhila, followed by their kids. One could mistake them for sisters, all with the same shiny reddish faces. In such trying times, all faces looked the same. They all piled into the car. Prompted by the lingering smell, Khal Hassan looked at his son. He opened the windows. He was about to drive off, but a soldier appeared at the entrance to the building, gesturing at Khal Hassan to get out. The soldier spoke to him. Khal Hassan nodded silently, then returned to the car to inform Aisha and Fadhila, “He wants money.”

  “So that he releases them both?” Fadhila inquired.

  “So that they allow us to visit them tomorrow afternoon.”

  Your uncle counted his Iraqi dinars. “Not enough!” Fadhila lamented. Aisha bit her lower lip as she looked out into space. Fadhila slipped her hand inside her clothes and took out a necklace and some gold bracelets. “This is all I have.”

  Khal Hassan refused to take the risk of bribing the soldier with gold. He turned on the engine and headed down Kuwait Street. The forbidden name of your country caught your eye. You knew Kuwait as a country. You came to know it in Iraq as a street. Khal Hassan parked the car in a nearby square. You continued on your way toward the jewelry market in Al Ashar at the end of the Al Maghaiz souk, passing by the spice stalls in the Indian market. The atmosphere was similar to that of Al Gharbally Street in the Al Mubarakiya souk back home, if it hadn’t been for the difference in dialect: traditional shops on either side of the road selling watches, clothes, shoes, carpets, and pots, plus a pharmacy and an ice-cream store. What struck you was that the Iraqis here were nothing like those in your country. The military uniform had nothing to do with it. Something you couldn’t put your finger on distinguished them.

  You entered the gold store with Sadiq, Hawraa, and Fadhila. A small store with a low ceiling and dim lighting. Fadhila placed her necklace and bracelets on the glass counter in front of the seller, an old, bald man with a bushy mustache.

  “Deposit?” he asked her in a husky voice. She shook her head. “Sale.” The man fixed his glasses on the tip of his nose, his lips forming into an O as he examined the necklace. His gaze jumped between the necklace and all of you, searching your faces. Before weighing it, he asked, “From Kuwait?” Fadhila nodded. It was strange to your ears to hear the name “Kuwait” being mentioned so brazenly in Iraq since it was forbidden in your own country, now known as the Al Nida province. He cleared his throat and then said, “Forgive me for asking.” He looked at the door before asking why she needed the money. Fadhila covered her face with a piece of her abaya, hiding her sobs. He asked her to have a seat. He then disappeared into a side room through a small door, the bracelets and necklace in hand. He returned carrying an envelope and a glass of water, giving both to Sadiq’s mother. She got up and made a gesture of thanks before heading outside without counting the notes in the envelope. “May God help you all,” he said.

  In the car, Fadhila gave Khal Hassan the envelope. He ripped the corner. He took out the notes and counted them. He turned to her, perplexed. “That’s it?” He looked again in the envelope. He stuck his hand in. His eyes widened as he looked at her, fishing out the necklace and gold bracelets. “What’s this?”

  THE SECOND MOUSE: BLAZE THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE

  THE NOVEL

  Chapter 12

  Your visit to Saleh and Abbas meant you had to spend the night in Basra. One night, because of what was required, became two. You all met Abbas and Saleh on the third day, when they were paraded out, handcuffed, among dozens of young and old Kuwaiti men. This was only after having spent two depressing nights in a Hamadan hotel room overlooking the Al Ashar River, during which you had to sleep with the light on because Dhari was afraid of the dark. Khal Hassan, however, spent his two nights tossing and turning on the back seat of his car instead of renting a room, in order to save money to grease the necessary palms when you went over to visit the detainees. The visit on that third day barely lasted half an hour; the only thing you remember was the women sobbing: the mix of tears, sweat, and sheer terror on the faces of your two neighbors in the small dusty square, their heads shaven and blindfolds removed. The soldiers didn’t respond to your collective plea to extend the visiting time. “When will they be released?” No one answered.

  “Nothing’s for certain until the trial,” a soldier finally said. Trial. The word weighed down heavily on all of you, and despite having seen them, you returned to Kuwait more worried than ever.

