by Puja Guha
“I think we should,” Nadia placed her empty glass on the table as well.
“Not until we get some food in us,” Dinah insisted. “Ugh, I sound so old.” She turned to Nadia and smiled sadly, “Next to you, I guess I am. How’s your uncle doing?”
Nadia shrugged, “He’s okay—really hard to read. He’s staying with my parents this week, so I went home last night to see him. He seems fine, but my mom is still worried. She just worries about him—he won’t see a therapist but obviously, he’s been through hell, he was held prisoner in Baghdad for three years. He also lost his wife during the Gulf War, so he’s had a really tough life.”
Mariam nodded, “If there’s any way to convince him to go to therapy, it’s worth it,” she said in a soft voice.
Dinah squeezed her hand and explained to Nadia. “We had a tough time too, getting out of Kuwait. We stayed at this Indian refugee camp for a while, and eventually managed to get out.”
“Wow, I didn’t know that. So that’s how you two know each other?” Nadia asked.
“We also grew up together, but yes, that too,” Dinah answered.
“I didn’t realize—here I’ve been talking about my uncle, but you’ve both been through so much, too,” Nadia looked startled. “Dinah, I’m surprised you never told me, all you said was that you were evacuated through Jordan. How long were you at the refugee camp?”
“A couple of months. That’s actually where Mariam met her husband.”
“That’s so romantic,” Nadia exclaimed. “It’s nice to hear stories like that—that people can meet even in those sorts of crazy circumstances.”
“It was pretty romantic,” Mariam agreed, wishing it hadn’t also been so complicated. She left those details out, there was no reason to go into them, and while Nadia was lovely, she certainly didn’t need to know the whole story.
Before Nadia could ask for more details—the fact that she wanted to hear the whole story was written all over her face—a waiter approached to take them to their table. Mariam placed her credit card on the bar and tried to catch the bartender’s eye. “Could you close out our tab?”
Nadia picked up the card and waved it closer to the bartender. She glanced at it before handing it to him, “Is Mariam your nickname?”
“It’s actually my middle name, my first name’s Ritika, but I usually go by Mariam. I don’t know why—it’s always been that way.” This is no big deal, she consoled herself, she knows your real name, so what?
Washington D.C., USA – March, 2016
Nadia stopped in front of Dinah’s desk to say hello to her and Mariam. “Are you leaving for the airport soon?”
“We’re going to grab some lunch first. Would you like to join us?”
“I wish I could,” Nadia answered. “I promised my mom and uncle I’d give them a tour of the building today, so I’m on my way to greet them. If you’re still here, I’ll bring them over? My mom was so disappointed that she didn’t get to meet you both at the party.”
“We’re a little tight on time, but yes, definitely, if they’re here right now. Dinah’s just finishing something up before we leave.”
“Amazing,” Nadia beamed, “I’ll go get them.” She sped downstairs, grateful for any opportunity to incorporate distractions into her interactions with her uncle. At least he’s not so bad when Mom’s around, but she still wasn’t looking forward to spending any time with them. Uncle Tareq was such a control freak, he noticed if even the most minute detail was out of place and turned it into a big deal. When she had gone home to see him the day after the Liberation Day celebration, her mother had requested that she make coffee for everyone, which Nadia had done. Afterward she’d forgotten to put the Bialetti percolator back into the cabinet—it had been too hot to clean when she poured the coffee—so she left it to cool on the stovetop instead. The admonishment she received from her uncle was worse than all the arguments she’d had with her parents during her entire teenage rebellion period combined. He had the same chilling glint in his eyes when he spoke to her, but this time her parents were in the next room, so she didn’t have to suffer through it for long. Nadia shuddered, suspecting she would never be over the menacing look. She steadied herself against the stairwell railing and covered the last few steps to the entrance.
Just a short tour, no big deal, it’ll be over soon enough.
“Hi Mom, hi Uncle,” Nadia said after she signed them in with security. After some small talk in the lobby, she motioned toward the elevator. “Normally I’d take you around this level first so that you can see the big hall where the party was, but Mom, I know you wanted to meet my friends. A couple of them have to leave pretty soon, so how about we go up to my cubicle first?”
