The Bamboo Stalk (37 page)

*   *   *

Rashid, Josephine, where did you stand on the mess I was in? Did you have the right to bring me into the world and then abandon me like this? If you had the right, you certainly didn't live up to your responsibilities.
We come into life involuntarily. We arrive either by chance, unplanned by our fathers and mothers, or because they planned us and decided when we should arrive. If we are conjured out of nothingness, if we really exist before our souls are breathed into our foetuses in the womb, then prospective parents should line up in front of us, for us to choose our fathers and mothers from among them. If we can't find anyone who deserves to have us as their
child, then we should revert to nothingness.

When I shared these thoughts with Abdullah in the
diwaniya
, he replied with a paraphrase of a Qur'anic verse that says that the soul is a secret known only to God, because we humans have only a little knowledge. When he'd finishing explaining the verse, he added, ‘But who knows? Maybe we did in fact choose our parents before our memories were allowed to start another life in new bodies.'

‘Do you believe in Buddhism?' I asked immediately.

He shuddered defensively. ‘I'm a Muslim,' he said.

‘But you're talking about something that's similar to reincarnation,' I explained.

‘“
They will ask you about the soul. Say: The soul is by command of my Lord, and of knowledge you have been granted but little
,”' he said, reciting the Qur'anic verse in question as if atoning for a thought crime he had committed.

Ibrahim Salam had a different opinion. He was upset that the idea had even been brought up. His answer was another Qur'anic verse: ‘“
Every soul will taste of death. Then unto Us you will be returned
.'” With that he closed the subject.

*   *   *

The crazies knew all about me. ‘You're not to blame, Isa, for everything that happened,' Turki said. His words were a consolation, but he quickly added, ‘And your grandmother and aunts aren't to blame either.'

‘But they're rich,' I retorted. ‘They have everything. What harm does it do them if I'm around?'

With a smile like Ghassan's, he replied, ‘There's a popular saying in Kuwait: a good reputation is worth more than
wealth.'

 

15

I had three options: to hate myself for what I had brought upon my family, to hate my family for what they had done to me or to hate both them and myself because I was one of them.

My door bell rang and then kept ringing until I opened the door. A shark with its jaws ready to strike, accompanied by a pitiful dolphin, broke into my flat, dragging behind them a net, a
tarouf
, from which they hadn't been able to break free. I, the little fish, tried to escape by slipping through the mesh of the net.

‘Nouriya?' I said in surprise. I was stepping backwards for fear she would grab the collar of my shirt, as she had done the first time. On that occasion she had been at pains to control herself in case anyone in Grandmother's house noticed. But in my flat, in the tank of the little fish, as Khawla had called me, there was no escape from the shark.

Awatif looked more conciliatory and I hoped she might do something but she didn't. I pointed towards the sitting room and said, ‘Please come in.'

They didn't budge. Everything in Nouriya's face signalled contempt for me: her raised eyebrows, her thin upturned nose, her poisonous tongue.

‘Listen,' she said. ‘I'm not Hind. I'm not Khawla. You're to leave Kuwait immediately. Understood?'

Her arrogance outraged me. I don't know how I dared but I
blew up in her face. ‘I left the Taroufs' house long ago. You have no authority over me,' I said.

Her eyes opened wide as if she'd been slapped on the face. ‘You're to leave Kuwait immediately,' she shouted.

‘Kuwait isn't the Tarouf household,' I said.

Her eyes opened so wide it was frightening. She turned to Awatif in disbelief at my quick retort. ‘Are you defying me?' she asked.

‘I'm not defying anyone.'

‘My mother has decided to cut off your monthly allowance. Hind is going to stop helping you. Don't you understand?'

‘I have a job and a fair amount of money, enough to live for the rest of my life here.'

I looked down defiantly. ‘In Kuwait,' I added.

Her lips trembled. She looked back and forth between me and Awatif in amazement. I don't blame her. When a little mouse roars, it has more impact than when a lion roars. Her eyes glistened with tears. A flood of tears, streaked with kohl, rolled down her cheeks. She looked awful. Between sobs, she said something to Awatif, then turned to me. ‘I'll pay you whatever you want,' she said.

