Mama Hissa's Mice

by Saud Alsanousi

  “An argument broke out between two of the young men. ‘You unbeliever.’ ‘Damn you. You Rafidi.’ ‘You Nasibi. You all . . .’ We . . . it quickly escalated to clubs, daggers, and empty bottles. I turned to Fahd and Sadiq, urging them to do something. Anything. Was I wrong, Ayub? Fahd was in his car. After he turned on the engine, he put down the window and said, ‘They’re idiots!’ Sadiq opened his car door, too, intending to get in. I yelled out to him. He turned to me and said, ‘You mean we should die because of a few mice?’ I damned both of them silently. I ran toward the group. I plunged into the dust. I yelled, ‘The truce, guys, the truce!’ You understand my motivation, Ayub. Only you understand. Tell me I was right.

  “Fahd’s and Sadiq’s calls to me, telling me to stop, telling me I was crazy, got louder behind me. I advanced farther into the madness. I pushed one body away from another. I stood between this one and that one. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, getting rid of someone else’s spit. ‘You Nasibi.’ ‘I’m not Nasibi.’ ‘You Rafidi.’ ‘I’m not Rafidi.’ The yells increased. ‘Umar. Umar, Umar, Umar.’ ‘We’ll never be humiliated.’ ‘We’ll never be defeated.’ Even now I can hear their screams. Don’t look at my trembling hands. If you were with me, you’d understand. What happened at dawn today was horrible. Horrible. I was scared. I was scared for . . . for . . . I don’t know, but I wasn’t scared for myself. You believe me, Ayub, don’t you? Hawraa, I . . . I didn’t mean to be the reason for the loss of your loved ones. I never thought that things would . . . would . . . one of them smashed my knee with his club. I fell to the ground. He punched me above my left eye. I found myself between Sadiq and Fahd as they dragged me away on the ground. They propped me up against my car. Running, they started back to the crowd. I yelled at them both, understanding the extent of the imminent danger. ‘Come back here, you lunatics!’ I screamed at them. A young boy ran up to me, screwdriver in hand, with blood gushing from his shoulder. He looked terrified. I felt sorry for him. I steadied my hands on the ground and pushed my body to get up. ‘Don’t worry. Show me where you’re hurt,’ I said to him.

  “He raised the screwdriver up high. I tried to dodge his blow, but he brought the screwdriver down hard on my lips. The ground shook and I felt dizzy. I remember myself spitting up blood. I coughed, like I was hacking up a rock. The boy jumped into a car. Gunning the engine, he took a sharp turn, and made for my car. He rammed into it before taking off. I could barely stand. My head was spinning. I looked for my friends. I strained, following their voices, with my ears, into a ring of dust. There was no sound other than ‘You bastards, you Kharijites, you Wahhabis, you Iranians, you pigs!’ It was tragic. Religious men, who claimed holiness, were cursing with the vilest words. But the feeling of disaster that paralyzed me had nothing to do with the conflict. The yelling and accusations in Sadiq’s and Fahd’s voices were why I felt so sickened. One of them was yelling in the face of the other. I leaned my body against my car. I started to slap myself like this. Like this. No, no, harder than that. Like this! Maybe I could wake myself up from the pain that kept me down. Maybe what I was hearing wasn’t actually their two voices after all. My body remained heavy, my head spinning. The two of them slipped away from the crowd and kept on fighting. They clashed with their fists. ‘Screw your dad!’ ‘Screw your mom!’ ‘You little shit.’ ‘You pig.’

  “I fought the pain in my knee and dragged my injured leg toward them. My strangled yell tore my throat; my tooth was dangling. ‘You bitch, you’re with them. You son of a bitch.’ ‘Enough. Enough, that’s it. Fahd! Sadiq!’ I heard my voice muffled in my ears, accompanied by a whistle, distancing the voices of the dusty plot. Fahd turned to look at the ground around him. He searched for . . . for a rock. He leaned down and picked up one about this big. No, no. A little bigger.

  “Sadiq pummeled Fahd in the back with his fists. I yelled, ‘No, no!’ Fahd raised his hands up in the air. I was . . . I was running, and jumped over one man. My sandal flew off. It fell onto the ground, with the sole facing upward.