Washington D.C., USA – March, 2016
Mariam glanced at her watch, then looked over at Dinah who was still in the midst of typing out a long email. Looks more like an essay. She nudged Dinah, “I have to leave for the airport soon, and I’m hungry. Can you finish the email later?”
Dinah looked up with an apologetic look, “Sorry, sorry. I’m almost done—besides, didn’t you just tell Nadia we’d meet her family?”
“I didn’t realize how late it is. My flight’s in less than three hours, so with the time to eat, come back here to grab my suitcase, then get to the airport, it cuts things a little too tight. Would you mind meeting them later? You can blame me, of course.”
“All right, let’s go,” Dinah stood and grabbed her coat. They were halfway toward the stairwell when Dinah patted her pocket. “One second, I left my phone on my desk.” She darted back, picked up her phone and walked toward the stairwell to meet Mariam. As she passed the elevator, she pointed toward the floor meter climbing toward them. “That must be Nadia,” she called out to Mariam, who was a few feet away at the entrance to the stairwell. “Why don’t we just say hello?”
Mariam shook her head. There was no such thing as a quick hello in Kuwaiti culture. She gestured toward the stairwell door, indicating for Dinah to hurry.
“Okay, okay, I’m here,” Dinah said when she reached her, pretending to be out of breath.
As the door was closing, Mariam heard the elevator chime. She was glad she didn’t have to greet Nadia’s mother and uncle. The inevitable discussion—Kuwait before the Gulf War, the refugee camp, etc., etc., she had no desire to treat it as a normal conversation topic. I just want to go home!
Salmiya, Kuwait – August, 1990
The gunshot jolted Mariam out of her panic.
We have to get away.
As if she could read her mind, Janhvi jumped up and pulled Dinah to her feet, “Madam, we have to go. Now.”
Dinah’s face was ashen, and she seemed unable to speak, but they didn’t have time to console her. Mariam grabbed Dinah’s other arm and dragged her along, letting Janhvi lead them down the alley. She had no idea where they were going, but Janhvi looked as if she had some idea. Mariam compelled her legs to move faster. Dinah was essentially a deadweight, but at least she wasn’t on the ground sobbing.
“This way,” Janhvi said. At the end of the alley, she turned left and went past four houses. She stopped at the fifth, opening the back gate and ushering them into the yard. “This house is under renovation so hopefully the soldiers won’t bother with it.” She gestured toward the rundown home, which looked empty—scaffolding on both sides of the structure blocked the view from the road.
Mariam and Dinah followed her into the house through a door which was slightly off of its hinges. They all collapsed onto the living room floor and Janhvi plugged a conveniently nearby fan into the wall outlet and turned it on. Fortunately, it worked. Mariam sank to her knees in front of it, letting the cold air blow straight into her face for a few seconds before she felt functional. She moved aside so that Dinah could take her spot and squeezed her cousin’s shoulder gently. I’m so sorry, she wanted to say, but the words would have so little impact that she didn’t bother. Dinah knew that she was there for her, the gesture and the touch had alread
y told her as much, and there was no point in forcing the onslaught of emotion that would be coming soon enough. Mariam had to admit to herself that she wanted to stave it off as long as possible. Dinah couldn’t be an emotional wreck if they were going to get through the rest of the day. Not that I have any idea how to do that. Mariam felt a wave of panic about to descend and tamped it down as much as she could.
Mariam shifted her legs and stretched out, then repositioned herself against the wall and wiped her hand across her forehead. Even though the house wasn’t air conditioned, simply being out of the August sun was a blessing, and a few moments later she was able to regain coherent thought. She looked around the room and noticed that there were several spots along the wall that were considerably less dusty than the rest and glanced at Janhvi. “You’ve been her before,” she realized. “That’s how you knew to bring us here.”
“The owner stopped renovations last week because he was waiting for some fixtures to arrive from Switzerland. Some of the other maids and I came here to chat a few times.”
