“Tariq Uthman is Palestinian, not Kuwaiti!” Fawzia tells her nephew.
“As if Tariq Bin Ziyad is?”
She doesn’t respond.
We would sit for hours, our backs up against the Abdulmohsen Al Bahar elementary school wall, across from Tariq Bin Ziyad Road, facing the red building used as the psychiatric ward in the show—waiting in vain for one of the characters, Mahzouza or Mabrouka, to come out. One day, we sped to where their house was, as depicted on the show. For hours on end, we waited there, but no one came out except the people who actually lived there. They snickered at us, as if they were used to seeing kids eagerly waiting for the two actresses. We turned our backs then, heading for Hippocrates Hospital on Ibn Ziyad Road. We patrolled the gate, hoping one of them would appear. No one did. We split up the posts—with Fahd at the front door of their house, Sadiq at the psychiatric ward, and me at the Hippocrates Hospital gate. At the time, we didn’t know that the show had been filmed months before, that the red building portrayed as the psychiatric ward was in fact a police station under construction, that Suad Abdullah and Hayat Al Fahad’s home was no more than a house just like any other in Surra, and that Hippocrates Hospital turned out to be the Sheikhan Al Farsi wedding hall. They’d only used the facades of places in Surra. And yet, we still felt elated anytime we saw a scene shot in our area, our Surra. While watching, we never got over suddenly shrieking, “Look! Look!” and pointing to something as mundane as the dirt plot in front of our school.
“Put a lid on it!” Fawzia demanded that we pipe down so she could watch in peace. We ignored her and carried on with our running commentary.
“Enough!” Khala Aisha intervened because Mama Hissa wasn’t there. We kept quiet, eagerly awaiting the events at the psychiatric ward. Despite how infuriated Khala Aisha was, we weren’t able to muffle our howling at the patients: how they looked and their wildly exaggerated comical gestures. The sight of Mahzouza and Mabrouka being chained to the bed, screaming and flailing about like rag dolls during their electroshock-therapy sessions had us in stitches. Tina fought back her laughter, too. Khala Aisha had a go at her as well. “You! What are you laughing at?” She pointed to the door leading to the kitchen outside. “Go on!” Tina slowly got up from her corner on the step while we continued guffawing over the show’s lunacy. One of the characters was Fuada Abdul Aziz, a former history teacher who always wore a bloodred dress and a light-blue bow in her hair. Among all the patients, she was the one who’d ruin the show for me when her croaky voice erupted before she actually graced the screen. She would be hugging an orange mousetrap, roaming the corridors warning, “The mice are coming . . . protect yourselves from the plague!” The other patients were unsettled by her sudden appearance and the nurses’ ensuing panic, all the while confusing Dr. Sharqan; the hospital director, Abu Aqeel; and me. Her voice qualified as the fourth sound that scared the living daylights out of me. My fear of Fuada was founded in what I’d heard in the old TV public service announcements warning us about the dangers posed by rodents. Both Fuada and the announcements fueled my childhood fear of mice. Mickey Mouse was no longer one of my favorite cartoon characters. I began to understand the reasons behind Tom’s hostility. I’d lost my compassion for Jerry. I tried to bury my fear of Fuada, but nothing stayed hidden from Fawzia, who knew exactly how to put me in my place if I annoyed her. She’d pretend to be Fuada with the hoarse voice; staring directly at me with glassy eyes, she’d wag a finger and croak, “Katkouuuut! I’m history in its entirety! And I’m warning you all: the mice are coming . . . protect yourselves from the plague!” She knew exactly how to push my buttons, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Mama Hissa came out of her room, swept past us, and made her way toward the kitchen in the courtyard. “Where’s Tina?” she asked. We all turned to Khala Aisha, expecting her to respond. Mama Hissa halted right before the hallway leading outside and turned to face us. “Focusing on your studies is better than watching this garbage.” Again, we didn’t engage. “I’m making dinner for you, labneh with olive oil and za’atar.” She continued on her way to the kitchen, advising all of us to eat copious amounts of za’atar so we’d be as smart as the Palestinians and get “bravo” grades. At that time, this myth of hers about the mystical properties of za’atar was one we wholeheartedly believed. I mean, we never found any other plausible reason for the academic prowess of the Palestinian students in our school, so we drew a correlation between their high grades and their daily za’atar consumption. We would eat a lot of it, until our stomachs were past being full—without any benefit. Back when my father bought me that bike, I was first in my class at school without any za’atar, ahead of all the other students, except for the two Palestinian brothers, of course—Samir and Hazim. First among us Kuwaiti students, at least, because we blindly subscribed to the belief that the actual top-of-the-class spot could only be held by a Palestinian kid who’d consumed an abundance of za’atar.
