by Puja Guha
“Are you okay?” Dinah asked. “You look like you’re lost in thought.”
For a moment, Mariam considered telling Dinah more about therapy, about the range of emotions that she had been grappling with but decided against it. She didn’t want to ruin this moment, this celebration for the two of them. “I’m fine,” she answered, letting her smile widen. “Thank you for inviting me here, and for letting me use John’s ticket. I know I was a pain because I wasn’t sure I wanted to face all of that past, but I’m really glad I’m here. I’m so thankful we’re here together.”
Dinah wrapped her arms around her and squeezed her tight, “Mariam, I couldn’t do this without you. This is our history, no one else’s—at least not in the same way. I talked to Janhvi the other day, by the way. She’s still in Mumbai, doing pretty well, and she said to say hello. Did I tell you she got a new job teaching English at a tutoring center? I’m so impressed by how well she’s done—she grew up with so little.”
“I thought she was working as a nanny?”
“That’s the first job she got after finishing her English course, but now she’s a real full-fledged teacher. She said she can’t believe she earns enough money to support her daughter in university. Isn’t it wonderful? After saving up over so many years as a housekeeper… You know, I’m sure she’d love to talk to you. Maybe we can call her together tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Mariam agreed, uncertain if she could handle that.
Dinah hugged her even tighter, then stepped back and wiped a tear from her eye, “You’re going to ruin my makeup. We better get going before I have to redo it.”
“Okay,” Mariam stood up with a chuckle. “One second, I’ll grab my coat. Meet you downstairs.”
Mariam returned to her room quickly and picked up her coat along with gloves, apprehensive about the cold February weather. She was about to head downstairs when she realized that she’d left her cardigan out on the bed. Shedding her coat, she put the cardigan on and looked at herself in the mirror. She was tempted to leave it off—while it was sleeveless, the dress wasn’t very revealing—but chose not to, she felt too exposed without it. Mariam smiled at her reflection, reaffirming her decision to attend the event. She put the coat back on, her heartbeat drumming in her ears and sped downstairs to meet Dinah.
Washington D.C., USA – February, 2016
Nadia paced up and down the foyer at her parents’ house, glancing at her watch every couple of seconds. She considered calling out for her mom and uncle again, but her father shot her a glance from the sitting room. Nadia sighed. He was right, she had told her mother to hurry up barely five minutes earlier, and another prompt would only stress her out even more.
“All of you women fit the stereotypes so well.” Uncle Tareq shuffled past her and sat down in an armchair across from her father. “You’re either running late or stressed, or both.”
Nadia detected his attempt at levity. She had noticed him trying to make things lighter between the two of them in their few interactions since her mother had told him that they had secured him a ticket to the embassy party. After a quick nod to acknowledge it, she retreated into the formal living room on the opposite side of the foyer, mumbling an excuse about needing to check her shoes. She dreaded every encounter with her uncle after the way he had spoken to her that day after her mother’s last set-up—the look on his face still sent a shiver up her spine. I should have told Mom. She sat down on the couch. She’d hesitated to sit down earlier, not wanting to wrinkle her dress any more than the car ride already would, but at this point, she had given up. Given up on the dress, on her mother, and on having a good time at the event—Not if Uncle Tareq is coming. I just have to get this night over with.
Nadia mulled over how hesitation had cost her the chance to tell her mother that morning. Now it’s too late, she looked up at the ceiling, at the ugly popcorn surface above the ceiling fan. This was the only room in the house her father refused to renovate, “We never use it,” he had explained repeatedly. Nadia smiled as she remembered how many times her parents had relived that same discussion: her mother claiming that they would use it if they liked it more, and her father insisting that formal living rooms were useless pieces of the property that real estate agents used to con buyers into thinking their lives would be full of pomp and circumstance.