  “Ayub. Hawraa. Don’t look at me like that. You understand me, Fawzia. I’m . . . I’m an ass, I confess. I stopped to flip over the sandal. I don’t know what pushed me to do so. Loyalty to Mama Hissa or fear of the sky falling. I don’t know. Then I kept on running but . . . but . . . Fahd had already brought the rock down on Sadiq’s head. Maybe his shoulders, I’m not sure. He fell to the ground, his blood drawing a line in the sand. If only I hadn’t stopped for the sandal, maybe . . . I remember Fahd, with his arms up high. Then . . . then he took his palms from his head, and he leaned over Sadiq, shaking him. ‘Don’t you daredie, you bastard . . . Sadiq, Sadiq!’ he yelled. I was on my knees, helpless, crying like a child. I cried like I am now. Fahd headed for the street, cursing himself. One of those behind me yelled, ‘You son of a whore.’ He hit me with something on the back of my head. I don’t know what. I remember voices fading out to the sound of car wheels grinding across asphalt outside the park. And the last thing I remember seeing is Sadiq crawling on the dirt toward his car. And a man in a dishdasha in the middle of the road flying in the air. I’m not sure. Maybe it was someone other than Fahd.”

  “Khala Aisha was in Mubarak Hospital with ’Am Saleh,” Hawraa says as tears drown her face. My gaze shifts between her and Ayub, seeking clarification. Hawraa adds in the middle of her weeping, “A car accident in Rawda . . .”

  “The closest hospital to Rawda . . . Mubarak Hospital . . . Jabriya,” Ayub adds.

  Hawraa stands up and, thinking aloud, says, “Khala Aisha came back from the hospital where ’Am Saleh is. She went out a second time with the pot of mutabbaq samak.” She yells at the top of her voice, startling her two young ones, “All this and you still don’t get it?”

  The twins cling to their mother. “Mom . . . where did Dad go? Where did Dad go?”

  “What are you all waiting for? Fahd’s in Mubarak Hospital!” Hawraa screeches.

  THE FOURTH MOUSE: ASHES THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE

  THE NOVEL

  The Final Chapter

  We were in Rawda, in my diwaniya, looking out on Shahab Ahmad Al Bahar Street. The Abu Hayyan Al Tawhidi sign had been taken down years ago; it had become a new street like so many others. No memory of who we were or had been. I remember that on the day the sign was removed, I recalled the words of Abu Hayyan, which I had memorized in my teenage years: The stranger who has no name to be mentioned.

  While the twins played on the sidewalk in front of the house, we were preparing for our second peaceful sit-in, “Second Coming,” one in a series of sit-ins we had organized in the square opposite the closed parliament building. We were still on a high from the first sit-in the day before, “First Coming.” All the news outlets had covered it, making it the talk of the town. Thousands came out despite the cold winter evening, denouncing the statements made by religious extremists online, which led to conflicts in several areas, resulting in the deaths of youths blinded by extremism. After sunset, people gathered in the square. They crowded together like pilgrims on Hajj. Their grumbling rose and fell like the roar of the sea. Women and men. Religious figures, old people, children. On the front lines: the religious figures, poets, actors, singers, and sportsmen that we had idolized as children. The pure zeal of some made them seem young. Others, who had long been out of the public eye or whose health was frail, surprised people by taking part at all. The poor condition we were in as a country motivated them all.

  Khalifa Al Waqayan was on his feet in his winter bisht, his arms crossed across his chest, deep in silence. Perhaps some people didn’t recognize him, just those who repeated his poetry verses, like us in our radio broadcasts. Not far from him stood Abdulkareem Abdulqader. He was leaning on his son’s arm, a fury like no other on his face. People gathered around him chanting his hit song, “Today’s Nation.” Although Abdulhussain Abdulredha had made us laugh his whole life, he made us cry that day. He seemed tired, sporting a white mustache that we weren’t familiar with. His ghutra was a
n unruly mess on his head. His features were serious, downcast. He leaned against a palm tree, calling out in agony, the timbre of his voice no longer recognizable, “We want to live!” A young man approached him. He kissed his head. He pleaded with him not to be so emotional. Abdulhussain Abdulredha seemed to have thrown himself into a role more tragic than any we had ever seen onstage or on TV. Muayyad Al Haddad sat on the sidewalk nearby, Khalid Al Harban next to him, hands folded under his chin, frowning as he watched the crowds, fear for our future in his eyes. Shortly before our sit-in ended, Mahzouza and Mabrouka showed up, Hayat Al Fahad and Suad Abdullah, in black clothes, each one clasping the hand of the other. They echoed the calls of their friend, the psychiatric ward patient: “The mice are coming . . . protect yourselves from the plague!” And us in the middle of the crowds, each looking at the others, crying. Fahd, Sadiq, Ayub, Dhari, and Hawraa, who called Fawzia on her phone so she could hear the people yelling.