We hadn’t yet finished watching the show when ’Am Saleh trundled in, carrying a white cardboard box emblazoned with HITACHI in red letters, and placed it on the ground in the middle of the living room. “A Japanese camcorder,” he announced cheerfully. From that moment on, the camcorder was a member of the Al Bin Ya’qub household, standing upright at all times in the living room corner on its metal stand, with an old abaya draped over it to protect it from collecting dust. Never leaving its corner, like a little old lady wearing a robe full of holes, it used to startle us from time to time before we got used to it. We named it “Mama Hissa’s twin,” despite how ticked off she got by the comparison. “I’m short, all right, but I’m not a midget!” she’d protest.
Khala Aisha’s face beamed with joy in a way I’d never seen before at the prospect of this new device, where memories were immortalized in living form rather than the frozen slivers of time gleaned from her Polaroid camera. We made a ring around the camcorder, much like Mama Hissa’s mice crowding around a broken egg in her chicken coop. It was a hefty thing that fastened onto your shoulder or the metal tripod, and linkable to a VCR or charger. Drawn in by our excited quacking, Mama Hissa let her curiosity get the better of her; she drew close with Tina not far behind, carrying her legendary fish dish.
That evening I didn’t leave ’Am Saleh’s house until after he had finished setting up our new friend. In the hallway, we stood in one line between the flower vases of peacock feathers with “Big Man’s” photo behind us. Fahd, Sadiq, and I faced the camcorder, buzzing with anticipation. We straightened up in front of the lens. It was a chance to show off our acting chops. The red light on the video camera started flashing. From behind the camera, Khala Aisha, with an expression that was far removed from its usual dourness, started singing her go-to song; “Where has my daddy gone? Where has he gone?” Mama Hissa’s eyes shone as she looked on sadly at her daughter-in-law. “God rest his soul,” she remarked wistfully. Our voices unified with Khala Aisha’s melodic singing as we all stood in front of the lens. “To Basra he’s gone . . . In Basra he was gone.” She went on crooning, “What will he bring me? What will he bring me? Sharaq waraq, sharaq waraq.” She smiled, her mouth widening as she sang, “Where do I put it? Where do I put it?”
“In the chest, in the chest,” came our reply.
Our voices rose higher still with the slow tune as we completed the song, “The chest doesn’t have a key . . . the key’s with the blacksmith.” Even though there was no link whatsoever between Al Haddad, the blacksmith in the song, and Muayyad Al Haddad the soccer player, Fahd was left with a dreamy look on his face nonetheless. The song ended with “And rain comes from God.” Mama Hissa bobbed her head in agreement. “There’s no God but God.” Fawzia nearly interrupted her, but she hesitated. She asked her brother if he’d allow her to sing. He almost refused her when Mama Hissa stepped in to encourage her. “Sing, Fawzia, sing.” ’Am Saleh nodded, a tight smile plastered on his face. Mama Hissa started to clap.
When the video camera’s blinking light
resumed, Fawzia started mimicking her Kuwaiti idol Sana’a Al Kharaz, who sang to the emir. “The sweetest days of our lives these are, living with him, our hearts beat with joy . . . Jaber’s been our father for such a long time,” Fawzia sang as Mama Hissa ululated. ’Am Saleh pointed the lens toward Mama Hissa to get a better shot. She hastily pulled her milfah over her face to conceal it.
“Why so camera-shy, Mother?” her son asked with a chuckle from behind the device. She turned into stone—no sound, no movement. Still laughing, he turned the lens to “Big Man’s” photo on the wall. Mama Hissa came back to life.
Fawzia kept on singing, “Long live the emir! We’ll sacrifice ourselves for him. All of us will!”