Tonight is actually a night of pomp and circumstance. She had heard several of her friends at the office discussing how epic the Liberation Day parties usually were. Since this one was for the twenty-fifth anniversary, everyone was expecting even bigger things. Nadia knew for a fact that there would be two live bands, a massive buffet with at least four courses of Kuwaiti specialties, and a set of dance performances, along with several songs to be sung by a famous Kuwaiti singer. While she hadn’t recognized the name initially, a quick google search had confirmed how much of a big deal the singer really was. They’ve spared no expense, her father would say, quoting Jurassic Park, one of the movies they had watched together during her childhood. It’s too bad he’s not coming, her father would have been far better company. He was also much better at cajoling her mother into getting ready on time—a trick Nadia had never managed to master. Besides, her father was more than happy to stay home, put his feet up, and watch a movie on his own, he had no interest in this sort of fancy event. He considered them more of an annoying requirement of being a prominent businessman and had welcomed the opportunity to bow out and give his ticket away.
Nadia heard footsteps coming down the stairs and almost leapt to her feet, catching herself just in time before a landing on her three-inch stiletto heels caused an accident. She rolled her eyes and gathered herself. Let’s get this over with.
“I’m ready,” her mother called from the foyer. “I don’t see anyone else here who’s ready, I already have my coat on.”
“Very funny, Mom,” Nadia returned to the foyer and pulled on her long grey overcoat.
“Is that a coat or a bathrobe?” Uncle Tareq asked as he joined them, gesturing toward the front knot tie closure on Nadia’s overcoat.
“Actually, this kind of coat is quite fashionable,” Nadia snapped before she could stop herself. Between her mother and him, she had lost patience with that side of the family. “Let’s go, we’re already late.”
NADIA PULLED UP in front of the Kuwaiti embassy and glanced at her watch. They were an hour late. Sighing, she handed her keys to the valet and helped her mother out of the front passenger seat. Uncle Tareq emerged and bent over slightly, then straightened up with a grunt.
“Tareq, are you all right?” her mother asked.
“I think so,” he answered with another grunt. “My stomach was hurting, Nadia’s driving was rough, but I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll just get something to eat inside.”
If you weren’t feeling well, you could have decided to stay home. Nadia reprimanded herself for being so hard on him. She inhaled and forced a smile, “We’ll get you some tea and food and I’m sure you’ll be okay.”
His eyes narrowed, clearly not taking her statement as kind. Nadia shrugged it off, she couldn’t blame him, not with how she’d been responding to his poor attempts at jokes. Oh well. She had no control over his reactions, she just had to make sure she was never alone with him again—she didn’t want to picture what he might have done if her father hadn’t appeared in time on that afternoon a month earlier.
They ventured inside, lingering in the front hallway which featured a photo exhibition on the Iraqi invasion and liberation. Nadia felt her heart skip a beat as the weight of the photos became clearer, she’d regarded this event only as a party and a celebration instead of realizing exactly what they were celebrating. She took her mom’s arm as they paused in front of a photo of the oil fires set by the Iraqi troops as they retreated from Kuwait, a last blow to strike down the colony that they hadn’t been able to hold onto. “I think I remember seeing that on the news,” Nadia said in a quiet voice, “but I didn’t understand what it was.”
“You were only three years old, of course you didn’t understand,” her mother gave her a warm glance. “Why don’t you go on inside, Sokar? I’ll stay with your uncle, I think he might need more time here, but you should go in and see your friends.”
Nadia hugged her mom, touched by her usage of the Arabic word for sugar, a term of endearment that her mother hadn’t used since her childhood. For a moment, she pondered their relationship; her mother was able to see a side to her uncle that she didn’t. “Were you close to him, when you were growing up?” she asked.
“Not really—honestly, we’re not even close now, but he’s lost so much. The least I can do is take care of him, show him some respect. He lost his wife during the war too….”
“I can’t imagine him with a wife. I wonder what she was like,” Nadia looked over at him wondering if she should perhaps show him some more consideration. He must have had a heart back then, maybe that’s why he’s so jaded. He lost his wife and his freedom all at once.