  As soon as you approached your street, you noticed a lot of cars out in front of the zalamat house. They were receiving mourners for Abu Taha’s funeral; he’d breathed his last in the hospital after a two-week-long coma. You remember how disappointed he was at Saleh’s lackluster reception at his front door a few weeks ago. “Will you go to give condolences?” Khal Hassan asked.

  Fahd responded on your behalf and also for Sadiq: “My father wouldn’t be happy about that.” Khal Hassan didn’t respond.

  “Let’s ask Mama Hissa,” you whispered in Fahd’s ear. You knew that she’d encourage you all to give condolences to those you’d played soccer with for years in the neighborhood.

  You never got the chance to ask her. It never crossed your mind that being away for two nights in Iraq would transform Mama Hissa into a human lump, a heap of threadbare clothes on a sickbed. She had fallen down during your absence, worn-out, fatigued. She ordered that her brass bed be put in the living room, facing the hallway, so that when Saleh came back, she could see him as soon as he entered. She was unable to move, yet still hopeful that her son would return with you. She’d been burning incense the whole time you were gone in anticipation of Saleh’s arrival. But you and Fahd didn’t know any of this as you sped up to enter before everyone else. Mama Hissa’s face shocked you, her eyes closed and her mouth wide open in a sad, toothless smile. She was like another woman altogether, older than the one you had known for so many years.

  Mama Zaynab read Quranic verses over her head. Fawzia wiped the sweat from her brow. On the ground, next to her bed, Tina massaged Mama Hissa’s legs. You ran toward her. “Did you bring them bac
k?” Mama Zaynab asked. You didn’t answer. Fahd simply shook his head, standing off to the right side of the brass bed to take in his grandmother’s new face. You brought your face closer to Mama Hissa’s, craning your neck under the feeding tubes hanging in the metal holder on the side of her bed. The intravenous needle might as well have been plunged into your own heart.

  It pierced the skin of her hand, going deep into one of her raised veins. It drew dark-blue splotches. You could hear your own heart beating in your ears and felt the gushing of blood in your temples. You fought back the tears that had defeated Fahd. You kissed her forehead and asked, “Mama Hissa, how are you?” No response. Only the wheezing of her slow breaths.

  You started to reassure her. “’Am Saleh is well.” The sound of her son’s name sparked life into her seemingly dead body. She raised a trembling arm, opened her palm, and scattered nothing into the air. She moved her lips noiselessly for quite a while before she let out a quivering, barely audible “Ta’! Ta’!” Come, come. Your gaze wandered to those around you, seeking an answer to what was wrong with her. Mama Zaynab closed her Quran as soon as Aisha and Fadhila came in.

  “Where are they?” Mama Zaynab asked. Aisha shook her head. She was trying to be reassuring. “They’re both fine . . . They’ll be released soon.” Mama Zaynab looked at Mama Hissa’s aged face. “Come, come,” she kept repeating. Mama Zaynab stared at Aisha. “You should have at least come back with Saleh for now, at least him . . .” Her body quaked, suppressing a wail.

  Three heavy days dragged by. During that time a Palestinian doctor who worked in the Hadi Hospital in Jabriya dropped by. He was the one who discovered the old lady’s aversion to taking her pills. He replaced the nutrient-laden IV bags. “Her condition is unstable,” he stated plainly. Since the first week of the occupation, the ambulances and all the critical medical equipment had headed north, on the road of no return. You began to see the soldiers you heard so much about on a daily basis. All of you could distinguish the Republican Guard from the Armed Forces by the color of their caps. They stormed the Al Bin Ya’qub household and their next-door neighbors’, asking for Ibrahim Mansour, who had vanished into thin air. They trampled the rug with their military boots and kicked down the bedroom doors. They interrogated everyone: even Tina and the old woman, who sometimes responded with “Tet! Tet!” or “Kish! Kish!” as if shooing away a fly.

  “Crazy old bat!” they muttered as they left.

