One morning, in the second week of November, forty days after Mama Hissa’s passing, Aisha was at Abbas’s house. Mama Zaynab had organized a Shiite mourning ceremony for Mama Hissa’s Arba’eeniya. The word was no longer foreign to you. Arba’eeniya. You remembered Saleh’s bristling at the Arba’eeniya that was held a few months before at the Imam Hussein Mosque for those Saudi Arabia had executed for the Mecca bombings.
Abbas’s house was crowded with mourners, and your street was teeming with soldiers who were ostensibly there to monitor the gathering. Perhaps no one was interested in the Arba’eeniya as much as Fawzia. “Take me to Abbas’s house,” she asked Fahd, Dhari, and you, wanting to attend the ‘aza, especially as she wasn’t able to go to the initial one forty days before. You felt sorry for how she looked. Fahd assisted her in choosing her clothes and a hijab for her head, which had started sprouting some hair. She didn’t own an abaya, though, a prerequisite for attending the ‘aza.
“The twin’s abaya,” Fahd suggested.
“Don’t you dare undress my mother by taking her abaya!” she scolded him. Fahd choked on his tears. You weren’t surprised by her words. You felt, like her, that Mama Hissa was the one who stood there in the corner of the living room, watching over the members of the household, assuring you that nothing would change with her passing. Fahd brought an abaya from his mother’s closet. “You swear it’s not my mother’s abaya?” Fawzia demanded before putting it on. Fahd promised her that he hadn’t gone near the tripod. She threatened him. “By God, if I see that camera without the abaya . . .” She didn’t finish. She covered her face with her palms. She cried. Since that day you became her sight.
You both clasped her forearms, leading her to the neighbor’s house, your cousin trailing behind. She walked with unsure steps atop the parched grass between Sa’marana and Barhiya. The absence of soldiers on the street caught your attention. You both left Fawzia there in the living room among the black sea of women: some on chairs, others cross-legged on the ground, spellbound as they listened to the recitation of the mullaya. Mama Zaynab was frowning, worrying her prayer beads between her fingers, mumbling.
You and Fahd found Sadiq at the door to the house. “There are soldiers inside,” he let you know, gesturing with his chin to your house. He clarified, perplexed by your silence. “One of them scaled the wall and opened the door for the others. They stayed on for a bit before some of them left, but I’m sure the others are still in there.”
You took off your sandals and climbed up Ikhlasa, which overlooked your house. You turned to Fahd and called out, “Hey, flip my sandals over!” Fahd bent down to your sandals and flipped them right side up, soles facing the ground, his lips resembling an upside-down crescent moon. He straightened up and looked at you, his eyes red. You hung on to the middle of the palm tree’s trunk, looking down at your courtyard. There were no soldiers in sight. Nothing, except marble, its dust encrusted with footprints; it looked like there were more of them than before. You swallowed your fear and the sense of duty you felt toward your parents’ bedroom, recalling Hassan’s advice to not go into your house under any circumstances.
After the afternoon call to prayer, the garbage truck honked, announcing its arrival. You, Fahd, Sadiq, and Dhari were in the living room. Tina called out to you, asking for help. You dropped the bags of garbage at the front door, following the havoc unfolding in front of you. Heads poked out of the neighborhood windows. Military vehicles fenced in the truck. Ten soldiers—or maybe a few more—surrounded the truck. Others came out of your house, carrying wooden pallets. On top of them were automatic weapons and Molotov cocktails. Four of the soldiers aimed their rifles at the masked driver. One of them—seemingly the highest ranking, who was dressed differently and had a long, hooked mustache, Hulk Hogan–style—hollered, “Get out, Ibrahim, and surrender!”