“They were only married a short time, I only saw her once, at their wedding. I can’t imagine what he’s been through.” Her mother gestured toward the end of the hallway exhibit, “Go on, my dear, have fun. We’ll be all right.”
Nadia was about to disagree, but she discarded the idea—perhaps she should be kinder to her uncle, but she didn’t trust herself to do that. Besides, she did need to greet her boss and co-workers. And maybe even enjoy the party…
“If I don’t see you inside in a few minutes, I’ll come back to check on you. I love you, Mom.” After giving her mom a kiss on the cheek, Nadia turned around to head into the main hall for the party.
Washington D.C., USA – February, 2016
Dinah raised a glass of sparkling apple cider and clinked her glass to Mariam’s, “It’s not as good as champagne, but it’s still quite nice.” She leaned in to whisper, “A colleague of mine hid a few bottles of the real stuff in the audiovisual room down the hall if you want some.”
“I’m okay,” Mariam chuckled. She adjusted her cardigan, playing with the button in the front.
“Why don’t you take off the cardigan? It’s so warm in here with all these people.”
“No, it’s fine.” Mariam took two sips of the cider and shrugged, “It’s not bad, actually. I think it’s similar to what I used to drink once in a while when Aliya was little. Raj would get these bottles for me from the grocery store in Boulder.”
“Are you all right?” Dinah sensed something off in the way her cousin mentioned his name. “How are you and Raj doing?”
“It could be better, I guess. I’ve been struggling, honestly—he can’t understand why I kept on using his first wife’s name, and I don’t know what to tell him.”
Dinah’s frown deepened, “You never told him, about Tareq? Why not?”
“I don’t want him to see me that way—Tareq made me the victim, you know.” Mariam held back tears and looked away, “Sometimes I wonder if it was my fault, if I’m the reason he behaved that way.” She gestured to stop Dinah from interrupting, “Look, rationally, I know that’s insane, but I can’t help feeling that way. It’s something I’ve actually been talking to a therapist about.”
“I didn’t know that.” Dinah recognized how much her cousin was opening up, “John and I saw one too, you know—not recently, but a couple of years after I moved to London to be with him. In a way I resented him, and we needed to deal with those feelings.”
“You resented him?”
“He got out of Kuwait so much faster, and I couldn’t go with him. The British embassy evacuated their staff immediately, so just like that, he was gone. I know we got to speak once in a while, but I felt like I had been through so much more, especially with those months you and I spent at the camp together. It was hard for him to understand how traumatic that was, and I had trouble accepting that he couldn’t have taken me with him. We were in love, but we weren’t married. Plus, I felt guilty about Fahad, what he did for us—and how, in a way, it was easier for me to be with John because of that.” Dinah stopped, feeling raw, talking about Fahad was still painful. “Do you mind if we talk later?”
Mariam took her hand, “Of course. It’s probably for the best, we’re both so weepy.”
“Let’s focus on enjoying the party.” Dinah gazed around the room, “Oh look, there’s my friend Nadia, she’s lovely. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
DINAH GREETED NADIA with a kiss on either cheek and stepped back to admire her gown, “You look beautiful, I love this dress. This is Mariam; Mariam, this is Nadia, a close friend of mine from the office. She’s the one who keeps backup Nespresso pods for when they run out upstairs.”
“It’s great to meet you,” Mariam said to Nadia with a smile.
“Where’s your family?” Dinah asked. “Didn’t you say your mom and uncle were coming? I want to meet them.”
“Sure. Did you see the exhibition hall? They’re back there.”
Dinah shook her head, “Actually, no, we came in from the back entrance, so I forgot all about it. Mariam, you should see it, I saw some of the photos while they were setting it up yesterday, it’s pretty amazing.”
Mariam gestured toward the far side of the hall, “That sounds wonderful, lead the way.”