  On the fourth day after your return from Basra, Mama Hissa’s condition took a turn for the worse. Everyone hemmed her in: Aisha, Fawzia, Fahd, Tina, and Mama Zaynab. Her lips were pulled back from her hole of a mouth; they kept moving and yet not a single word was audible. Hot air gushed forth from her toothless orifice. You brought your ear closer to her silent words; maybe you’d catch a sentence. Her mouth smelled strange. Aisha sat next to Mama Hissa’s twin, her elbows propped on her knees. She cradled her face between her palms and stared at the living room floor, glassy-eyed. The replica, bare without its holey abaya, caught your attention. It lay neglected on the ground below the tripod. The small circle on top of the Hitachi camera lens blinked red. You knew very well what that meant. No one took notice of your astonishment except for Tina, who was also looking at the camera. She glanced at Aisha, then jabbed you, whispering in her broken Arabic, “Crazy woman.”

  Mama Hissa stopped moving her lips. She opened her eyes as wide as they would go and stared at the living room ceiling, as if spelling out the alphabet in the air. You gently clasped her hand, fearful that the intravenous needle would hurt her. She was cold. Fawzia was perplexed. “Mom . . . Mom,” she called out. Mama Hissa’s mouth was still open.

  The movement of her pupils sped up, combing the ceiling, then fell on the hallway, looking at you all. “Tet, tet.” The protruding veins in her neck throbbed. She squeezed your palm. Her left eye shut, but her right one remained open, its pupil fixed on the hallway. She relaxed her grip, and you freed your palm.

  Harmonious farewell sobs burst forth. “Mom, Mom . . . Um Saleh . . . Mom, the apple of my eye . . . Auntie . . . Big Mama . . . Mama Hissa!” You withdrew your steps toward her double in the corner, your moves robot-like.

  You knew that Mama Hissa never moved, turning into stone, whenever the camera lens focused on her. “I’ll wake her up.” No one listened to you when you said that. You stood behind Mama Hissa’s twin in its corner, not knowing what you were doing. You turned the face of the camera to the wall, far away from the old lady’s face, whose open right eye was trained on the hallway. You yelled at the top of your voice, warning her, ignoring the wailing in the living room. “Are you camera-shy, Mama Hissa?” She remained silent. A hush fell over the room, and everyone turned to look at you. Mama Zaynab bent over and picked up the abaya lying on the ground. She cast it like a fishing net over the body of her neighbor. She hugged you. You buried your face between her neck and face. She smelled like Mama Hissa. You tried to steel yourself, not give in to sobbing. “Bibi Zaynab . . . What’s with you all?”

  Her voice came to you, weak, groaning in your ear:

  “The beloved of my heart, Um Saleh

  The beloved of my heart, Hissa

  Closed one eye, reassured about her family at home,

  And left the other open, seeking Saleh’s return!”

  THE SECOND MOUSE: BLAZE THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE

  THE NOVEL

  Chapter 13

  You don’t cry over your loved ones’ deaths; you cry for yourselves, the ones who have been left behind. You cry for what they took when they died. They left you all without a wall to lean on. Mama Hissa was a wall that, in spite of its cracks, everyone relied on for support. Her absence left a lump in your throats that you couldn’t spit out or swallow. She was gone. You felt as if the Al Bin Ya’qub house no longer had a roof to protect it. She took along with her what was most beautiful in her house: her vibrant voice; her scent—a mix of Pompeia cologne, the red soap, naphthalene, oud oil, and henna; the hum of her sewing machine; Tina’s laughter; Aisha’s subdued voice; and Fawzia’s sight. Those around you sobbed uncontrollably. Whenever you got ahold of yourself, someone in front of you would burst out crying, triggering your tears all over again. You fled to Aisha to get a dose of her stoicism. It was a longer day than any of your long days during the time of the occupation.

  Your bewilderment reached the point where you couldn’t even cry anymore. Fahd was in the same boat. You both sat in the corner of the living room, close to Mama Hissa’s twin, trying to take in everything going on. Death had never come this close to you before. Even with Abdellatif Al Munir being martyred and Abu Taha’s death, the impact of both was short-lived.