A different kind of hideaway, for happier times. Mariam sighed. She shut her eyes, realizing how exhausted she was for the first time in hours. She and Dinah had been up most of the night after the news had come in, so it was no wonder the exhaustion had hit her now that the adrenaline was wearing off. Mariam started to gag and stumbled outside to the garden wall where she retched into the bare soil between two wilted palm trees.
Fahad is dead. He died to protect us.
When the vomiting ceased, she fell back onto the ground, panting.
WHEN MARIAM AWOKE a few hours later, the sun hung low on the western horizon—the worst of the midday heat was now past. She rose slowly, careful not to make too much noise. Dinah was still fast asleep, and she wanted to talk to Janhvi alone. We need a plan.
She placed her hand on Janhvi’s shoulder and gently shook her.
Her eyes fluttered open, “Madam?”
“Oh for goodness sake, you saved us, call me Mariam. Thank you, for bringing us here.”
Janhvi lowered her eyes and Mariam asked, “What do you think we should do? Where can we go?” She gestured around the living room, “We can’t exactly stay here.”
“I don’t know, Madam Mariam.”
Mariam sighed, not bothering to restate that there was no need to call her “Madam” as she racked her brain for ideas. The first step was for them to find somewhere they could stay that actually had resources. She glanced outside. The backyard was eerily empty and quiet, and she wondered whether the danger of the day had passed. Would there be bodies beyond the boundary wall? What would greet them when they left this spot of relative safety? An idea occurred to her: once darkness fell, there was an old bakala convenience store not far from Dinah’s house where they could get food and water. But then where? They’d have to find a place to take shelter—perhaps Reema’s house? It was in a different neighborhood, so maybe it had not been raided? It would be a long walk, but they could make it.
We have to—it’s not like we have anywhere else to go.
Mariam attempted to think of alternatives but came up blank. We’ll make it, the soldiers can’t be executing all the Kuwaitis, we would have heard more gunshots, even from here. The rest of the day had been remarkably quiet, especially in comparison to that morning—she had heard the soldiers chanting on the street when she’d come in and out of her nap, but there’d been no more gunshots. She exhaled, relieved at the semblance of a plan, “We’ll go to the bakala down the street, then get to my sister’s house. We can stay there for a few days while we figure out what to do.”
“Okay, Madam—”
“Just Mariam, Janhvi. And thank you again, for bringing us here. You really did save us.”
“Welcome.”
Mariam woke up Dinah, running over the plan quickly. Dinah looked at her with a blank expression.
“We have to go back to the house.”
“Why?”
“My passport, Fahad kept it in the safe in his study. I have to get it.”
“Your passport, why?” Mariam frowned. Why on earth would Dinah want to go back to the house? At best, Fahad had been taken prisoner—or worse—and the soldiers could have taken refuge at the house.
“My British passport, Fahad wouldn’t have let them find it, I know it. I have to get it. Besides, I’m sure the bakala is closed.” Dinah stood up, “I’m ready,” she said in a quiet but firm voice.
Mariam considered protesting but examined her cousin’s face, impressed at the determination she saw there. She nodded and they headed for the backyard.
Salmiya, Kuwait – August, 1990
Mariam fought to keep her calm as Janhvi opened the side door into Dinah’s backyard. The streets had been quiet on their return, and the soldiers appeared to have dispersed, but she still felt as if they could be lurking around any corner. She had to keep it together for Dinah.
“Wait,” she whispered to Janhvi. “We have to make sure the soldiers are gone.” She shut the door behind them and listened. After several seconds, she exchanged a glace with Janhvi and nodded toward the house. With the soldiers gone, it might even be safe to stay there until they could come up with a better plan. That thought brought her a moment of comfort until she remembered what had happened to Fahad.
And where.