Fahd turned to you, his face pallid. “Ibrahim Mansour,” he mouthed. Dhari scampered inside, leaving a trail of his wet fear on the ground behind him. The driver got out, his arms raised above his head. Two soldiers surrounded him and handcuffed his hands behind his back. One of them roughly yanked Ibrahim’s ghutra off, revealing a heavily bearded face. He was looking at you the whole time while they dragged him to the military jeep, before they blindfolded him and drove him away to an undisclosed location. Sadiq and Fahd scrutinized your face in silence. You didn’t understand the expressions of pity on their faces. You were far away. You turned to them as soon as the military vehicles disappeared at the end of the street, behind the zalamat house.
“Did you both see the guy’s face?” They nodded. “Didn’t he look like Khal Hassan?” you asked, your eyes fixed on the end of the street.
THE SECOND MOUSE: BLAZE THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE
THE NOVEL
Chapter 14
“The coalition forces”: the most repeated phrase in the final month of the occupation. America, which you had only glimpsed as children in action movies or wrestling shows, became your salvation. America warned . . . gave a chance . . . deployed soldiers and prepared. America led the coalition forces to liberate Kuwait: many soldiers from the world over; Arab countries; many nations . . . many, many nations . . . but not one of the countries that had opposed your liberation. You had conjured up in your mind what you expected the American army to look like, its greatest asset being its soldiers: Rambo, James Bond, Rocky, Hulk Hogan, Ultimate Warrior, Mr. T, Superman, Batman, Spider-Man, the Terminator, and, leading them all, Captain America!
We started paying attention to the news of the ongoing war. You, who had never known what war was really like, except for what you had seen on TV, movies, news, or Atari games. No one left the house unless it was absolutely necessary—except to throw out garbage, the little there was, in the dusty plot attached to Abu Sami’s house. You listened together to the news on the radio. Final deadline. Machines and ammunition. New vocabulary and ways of living: ghost aircraft, Scud and Patriot missiles. Leaflets left at all houses. Safety instructions. A generator. First aid. Hoarding foodstuffs that were easy to store. Rationing of food and drink. Candles instead of lights. Pieces of tape to hold your windows together in expectation of a blast. Sealing off any air passages out of fear that the occupier would use chemical weapons. Towels, charcoal, and kitchen utensils to craft masks. The war that you had taken as your salvation proved to be just that, but did not occur with the ease or speed that you had expected. The neck of the bottle that the enemy was stuck in, as the media put it, was long. An air war broke out on January 17, 1991. Desert Storm, as America called it; “the mother of all battles” is what the Iraqi president deemed it. Whatever it was called, it was a drawn-out affair. News came in the first week that the Iraqi forces had opened up the oil wells and spilled their contents into the waters of the Gulf. Fahd didn’t appear to be joking when he asked how the fish in the sea were holding up. People who lived on the coast confirmed black waves. It was said that French planes bombed the oil wells with the intention of burying them to prevent an environmental disaster. There were tidbits galore that the neighbors passed on, each piece contradicting the next.
We would fall asleep to the sound of missiles and the smell of extinguished candles. The earth quaked beneath us. The windows cracked from the intensity of the bombing. During the first strike you gathered, you and whoever was left of Saleh’s and Abbas’s families, under the staircase, where you had prepared a shelter according to guidelines. Tina yelped with every explosion, covering her face with her palms. Aisha hugged her. Fadhila cried. Mama Zaynab flitted between praying and reading verses from the Quran. Fahd took an exaggerated interest in looking out for Hawraa, trying to calm her down with a bottle of water. Sadiq jammed his two index fingers into each of his red ears. Fawzia clutched your arm, asking if you could see anything. You had no choice but to man up. You reassured her that there was nothing to see except for the sounds that she heard. The saluki’s howling after each blast sounded like someone crying. Fahd couldn’t control himself. He went outside,
although Aisha pled, “Don’t leave!” He came back with the saluki. You stiffened. The dog secluded itself in the tight space, hiding its tail between its legs. He no longer annoyed you. You got used to him being among you.