  Fawzia is in her mother’s room with the door locked. You don’t understand, or you don’t want to understand, why Mama Hissa is in the bathroom being washed with sidra soap by Mama Zaynab and some strange woman. Soap of her sidra tree, sidra of lovers—the jinn’s safe haven. Everything is unfamiliar. The feelings of loss and the uncertainty of what follows. She is still in the house. Even the words being spoken are unfamiliar; you can’t make sense of any of them.

  Mama Zaynab came out of the bathroom, dripping water, her sleeves rolled up. She spoke to Aisha . . . shroud, camphor, sidra soap, cotton, and nylon. Bibi Zaynab! What are you doing to Mama Hissa? You didn’t dare ask. You couldn’t believe that the shrouded woman laid out on the stretcher was your Mama Hissa. You clung to her twin even more. You closed your hands around the edge of the abaya. “Her face is radiant, praise be to God, but her right eye; my God, it’s open!” the corpse-washer announced. Two men entered, carrying a casket. You knew that once she disappeared through the hallway outside, you would never see her again.

  The people of the household escorted her, along with female neighbors and women from their families whom you’d never met before. Fawzia howled, tormented. Tina, Fahd, Aisha, Mama Zaynab, Fadhila, and Hawraa were all shrouded in black. They cried as they walked behind her corpse, which was tied up with string
like a folded-up tent, neglected in a shed. You got up and ran when the wailing of the women in the courtyard intensified. You weren’t able to join everyone else as they walked over to the body spread out on the stretcher. You stuck to the sidra, your gaze pouring out your final respects to her. No one besides you took notice of the chickens in the nearby cage, their heads raised to the sky, eyes closed, gargling. No one paid attention to the pigeons cooing in the sidra: a musical ensemble behind the intertwining branches and leaves, in the jinn’s home, the sidra of lovers.

  The women and Fahd crowded the courtyard entrance when the door of the car transporting the body slammed shut. They stretched out their necks, their gazes lingering on the car’s back as it transported the corpse, disappearing at the end of the street on its way to the Sulaibikhat Cemetery, tailed by Khal Hassan’s car and another vehicle owned by a relative of the old lady’s.

  You discovered that when sorrows showed up, one came tugging the hand of the next. To some degree, you weren’t sure what you were crying about. You stayed in Fahd’s room for the night. Fawzia was left to sleep in her mother’s room, hugging her pillow as she did. Sorrow drained her, she who was the only one who used to call her mother “O apple of my eye.” Fawzia didn’t attend the ‘aza, the mourning ceremony for her mother; neither did Aisha or Fahd, who ended up staying with Fawzia, who had been checked into the Mubarak Hospital in Jabriya—or if one went by their newly coined names, the Al Fida’ Hospital in Al Ahrar—for three days while the Al Bin Ya’qub household thronged with mourners.

  You were in the diwaniya most of the time with Sadiq. Through the window overlooking the street you kept an eye on the soldiers lingering outside. They parked their vehicles opposite your house. The soldiers watched the Al Bin Ya’qub house on the pretext that gatherings were forbidden. Aisha would come back at night, leaving her son in the hospital at his aunt’s bedside. You couldn’t comprehend what she relayed about Fawzia’s condition. Diabetes. Lack of treatment. Ripped blood vessels. Folding up of the retina. All that you got was Fawzia had gone blind. You remembered how Mama Hissa called her daughter “unlucky.” You didn’t think about how Fawzia would carry on with her life in the dark. All that came to mind were the Ihsan Abdel Quddous novels in her room. How would she read them? You remembered Saleh’s promise: “You’ll go to college when Kuwait is free.” When would Saleh return? When would Kuwait be free? And how could Fawzia enroll in college now? Your questions, which you knew would surely annoy everyone, took root in your head. No one would be able to answer, and you couldn’t ask them in any case. Almost as soon as the three days of the ‘aza came to an end, taking with it the blackness that had enveloped the house, news spread throughout all of Surra: Jasim Al Mutawwa had been released. He had been to his house. A bullet had pierced his head in front of his family. He had crumpled and fallen at his doorstep. Just as Surra was getting over the loss of Abdellatif, its sadness was renewed by the loss of Jasim.