  We were recalling the scenes of our first sit-in, while in the diwaniya, as Ayub posted online announcements for the second one. The twins, racing each other, burst into the lounge, their faces ashen. They asked their father about the black bird that had landed on the house’s boundary wall. Black feathers, black beak, black legs. Fahd responded, laughing, that it was a ghurab. They furrowed their brows. He clarified for them in English: “crow.” They shook their heads, no-no. They said that the bird had two round eyes in the middle of its face, a big head, on top of which were two ears like a cat’s.

  Sadiq couldn’t control himself and chuckled at the cat’s description, looking pointedly at Fahd. “Children of international schools! At their age, we knew all the birds, those that stay in one place and those that migrate.” He smiled and informed the twins that what they had seen was a boom. He added, rounding his lips, saying it in English, “Owl.”

  They shook their heads, stretching out their arms taut in front of them, saying, “It’s this tall!”

  I found myself laughing. “Then it’s an u-qab. Too bad for you, I don’t know how to say that in English.”

  Ayub’s phone rang with a call from the newspaper, while we disagreed on the nature of the black bird. He nodded his head, bug-eyed, and said nothing other than, “You’re sure?” His face said that the news was confirmed. He ended the call. “Avenues Mall . . . gone!” He didn’t finish what he was saying about the massive bombings that had demolished the sprawling mall, at the height of its popularity. He cut himself off. “It has begun!”

  “Rumors! Just rumors!” a livid Fahd yelled at him.

  Midnight

  Present Day

  Hawraa mutters prayers, hugging her boys in the back seat. Fawzia is silent. Hissa peers out of the window, fearing the appearance of masked men obstructing our path. The gas indicator flashes behind the steering wheel, letting me know the tank is empty. I ignore it, images of gas stations in flames flash in my mind. I slow down next to a metal fence. “The entrance to Tunisia Street,” Ayub reminds me. Smoke still billows from the mountains of rubble, but they are no longer burning. Women and men stand at the entrance, carrying flashlights. Some illuminate the way with their car headlights, while others remove the stacked tires, clearing a path for the cars to pass to Jabriya despite the curfew.

  The faint light from Mubarak Hospital reveals unprecedented numbers of corpse-catchers. The area around the hospital is choked with cars. We all get out except for Hawraa, whose legs can’t carry her. “I’m scared.” Ayub supports her as the twins guide Fawzia. I hold Hissa’s hand, and all of us proceed to the gate. Young men block the big black birds from entering. They carry spears like those we would carry when out for al qumbar. We have barely passed through the hospital gate, protected by the young men, when Hissa slips her hand out from mine. She dashes into the chaos. I call out to her as she walks past the wounded individuals splayed out on the floor. I follow her with my eyes. She disappears. The waiting room around the reception desk has become an emergency operation theater. I search for the young girl. I find her hugging a young man with a swollen face. His leg is wrapped in a cast. Two men prop him up.

  She yells out, “Dad! Dad!” The man’s face lights up. He bends down to hug the girl. He takes off his glasses, wiping away tears. He grabs her shoulders, examining her. Returning her hug, he asks about her two sisters. She reassures him, “They’re fine . . . with the neighbors.” Hawraa looks at her two children and joins in the bout of crying. Ayub calms her down, saying that the two boys should get to see their father. I advance toward a man in a Red Crescent uniform at the reception desk. I ask him about the patient Saleh Al Bin Ya’qub. Hawraa raises her voice behind me. “Fahd! Fahd Saleh Al Bin Ya’qub.” The man shifts his gaze between us.

  “Saleh or Fahd?” he asks.

  “Both,” I answer.

  He taps on his computer keys. “Saleh is in the basement, observation unit, general room 4.” Hawraa rests her hands on the counter, her ears pricked up. The man continues his search. “Fahd . . . sixth floor, private room 12.” Hawraa bends over and grips her knees. She doesn’t say a word. Her body tilts. Ayub rushes to steady her. Yelling at the nurses, he demands a wheelchair.

  “Fahd’s on the sixth floor,” I tell him. He nods his head.