The floor below the staircase was furnished with mattresses and pillows. Cans of food and bottles of water surrounded you. You all slept packed like sardines. The radio continued to broadcast the news; none of you believed the reportage, yet didn’t dismiss it altogether. You filtered what you heard, only taking in what you hoped was the truth. The power was cut. We didn’t know if it was just our street, or if it extended to the rest of Surra, or if the whole country had been plunged into darkness. If we went by the news, the electricity and water plants had been blown up. It was said that the Iraqi army had decided to retreat. It was said that they had set fire to oil wells, blowing up tons of TNT exacting their revenge, or to camouflage their withdrawal from the prying eyes of the coalition planes above.
None of you caught more than a few minutes of sleep between the boom of one blast and the next. You were all under the stairwell: Mama Zaynab, Fadhila, Hawraa, Aisha, Tina, Fawzia, you, your two friends, and the dog. Fawzia woke up everyone at sunrise a few days before the liberation. The rumbling of the planes and the blasts of the explosions had stopped. The war, it seemed, was catching its breath. “Do you hear what I hear?”
You grabbed her palm, reassuring her. “It’s just the growl of the generator in the courtyard.”
She shook her head. “No.” She placed her index finger in front of her lips and ordered, “Listen!” You all listened.
You went out to the courtyard, looking up at the sky, still drowsy. Utter astonishment left you speechless, each of you looking at the other. Dozens of seagulls, wings spread out, hovered in the sky. The din of their squawking overpowered the growl of the generator. Some of them landed on the courtyard wall, their fatigue apparent. None of you could find a reason for their presence, what with the coast being miles away from Surra. Sadiq bent down to grasp the feet of one of the birds and lifted it up. He held it upside down and examined it. On its feathers were black oil stains. “Dead,” he remarked.
“Look over there!” Fahd called out as soon as he opened the courtyard door. You piled up at the door to get a look. Some of the neighbors were outside. Some were peering out of their windows. Hundreds of seagulls and coastal dunlins jostled with the cats, flies, and mice, competing with them as they foraged in the mountain of garbage on the dusty plot of land adjacent to Abu Sami’s house.
“What’s there?” Fawzia asked. You were her eyes. You described to her all that you saw, leaving the shrieks of the seagulls to complete the picture. The scene consumed all of you for several minutes before it transformed. But then, as the sun continued to rise, the sky suddenly turned black. The seagulls fell silent. Night fell when it shouldn’t have.
Mama Zaynab started muttering, chanting, “There is no God but God, and Muhammad is His Prophet.” Our world plunged into darkness. She raised her voice, urging everyone: “Profess your faith . . . profess your faith . . . Now’s the time!”
Fawzia gripped your arm and asked, “What’s happening?” You didn’t have an explanation for her; in fact, you and everyone else were like her, hands outstretched in front of you, groping your way around in the inexplicable darkness. As if it were a bad dream. Fadhila grabbed Mama Zaynab, pushing her back inside.
She feels her way around. She leans on the wall. The old lady trembles. Hysteria overcomes her. “It’s the end of time! It’s here!” she proclaims. Fadhila quiets her down. You want to ask her about the signs that would signify the coming of Judgment Day. How would it be before . . . ?
You calm her down instead. “Bibi Zaynab . . . don’t be scared.” But you are just as scared as your cousin Dhari would be in a dark room. Thick black smoke blocks your view. You tell Fawzia about it.
Mama Zaynab screams as if she has just remembered her son. “Abbas! Abbas!” Fawzia lets go of your arm.
You start yelling like a panicked father looking for his lost daughter. “Fawzia!” No response.
The annex overlooking the courtyard lights up. Light shines out of the kitchen’s two windows, the diwaniya, and the open door to the bathroom.
“Hey, is the light back on?” inquires Fawzia’s voice from within.