“Enough!” ’Am Saleh interrupted, cutting her off. “If only the parliament were still around,” he mumbled resentfully. He left his sentence open to interpretation. Fahd straightened his body, puffing out his chest like a rooster about to crow, and executed a salute, imitating the soldiers from the front line broadcast on Iraqi television at a time when whichever Iraqi channels the antennae picked up were garbled. Fahd spurted out in the Iraqi dialect we had picked up as children, “I’m Attiya Khadheer, soldier in the Eighth Regiment . . . I salute my leader from the Erbil base camp. I’m letting him know of our imminent victory.” I caught Sadiq’s ears reddening as he started to move away from the camera, frustration written over his face. Mama Hissa gaped broadly at her grandson’s performance. Giggling, she held her milfah, poised to cover her face at any moment lest the lens happen to fall on her. ’Am Saleh covered his mouth from behind the camera. Caught up in the moment, I also spouted in Iraqi dialect as Fahd did, “I’m Hamza Abu Al Ma’ali, soldier from the Third Regiment, the Takrit armored corps, greetings to my family and my clan.”
“The president must come first!” spluttered ’Am Saleh, correcting me.
I set myself straight. “I . . . I . . . Greetings to the hero of Al Qadisiya, president of the Republic . . .” The scene didn’t last long; we finished it with a salute up high, our palms facing outward in the middle of our foreheads. We stomped both our feet with fervor, in the Iraqi hosa fashion: alternating, then both at once rhythmically as we chanted, “We’re all your soldiers, Mr. President, all of us are your soldiers.” I think that evening was perhaps the first time I saw Khala Aisha smiling. She joyfully looked on at the new camera. She believed in an immortal life for those you love. ’Am Saleh noticed Sadiq edging his way to the end of the hall to make a sharp exit.
“Come back here, boy!” he shouted. Sadiq disappeared. He didn’t respond to ’Am Saleh’s mocking, “Come say hi to Khomeini!”
In my memory, the scene ends with the iron courtyard door slamming.
3:10 p.m.
Present Day
After broadcasting the three o’clock news, I call Dhari, wanting to ensure he has arrived home safely. He doesn’t answer my calls. I can’t keep up with whom I should be worrying about. I’ll never forgive myself if he’s been injured; after all, I’m the one who told him to come. I can’t just sit around and wait any longer. I squeeze my feet into some sandals, fearful of leaving the headquarters to go to Al Faiha to check if he got there or not. I wait for the elevator in the hallway. Ayub’s call comes first. From his unusually restless voice, I sense something horrible has happened. The explosion that was heard a short while ago in several areas was a response to the fire set to the Sunni Abdul Wahab Al Faris Mosque in Kayfan last week. I ask him for clarification. He responds, disbelieving what he himself is saying. “There’ve been news reports, or maybe they’re just rumors, about one of the buildings in Jabriya being blown up.”
“Blown up?” I repeat uncomprehendingly. I sense his hesitation before he resumes.
“Some people say that it’s the hussainiya that was blown up.”
I lean back against the wall. The elevator door opens. Seconds later it closes. My feet are unable to move. “Man, you all are some sons of bitches!” he adds bitterly. His words sting me; we—Fuada’s Kids—were meant to be a group that did not choose sides.
“Ayub!” I yell, hoping to jolt him out of his newfound bias.
He seeks refuge in his silence.
“Not you too!” I beg him. Right now I don’t know who he is. I plead with him, as the sights and sounds of what happened this morning are still etched in my mind. “Let’s not have a repeat of what happened at dawn today, please!”
“Astaghfurillah,” he says as he lets out a tormented sigh that so often follows a plea for forgiveness. He prods me, aware of my skirting his earlier question. “You still haven’t told me what happened this morning.”
“Later.”
“Is it something I should worry about?”
“No, no need.” I end the call.
I cross the hallway, returning to the station, which also serves as our headquarters, not concerned with anything except making my way to the site of the bombing. I decided to make use of the equipment in the closet to justify my presence at the crime scene. Among the items I stumble across are a small camera, a pair of shoes I can’t use because they’re the wrong size, and a tank top with the Al Rai newspaper’s tagline on the back. How crazy is this? I was just using Fahd’s microphone, and now I’m wearing Ayub’s clothes. I go back to the board, apologize to the listeners for the hiatus, and let them know that we’ll be back on air soon. In the meantime, I put on some songs that I don’t believe in anymore.