‘I don't want anything,' I snapped back.

She exchanged glances with her sister but I couldn't work out what it meant. ‘May we come in?' asked Awatif.

I waved them into the sitting room.

They sat next to each other opposite me. Nouriya sought Awatif's help after her own approach had failed to persuade me to leave. Awatif spoke in something resembling English, helped by her sister. ‘Do you pray?' she asked.

‘Yes,' I replied tentatively.

She smiled approvingly and said, ‘That's good. I was confident
you were a sincere believer.' I looked from one to the other, trying to work out where this was leading. ‘Be a strong believer. Accept your fate. Be content with what God has decreed for you,' she continued.

‘God?' I asked.

She nodded with a calm smile. From the confidence on Nouriya's face I knew how confused I must look. ‘Almighty God didn't create you to be here,' she said, as calm as ever.

I must have looked like a wax sculpture, expressionless and immobile except for my eyes, which looked from one to the other in scorn. My god, they were trying to corner me into doing what suited them.

‘The right place for you is there, in the Philippines.'

I stood up. They looked up at me as I made a move to leave the sitting room.

‘Where are you going?' Nouriya asked.

‘Just a minute,' I said. I came back carrying my briefcase of photographs and documents. I sat down opposite them. I took out my blue passport and my black certificate of nationality from the briefcase. I waved them in the air. ‘I'm Kuwaiti,' I said.

With irritating composure they shook their heads. Nouriya looked right through me and said, ‘You're illegitimate.'

An electric shock ran up my spine like lightning, all the way to my head.

‘You are a believer,' Awatif said.

I put my hand in the briefcase and pulled out a picture of my father. My arm shaking with anger, I waved it in front of them. ‘I'm the son of this man,' I said.

Their confidence threw me off balance. Nouriya was trying to disarm me with her look. Awatif shook her head and smiled sadly.

‘I'm Isa Rashid al-Tarouf,' I said.

‘Rashid isn't your father,' Awatif said with the same smile. ‘You've no right to claim him as your father or use his name.' Her self-confidence seemed to be slipping. ‘You're a believer,' she added, reminding me. ‘Illegitimate children take their mother's name.'

Nouriya cut in. ‘Yes, on that basis, you're Isa Josephine.'

What a lot of names I have! It's time to settle on just one of them. I put my hand in my briefcase looking for the papers. My right hand took hold of a folded piece of paper. I opened it out. I knew it from the signatures of Walid and Ghassan.

Nouriya took the initiative. ‘I expect you're going to show me the marriage certificate of Rashid and Josephine. Don't bother. Even if you are Rashid's son under Kuwaiti law, you're not his son by Islamic law,' she said.

Awatif joined in. ‘You are a believer,' she said.

I ignored her remark and looked defiantly into Nouriya's eyes. I let her finish off what she wanted to say. ‘I think you know that your mother,' she stopped and rephrased it, ‘that our maid Josephine was pregnant with you before this piece of paper was written, that is before the marriage.' I let her continue as I looked through the papers. ‘Listen, Josephine's son, you don't have the right to use our name. You don't have any inheritance rights. Under Islamic law that wouldn't be allowed. And yet you insist on staying. Don't you have any dignity?' Nouriya said.

‘Or faith?' added Awatif.

I found the document I wanted. The marriage certificate was still in my right hand. ‘You're right, Aunt Nouriya,' I said. I emphasised the word ‘aunt' to stress the relationship that existed whether she liked it or not. ‘My mother did get pregnant several months before this document was written,' I said, waving the
marriage certificate signed by Walid and Ghassan. ‘But a few hours after
this
document was written,' I added, waving another piece of paper in my left hand.

They looked at each other sceptically. With a confidence that she was trying her hardest to sustain, Nouriya said, ‘What is that document?'

‘This is a certificate of what they call common-law marriage,' I said, with the same composed smile as Awatif.

Nouriya exploded. She threatened, she menaced, she cursed, she snarled, she issued warnings in Arabic, in English and with hand gestures. Awatif took refuge in silence with a face that fluctuated between shock and sadness.