  I run, climbing the stairs, ignoring the throbbing in my knee. The first floor. Third. Fourth. My run returns to heavy limping in the hallway of the sixth floor. An old kitchen smell, combined with that of disinfectants. I pause at the door of room 12, preparing myself for certain pain. I fill my chest with breath as if it were my last. I slowly push the door open. Aisha is in her abaya, sitting on a chair facing the bed. She holds her phone in one hand, directed at Fahd. She might as well be a statue. The man spread out on the bed isn’t the Fahd that I know. A dark-blue stain rings his eye. His lips are swollen, his mouth toothless. Parts of his head are shaven, interrupted by stitches of surgical thread. His chest is exposed, covered with medical sensors. A yellow tube comes out of his body, its liquid collecting in a bag hanging behind the bed. A red tube goes into one of his veins, replacing what had flowed out onto the Rawda asphalt. And because I have prepared myself for worse, I readily accept this picture of Fahd. Aisha is stiff, mute. She observes her phone screen, her features tight.

  “Assalamu alaikum,” I whisper.

  Nothing moves, except her lips. “Shhh. Fahd’s sleeping.”

  I get closer to the bed. I’m reassured by the rise and fall of his chest and his slow breathing. His finger is hooked up to the wire of the upright device next to him, which produces an intermittent beep, colorless. Its screen shows wavy lines that I’m unable to decode, but they’re reassuring nonetheless.

  Fahd mumbles in a feeble voice, his eyes closed, “Dear listeners . . . I welcome you to a new episode of the What’s New Today show . . . traa . . . raa . . . traa . . .” He murmurs the tune to one of Abdulkareem’s songs, green music that he usually finds refuge in during the breaks of his show. Then he goes silent, descending into sleep, snoring. The intermittent beep of the machine becomes a continuous tone. Its red sound unnerves me. The wavy lines become one long horizontal line. I shake his body.

  His mother rebukes me. “The boy’s sleeping!” She indicates with her eyes the wire that has come undone from his finger. She puts her phone to one side. She grabs her son’s finger and fastens it once more to the wire. The red tune is silenced. The machine resumes its intermittent beeping, and the wavy lines come back on-screen, measuring heartbeats and things I don’t understand. Aisha resumes taking photos with her phone. I ask her what the doctor said. She answers without shifting her eyes from the phone screen. “Shhh . . . the boy’s asleep.” I look around me. A pot of food covered with foil sits on top of the small fridge in the corner of the room. I stand behind her, peering down at her phone. Fahd appears on the screen. I shift my gaze between Fahd on the bed and Fahd on the phone screen, its button flashing red. Her actions unsettle me.

  “Khala Aisha,” I call out to her.

  “Shhh!” She cuts me
off. My friend opens his eyes slowly. In disbelief, looking at his mother, he asks her what she is doing. She answers, the phone in front of her face: “For when you get well. You’ll see for yourself and know where the path you’ve chosen has brought you!”

  He lets out a sigh, followed by a smile. A tear flows from his eye. “Are you lying, yummah?” He looks at me, his lips as usual in a broken smile. He controls the tone of his voice but can’t suppress the gasps chopping up his sentence. “That’s it? Sadiq’s gone?”

  I shake my head. “Sadiq’s fine.”

  His eyes widen. “Where is he? I don’t see him with you.”

  I pat his shoulder. “He’s around . . . asking about you.”

  His toothless smile turns him into an old man. “And Hawraa . . . where’s she? I don’t see her here with you.”

  I gesture toward the door. “She’s on the way.”

  He furrows his eyebrows. “Swear.”

  I point my finger to the sky. “Wallah, by God who raised the heavens.”

  He closes his eyes and says, “I believe you.” His mother is still absent, her phone in front of her as if she’s watching a film. “Water,” Fahd mumbles in a weak voice. I pour some into a plastic cup. I bring it close to his lips with my other hand behind his head. He barely swallows the first sip. A second sip, and then a vein in his neck quivers. He opens his eyes, with droopy eyelids, and gazes at the door. The intermittent beep of the machine becomes a continuous tone once more. The third sip goes unfinished. A stream of water dribbles from his smiling mouth into my palm. Aisha takes notice. She leaves her phone on the bed. She grabs Fahd’s finger, ensuring that the wire is attached properly. The device continues its long tone. The screen shows a fixed horizontal line. The numbers become zeros. She removes the wire and reattaches it, watching the screen. The tone and the screen don’t change. She removes the wire again, throwing it on the floor. She clasps her son’s wrist. She hits the back of his hand like someone scolding a child. Then she kisses the palm of his hand before resting it on his chest. “Sleep, my darling, sleep,” she says and then turns her back to him.