Once inside the living room, Mariam was struck by how much the soldiers had destroyed in such a short time. Evidence of the ransacking was everywhere, in the broken glass that crunched under their feet, to the bags of chips and empty bottles strewn across every empty surface. Taking it all in, she realized that what little supplies had been at the house were now gone. She turned and addressed them both, “Dinah, I want you to go upstairs and pack some things. Janhvi, I want you to do the same.” Her voice trailed off as she recalled Fahad shouting followed by the gunshot, she didn’t want to consider what had happened to him. She trudged on, “We can’t stay here. We have to go somewhere safe, somewhere with supplies, and access to food. With the bakala closed, there’s nowhere nearby to restock. For now, I think we should go to Reema’s until we can come up with a better plan. Her house isn’t that far, and we can hide out in her cellar for a while.” Reema kept her basement stocked with canned goods and water; she had always been paranoid—now that paranoia seemed like a blessing.
Mariam waited until Dinah disappeared up the stairs, thankful that her cousin had listened. Once she was past the first-floor landing, Mariam braced herself and made her way to the front of the house. The shot they had heard from the alley had come from the front yard. She had to see what had happened.
THE SIGHT THAT greeted her when she stepped out of the front door was worse than she could have imagined. Fahad’s body was splayed out against a step on the patio, a single shot through his head. Mariam grabbed a blanket from one of the outdoor chairs and moved quickly, she had to at least cover the body before Dinah saw it. She made her way to the edge of the patio and tossed the throw, doing her best not to look at him. Not that she would have recognized him anyway; his face was so obscured by cuts and bruises and his shirt was torn and covered in dirt and dust.
With a deep breath, Mariam touched his eyes to force them closed. She whispered the prayer from the Quran her mother had taught her before her grandfather’s funeral. When she reached the end of the verse, her voice caught, and she let the tears stream down her face.
“Thank you, Fahad. For everything.” Memories hit her like a freight train: how he had shielded her from Tareq just a day earlier, how he had protected them from the soldiers today. “Thank you,” she said again before she pulled the throw up over his face.
Mariam was about to go back inside, she had to pack her things as well so that they could get to Reema’s, when she heard the front door open. She looked up and saw Dinah standing in the doorway. “He’s gone, isn’t he?” she asked, trembling.
Mariam met her gaze, “I’m so sorry, Dinah.”
What else can I say?
Din
ah grasped the doorframe to steady herself. “He was a good man.”
“He was.” Mariam walked to the door and moved past her, guiding her back inside. “Help me pack my things?”
“Of course.”
Mariam didn’t need help, and they both knew it, but Dinah would welcome any chance to get away from the body. The faster they were packed, the faster they could both leave all the horror behind.
Salmiya, Kuwait – August, 1990
Mariam took the last five steps in one set and dumped her suitcase at the bottom of the stairwell. She looked down at the medium-sized suitcase that contained all of the possessions she would be taking with her. She had left so much behind when she’d gone from her house to Dinah’s, and now she was relinquishing even more of her belongings.
Whatever I do, I have to protect my baby. She placed her hand over her belly and took a deep breath; even with how dire their situation was, the fact that they were about to move made her feel like there was a chance.
Mariam dragged the suitcase a few more steps and deposited it in front of the back door to the house. She wiped her hand across her forehead, glancing at the other two suitcases already there. Janhvi had finished packing first, and Dinah had already brought her suitcase downstairs with her help. Mariam had sent her to take a quick shower before they left—she was hoping that it would help her to keep processing what had happened, especially since they had spent the entire day outside of the air conditioning that normally protected them from the sun and the heat.
After catching her breath, Mariam ventured back upstairs to grab the small wad of emergency cash that she had withdrawn from her personal bank account. She’d thought of putting it in the suitcase, but felt it was better to keep it on her person. A wave of sadness overwhelmed her and she gripped the bed’s footboard to push past it. Her gaze returned to the cash in her hand. Is it even worth anything anymore? She stuffed it into a tote bag—if she didn’t take it, then she would be sure to need it—and returned to the stairwell. On her way out, she paused, letting her gaze linger on the first place that had given her sanctuary since her marriage to Tareq. In all likelihood, she would never see it again.
