Saud Alsanousi - The Bamboo Stalk

‘We have lots,’ I said. ‘The Ifugao, for example, have been famous for growing rice since ancient times.’

I went to the laptop to look for some pictures of them, half-naked on the terraced rice fields or in their traditional costume on special occasions. I turned the screen towards her. She nodded with interest at the pictures, still standing in the doorway. I was proud when I talked about people in the Philippines, and I wished I could have talked about people in Kuwait with the same enthusiasm. But that would only happen if I became one of them, and they refused to let me become one of them. And if I did manage to become one of them, where would they place me in their complicated social hierarchy? If they put me on the bottom level, would I talk about them so enthusiastically? Again, when times are hard, I wish I had Adrian’s brain.

Khawla was still looking at the pictures I was showing her. ‘Our tribes are known for growing rice,’ I said. ‘What are the tribes here famous for?’

‘For eating rice,’ she said without thinking.

She laughed out loud as soon she spoke the words, delighted with her own comment as though she was laughing at a joke.

‘You seem to think they’re ridiculous,’ I said.

‘And they think we are too,’ she replied.

I don’t claim that such things don’t exist in the Philippines, but people there are busy with more important things. Some people may look on others with contempt but it happens on a limited scale, and it’s not as important as Khawla suggested it is in Kuwait. In Kuwait, my sister explained, some people boast that their ancestors built a wall around the old city, although all that’s left of the wall is two gates, and others boast about events that took place many years ago around a red fort somewhere in Kuwait. Both groups claim they love their country, Khawla said, and both deny the existence of the other group. It was like watching a match between two teams. Large crowds of supporters, with me in the middle of them, on neither side.

I remembered the Philippines and wondered whether, if life there was as easy as it was in Kuwait, people would have time to make these social distinctions. Perhaps poverty brings advantages we aren’t aware of.

There was something complicated in Kuwait that I didn’t understand. All the social classes looked for a lower class on whose back they could ride, even if they had to create one. Then they would climb on to the shoulders of those in the class below, humiliate them and use them to ease the pressure from the class above.

I looked for my place among these classes. I looked down at my feet and saw nothing but the ground. The pressure on my shoulders put me in my place in my father’s country.

My tortoise was walking slowly somewhere nearby. I had a crazy idea, but I was worried I might break her shell if I tried to carry it out.

20

Merla seemed to be going through a rough patch. The tough, stubborn, carefree Merla of old was hardly recognisable now. My cousin’s emails suggested she was having psychological problems. The messages were troubling, full of gibberish I couldn’t understand. In one of my emails I asked her to turn her webcam on so that we could chat. I want to see you , I wrote. She refused. I begged her. I insisted. A week went by, more or less. Then she sent a message saying, I want to see you .

About one year after leaving the Philippines, I saw a Merla who didn’t look like Merla. There she was on the screen. The surroundings suggested she was in an Internet café. The picture was clear at first but gradually faded. We tried again. We turned off the camera and restarted it whenever the picture faded. Even when the picture was clear and crisp, Merla’s face looked pale. There were dark rings around her eyes. Her lips were almost the same colour as her pale skin. But despite all that, she was still attractive. ‘Hello, hello, can you hear me?’ I said.

She nodded. Then she used the keyboard and wrote, This place . . She looked around her, and continued: as you can see, is very crowded. I will use the keyboard instead of the microphone .

She got busy writing but it took much longer than it should have. Minutes passed, with the promise of plenty of words. She shook her head irritably. She stopped a while, then resumed writing. My heart raced as I waited for her words. Time passed. Three, four, even five minutes. Her eyes sparkled and her fingertips worked away on the keyboard. She looked up at the screen. Meanwhile I was impatient to write my news. She sent her words, then covered her face with her hands and cried. I read what she had written: I feel useless . I brought the microphone close to my mouth and whispered, ‘That’s not what you spent five minutes writing, Merla.’ Merla turned off the camera and vanished.

The same evening I received an email from her, nothing like the previous nonsense.

José,

I hesitated a long time before sending you this message. I don’t know why you in particular. You’re the only man I don’t feel hostile towards. Maybe we’re similar to a large extent. We’re both looking for something. You seem to have found it, or you’re about to. But me, not yet, and I don’t think I will find it. In twenty-two years I still haven’t found myself. I’m still looking. There are things I have overcome and things that have overcome me and there are things I am still struggling with. When I had MM tattooed on my arm a few years back, I was deceiving myself. Everyone, including you, interpreted it as a combination of my initial and Maria’s, and no one but me knew that I was really asserting a connection to a grandfather who hated me — Merla Mendoza.

People aren’t interested in my story, and the fact that I’m illegitimate doesn’t detract from my worth because my beauty is the only thing that people look at and it distracts them from everything else. But in my beauty all I see is a sign that marks me out from those around me and reminds me of my mother’s past and the fact that my father was some despicable European bastard. I find myself compensating for my own inadequacy by loving the Philippines and everything that is Filipino, as if with this love I can erase the traces left on my face by my European father. I love the things that represent the Philippines, its heritage and culture. On the other hand I’ve developed a hatred for Europe and Europeans, the ones who occupied our country years ago. Although they have gone, they have left things that bear witness to the fact that they passed this way. The country still has the name they gave it, after their King Philip II, and not many years ago a European man took possession of Aida’s body. He disappeared but he left proof that he passed this way — me.

I have adopted Rizalism. It looks interesting, if only because it is a purely Filipino religion, unlike Christianity, which the colonialists imposed on us. Although José Rizal did not preach this religion, and although it only appeared in the early 20 thcentury, after he was executed, it’s the religion that best deserves to be adopted.

Did you know that I’ve got over everything except the things inside me that I’m not aware of? My need for a man to reject is suffocating me. I want one and I don’t want one. I arouse them. I amuse myself by making them submit. I thrive on their thirst. I put the glass close to their lips. They kiss it and feel it with their fingertips but I don’t let a single drop of water wet their lips. It gives me pure pleasure when they bow down to kiss my feet. When they bow down, I see them as just pathetic chickens looking for worms between my toes. I examine them closely, and feel a deep sense of satisfaction. Although I need more, I make do with that. I get dressed. I turn my back on them and take pleasure in their pleas, without letting them get anything out of me.