Nouriya left my flat a defeated shark. Awatif covered her head with her black abaya. At the front door, before I closed it, she turned to me in tears. ‘Oh God,' she said. ‘Oh God, I'm sorry.' She wiped her face with part of her abaya and said, ‘You are Kuwaiti. You're my nephew, Rashid's son.'

From the open lift Nouriya called her impatiently: ‘Awatif!'

‘Forgive me. God forgive me,' Awatif added, before joining her sister.

I faked a smile and said, ‘You are a believer' and closed the door.

 

16

I didn't tell Jabir what trouble he had caused me by telling his mother about me. I was angry with him but I suppressed my anger and didn't tell him anything. I wasn't so crazy as to lose one of the crazies.

One evening Jabir and I were in the
diwaniya
while the others were out at an election meeting for Hind al-Tarouf, my aunt. The crazies were keen she should win, except for Abdullah, who didn't want a woman to represent him in parliament. ‘Doesn't Kuwait have any men left?' was his view. He didn't say that in front of me but Jabir told me about his attitude. ‘Abdullah thinks women can serve society in positions other than in parliament,' he said.

Jabir, who knew my aunt closely, spoke to me about her, her election programme, her vision for the future of Kuwait and her reputation for always standing on the side of human rights. ‘Do you expect her to win?' I asked.

He pursed his lips and said, ‘It's not that easy. Women have only had political rights for three years. It's still something new. She may win in the years to come.' His mobile phone beeped to say a text message had arrived. He picked up his phone and read it. ‘It's Turki saying
You missed quite a scene. Massive turnout for the Tarouf meeting
.' He picked up his car keys. ‘Come on then, up you get,' he said. I shook my head. He grabbed my arm. ‘Don't be a coward. We'll stay in the car, man,' he said.

*   *   *

Hind's election headquarters was in Qortuba, close to the front of the religious institute on Damascus Street, not far from the relay tower on my favourite spot. I couldn't see inside the building. There were lots of cars in the car park of the religious institute, and other cars parked on or parallel to the pavement. My aunt's voice was coming out of loudspeakers set up in various places. She was speaking in the same tone as when I heard her in television discussions. Turki, Mishaal and Mahdi were standing at the main entrance to the hall, giving out leaflets to people as they arrived. The children of Awatif and Nouriya were also at the door with badges hanging from their necks. All I could make out on the badge was a large number 3. ‘That's the number of the constituency,' said Jabir.

Among the crowd outside I caught sight of Khawla wearing the same badge. I took out my mobile and called her. ‘Hello, what are you doing outside? Go into the hall,' I said. I could see her from my place in the car.

She looked around in the crowd. ‘Where are you, you crazy? Aunt Nouriya is here!' she said.

I put my arm out of the car window and waved to her. ‘I'm here,' I said. She was still looking around. ‘Here, here, turn towards the street, to the right, to the right,' I said. Jabir helped me by honking his horn three times. ‘Beep, beep, beeeeep.'

Khawla waved her hand and ran towards the car with that smile that I loved. ‘
As-salam aleekum
, How are you, Isa?' She bent down to look through the car window and looked at Jabir behind the wheel. She gave an even bigger smile. ‘How are you, Jabir?' she asked. The tent behind her broke into applause. I had goosebumps and my heart began to pound. Involuntarily Khawla began to clap too.

‘How are things going?' I asked her. She laced her fingers together over her chest and said, ‘If only Father were here, Isa, in
the audience. He always called for women to be included in social development. I wish he could see his sister today.' She stopped and bent down lower till her head was almost coming through the car window. She looked back and forth between me and Jabir with one eyebrow raised. ‘Our neighbour, a childhood friend, and my brother, both in the same car! How fate . . .'

‘Kuwait's a small place,' I broke in, putting out my hand and making the same gesture as Mishaal – as if holding an invisible ball.

*   *   *

Jabir and I went back to the
diwaniya
and found Abdullah waiting for us there. Turki, Mishaal and Mahdi soon came back too, after the election meeting was over, looking glum. They spoke to Jabir in Arabic and Jabir's face soon changed too.