“I didn’t realize my family was that exciting, but I know my mom would love to meet you, Dinah. I’ve told her a lot about you,” Nadia agreed. “Follow me.”
Salmiya, Kuwait – August 2, 1990
The Iraqi army just crossed the border.
Fifteen minutes after hearing the news, Mariam was sitting in the living room with Dinah, trying to process what had just happened. Fahad had appeared for a moment, then disappeared into his study, on the phone with his business partner.
“Are you sure?” Mariam asked, looking at Dinah. Maybe asking the question would make it less of a reality.
“They came across the Abdali border an hour ago. Fahad spoke to one of his site engineers who works near there. They moved quickly…came in and took Bayan Palace.”
“And you’re sure the Emir and his family are gone?”
How could they abandon us? Mariam squashed her urge to ask the question. The Emir and the royal family had fled, for better or worse, leaving Kuwait’s population to fend for themselves under the occupation.
“I’m glad they got away,” Dinah answered. “They would only have been killed if they’d stayed. Maybe this way, they can get help…maybe the UN can get the Iraqis to leave…” Her voice trailed off, neither of them had any idea what that would mean.
Mariam stared at her hands, kicking herself for not getting out of the country when she’d had the chance. If I’d only applied for a new passport like they told me to. She bit her lip, thinking of her baby. I need to get her out of here. She has to grow up safe. Mariam was acutely aware how much her dream had influenced her. The baby was already a girl, and her name was Aliya. She shrugged off the possibility it was a boy. Regardless of whether the baby was a boy or a girl, she would love it more than anything in this world, and somehow, she would get her to safety. This was not the world her baby was going to be born into. Mariam let her imagination run for a moment, recalling the travels that she and her mother had joked about taking together. I will take them. An image of her mother appeared in her head. I’ll take them with your granddaughter, Mom. The memory comforted her, and Mariam reassured herself as she was sure her mother would have. This is not going to defeat me. I won’t let it. There was a way out, and she was going to find it.
Salmiya, Kuwait – The next morning, August, 1990
Mariam awoke with a crick in her neck the next morning, curled up in a ball in the corner of the living room couch. She moved slowly, wincing as her stiff muscles reacted. She stood quietly and padded out of the room toward the bathroom, Dinah was still asleep in the armchair at the coffee table, and she wasn’t sure where Fahad had gone.
Once she reached the bathroom, Mariam splashed cold water on her face and stared at her reflection hoping
to retrieve her determination from the night before. This is not going to defeat me, she said to herself again, first in her head, then aloud, but the words didn’t have the same power they’d had at three in the morning. She sighed and returned to the living room, where she was about to wake Dinah when she heard a commotion outside.
Reacting to the noise, Mariam stepped out into the garden, ignoring the wave of heat that greeted her. Without the insulated doors blocking out the noise, she could hear the soldiers on the street shouting out their triumphant chants. “Hadha al Eiraq”—“This is Iraq now,” they shouted in Arabic. “Long live Saddam. Kuwaitis, this is Iraq now.”
Mariam shuddered and crept toward the garden wall, grateful that it stood at over six feet. Behind the solid cement, the soldiers wouldn’t be able to see her, but she could see through the joint in the wall. There were four trucks laden with soldiers going up and down the street shouting.
She looked up to see a helicopter flying low in the sky. It descended so far that she could see a group of soldiers laden with machine guns, circling the neighborhood three times. It drowned out the chanting, then rose again and faded into the distance.
Mariam’s stomach was in knots as her attention returned to the street in front of the house. The soldiers had restarted their chant, this time with even more gusto. She watched transfixed as a group of about ten soldiers jumped to the ground and forced through the gate of a house across the street using a pair of boltcutters to get past the lock. She couldn’t see much more, they disappeared behind the walls, but she could hear the screams from the house. Dinah joined her in the yard and grabbed her hand, the two of them watching in horror.