THE SECOND MOUSE: BLAZE THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE
THE NOVEL
Chapter 15
Seven months dragged on for an eternity. The word rumor that you’d all gotten used to in the days past was no longer uttered on February 26, 1991, the day on which it was declared, “Kuwait is free!” We poured out onto the street in front of your houses, despite the severely polluted air and the flickering between darkness and light a dozen times in one day alone, attributed to the smoke from the blazing oil wells. Neighbors carried flags and pictures of your emir and the crown prince that the flames hadn’t lapped up when it had been a crime to keep them. You didn’t go far. You were on the doorstep, clasping Fawzia’s arm, describing what was happening. Flags. Photos. The neighborhood kids and teenagers singing. Clapping. The neighbors, some of them grabbing one another in what seemed an improvised traditional dance. The women’s shrill, trilling cries of joy floating out of windows and merging with the voices of the seagulls up above. Fahd, despite the smallness of his body, carried Sadiq on his shoulders in a cartoonlike manner. Sadiq raised his fists up high and waved them. The honking of the cars got louder, the incessant tooting melding into improvised street song.
“My country Kuwait is free, its glory restored.” “Beep, beep!” The national anthem continues to blare: “May you, Kuwait, always have good fortune, may good fortune always grace your head.” You aren’t the only joyful ones. The Egyptian workers—Jaber is among them—draped in their loose Upper Egyptian clothes, partake in your shared joy, exclaiming, “Saddam’s got to hit the road!”
Fawzia smiles, crying, and excitedly claps along with the images that the voices conjure up in her imagination. Everyone’s bodies shudder with the passing of the armored vehicles on your street, each one carrying a flag of the coalition countries. Fawzia listens to you as you call out, “America . . . Britain . . . France . . . Egypt.
“Sadiq is picking up the Saudi Arabian flag tossed to him by one of the soldiers. He’s holding it up high. One of the neighbors is waving a giant American flag on top of his roof . . . The kids are holding up flags of the Gulf countries and other Arab and foreign nations . . . The soldiers are handing out fruit, sweets, and cookies.”
Fawzia nods her head, absorbing your running commentary. She doesn’t hide the tears falling from her static eyes. Fahd gets close to one of the armored vehicles, raising his shoulders to bring Sadiq closer to the American soldier atop it. Sadiq cups his palms around his mouth like a trumpet, and shouts, “My dad and his dad are in Iraq . . . Help them, please!” The soldier smiles back and hands him some bananas.
Abbas and Saleh didn’t need the help of the American soldiers to be freed. God predestined their return, though it wasn’t meant to be for the other hundreds of prisoners. Abbas’s and Saleh’s captivity in the Basra prison camps worked in their favor the day the uprising in southern Iraq broke out. Chaos spread within Iraq after the war and the retreat of the Iraqi army from Kuwait. Soldiers, who had been beaten down by war after war, rebelled against their leader. On his return, Saleh told you that the revolt had not been limited to the soldiers alone, according to what he had heard and experienced there. Families had come out onto the main roads of the Al Najaf governorate, making their way toward Imam ‘Ali’s shrine. Loud calls from megaphones urged the Iraqi people to rise up against the regime. The prisons were opened. Detainees and criminals went scot-free. The two neighbors were among the Kuwaiti prisoners who used this to flee to Kuwait on foot, just before aircraft dropping bombs quashed the revolts, making a mockery of the air embargo that America had imposed on Iraq.
Fahd jumped up and clung to his father as soon as he entered, head shaven,
reed-thin body, tanned face, his chin jutting out. “Dad!” he yelped, alerting everyone. You heard the ecstatic zaghareed from Mama Zaynab’s house at the same moment.
Aisha, whose feelings of loss for Saleh had been multiplied by the liberation, burst into tears over anything and everything. She cried for joy when the occupying forces withdrew. For the return of the long-lost prisoner. She cried, retroactively, out of sadness over losing Mama Hissa. Aisha came out of her bedroom in her pajamas, hair disheveled. Scarcely believing her eyes, she rushed to her husband. She broke up Saleh and Fahd’s embrace. She was rooted to the spot before him, her lips twitching. He opened up his arms to her, smiling, fighting back his tears. She shoved him, beating his chest.
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