I enter the hallway again. As soon as I jab the button, the elevator doors open to reveal Dhari’s smiling face, a cloud of his oud cologne preceding him. He’s carrying a flashlight, a pack of candles, a pot of food, and some dates in a box. I try to forget my earlier insistence about him staying at home. As he is about to walk out, I step forward to hug him. The elevator doors collide with his shoulders. “Take it e-easy!” he says, trying to unload what he is carrying. I ask him about the pot.
“It’s Thursday,” he says.
That is enough for me to get it: he fasts on Mondays and Thursdays. He asks me about Fahd and Sadiq.
I shake my head. “No news.”
He stares intently into my face, then looks at his watch. “A-Are you hiding something?”
I don’t answer. I’m not sure.
He grins. “God will bring the r-rain.” His phone dings, alerting him to a new text. He reads it, his face draining of color. He extends his hand toward my face to show me the phone’s screen. “By joining Fuada’s Kids, a suspicious group, one that isn’t yours, you’re no longer Muslim.” I ask him to elaborate.
“This is because of the A-Atheist Network’s support.”
“Who are the atheists supporting?”
“Not for you to worry about,” he reassures me.
He masks his frustration with a smile as he taps away on his phone. I peer again at the screen cradled in his hands to read his response. “Islam isn’t your father’s house, so you can’t throw me out whenever you damn please.” I grab his phone before he sends his text.
I don’t hide what I’m thinking. “Hold on, take a minute to think about it.”
He laughs, dragging me along as he makes his way inside. “Whoever wears Ayub’s clothes must have the same p-patience and nerves of steel,” he declares. If only he heard Ayub on the phone just a little while ago.
THE FIRST MOUSE: SPARK THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE
THE NOVEL
Chapter 8
Sadiq refrained from visiting ’Am Saleh’s courtyard for a few months. Sure, I was young, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t feel confused about ’Am Saleh’s harassing Sadiq and the veiled messages that he would want Sadiq to pass on to ’Am Abbas. Maybe I didn’t understand it all, but I knew it was upsetting for Sadiq. We’d only see each other in class from then on, in the last row where we always sat. As usual, he’d be preoccupied with doodling on the desk: faces, eyes, fighter jets, and a circle the size of a coin with Press here, teacher goes poof! scrawled underneath. The magic button quickly spread to each of the desks and walls of
the classroom, in the hope that the teacher would actually disappear, when in reality we’d only be rid of him when the bell rang.
I started keeping an eye out for Sadiq at sunset, as he would stand outside his house laden with notebooks, waiting for ’Am Abbas to transport him somewhere. I later learned that he’d been going to the hussainiya, where religious lessons were taught, as ’Am Saleh would say, according to Shia beliefs not covered by the standard curriculum at school. As a result, ’Am Saleh wasted no time in enrolling Fahd in a similar religious establishment of the opposite sect. My dad altogether refused to allow me to join any religious club or center. “You already have a sajjada you can pray on in your room or, if you want, Al Ghanem Mosque is only two streets away from here.” I grew closer to Sadiq. He was reserved, with little to say. I couldn’t desert him; it was as if ’Am Saleh’s courtyard was missing something, or more like someone. It wasn’t complete without all three of us there.
It was a few days before the end of Ramadan, in April 1988, when the Kuwaiti plane—named Jabriya—was hijacked, an event that made the headlines. Without hesitation, the newspapers pointed the finger at Hezbollah elements loyal to Iran. The TV blared Kuwaiti national songs around the clock, which kept an enthralled Fawzia glued to the screen, recording the songs on the VCR.
I decided that day to visit ’Am Abbas’s house. My mom didn’t usually let me go out during the week, especially during such tense periods, but I seized the opportunity when she joined in with the neighborhood women after evening prayers to visit our neighbor Abu Sami to congratulate his American wife on her conversion to Islam. Mama Hissa’s joy was matchless when she heard the news. “God guided her,” she gushed about the woman, who she had always said was bint halal, a good girl, even if she was not Muslim. Just three minutes after Mom had set off, I heard Abu Sami’s saluki yelping away, welcoming strangers in his own way. I knew now was the time to make a run for it. I arrived and rang the doorbell. It chirped. For a few seconds I waited on the three front steps, my back against ’Am Abbas’s boat, opposite the plaque above the bell that announced: ABBAS ABDUL NABI ABBAS MOHAMMED’S HOUSE.
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