Saud Alsanousi - The Bamboo Stalk

On the first days there I felt sick, but as time passed and the process was repeated — the shouting, the apologising, the making special meals, I got used to the situation. ‘Bastards taking revenge on bastards,’ I said to myself in justification.

* * *

My work helped me get over my loneliness. I was in contact with Kuwaitis every day, even if it was limited to observing them from a distance. Although I was busy in the kitchen, I had a chance to observe the Kuwaiti customers, especially the young ones. They seemed friendly towards each other. They were always smiling, provided the smiles stayed within their own circle. Another thing about Kuwaitis in general caught my attention. Staring at other people seemed to be part of the culture of their society. People stared at each other in a strange way. They would look away into the distance if they made eye contact, then quickly go back to examining each other. I had thought that staring into someone’s face sent a message of some kind: a sign of admiration, or disapproval, or curiosity. But here it was none of that. I rarely came across someone who didn’t stare into people’s faces. I’m not claiming that I didn’t do it when I was in the Philippines, but I was discreet. Perhaps I inherited this habit in my genes and it found expression after I came back to Kuwait.

When I told Khawla I had noticed this habit, she smiled. ‘No one does this more than us, and no one is more critical of the habit either,’ she replied. People are not unaware that it’s wrong. They know, just as they know what’s right. But they have no scruples about practising their vices knowingly. ‘Do you realise why the women here use so much more make-up than women in other parts of the world?’ Khawla asked me one day. I looked to her for the answer. ‘It’s not that women in other places are more confident about their appearance. It’s just that no one stares at their faces and counts the number of spots they have, like many people here do,’ she said. ‘It’s not just staring at other people’s faces,’ she added with a laugh. ‘If people moved their ears when they were eavesdropping, then you’d see ears flapping like wings when it’s crowded.’ I laughed out loud at the idea.

I started staring insensitively into people’s faces when I noticed that everyone else was doing it. I was looking for something I didn’t know. But I gave up the habit after it led to an incident I’ll never forget. I saw a man in his mid or late forties who looked rather odd. His white headdress was tattered and his long hair showed underneath. He had a bushy moustache and dark yellow teeth. His beard wasn’t fully shaved and there were some grey hairs in it. Despite his strange appearance he was staring at the people around him. I was also staring at people. As soon as our eyes met he winked at me and gave me a knowing smile. I looked away and pretended to be busy working. I didn’t look towards the counter, where the customers were lined up to order. I didn’t foresee what would happen at the end of the day. When my shift ended I left work and there was the man waiting in his car in the small car park outside the restaurant. I pretended not to notice him. I walked towards my flat, as I did every day.

The car came up alongside me and the man rolled down the window. ‘Would you like a lift?’ he said.

I shook my head and said, ‘Thank you, sir, I live close by.’ I kept walking, without looking towards him. I was so frightened of the man that I walked along the main road instead of taking a short cut through the minor streets and lanes, which were quieter. The man drove off and I breathed a sigh of relief. Reassured, I walked on, but my peace of mind disappeared when I saw the man’s car at the turn at the end of the street. He was driving back along the street that ran parallel to the road I was on. He drove past me, going in the opposite direction. He looked back. My heart sank when I saw the car making another turn and coming back towards me. I gave up the idea of going back to my flat in case this suspicious character worked out where it was. He slowed down, leaving some distance between himself and me. I decided to go to Ibrahim’s place in the hope he might know how I could shake the man off. I called him on the phone but he was far away in some desert part of Kuwait with some Kuwaiti friends, organising a camp for new converts to Islam. When I hung up, my only concern was to get somewhere other than my own flat. The man was still lying in wait for me. My heart was racing. Why was the man following me? I didn’t look like one of those effeminate types, though many of my compatriots were. I thought of heading for Grandmother’s house in Qortuba. I’d have to cover quite a distance, from Jabriya to al-Surra across the flyover that connects the two areas and then on to Qortuba. I wasn’t going to risk going all that way when I wasn’t sure what was going on in the head of the man who was following me. I crossed the street by standing on the central reservation and waiting for a gap between the speeding cars so that I could cross to the other side where there were some houses. I turned towards the man’s car. It was speeding towards the turn again to reach the other road that I was about to cross. My heart was pounding. ‘ Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar , get him out of my way,’ I said. I crossed the road by running between the cars and headed towards Ghassan’s flat. Why Ghassan’s?

Because he was the first person in Kuwait who made me feel safe, maybe.

It took me about ten minutes of running and panting to reach his flat. Although I’d gone down some narrow lanes, the man was still following me. Sometimes he would disappear, only to reappear ahead of me in his car.

I reached the building. The man looked crazier than ever. He got out of the car. I hurried to the lift. He followed me in. I pressed the button for the fourth floor, where Ghassan lived. The man didn’t press any button. He put his arm on my shoulder. ‘ Shloonak , how are you?’ the man asked.

‘ Sein ,’ I replied.

The man burst out laughing and his breath smelled of alcohol. ‘It’s zein , not sein ,’ he said, correcting my Arabic.

‘ Zein ,’ I said, nodding my head. The lift door opened and I went out. The man followed me. Before ringing the doorbell I remembered that I had a key to the flat on my keyring. I looked back. ‘What do you want?’ I said.

‘To give you an Arabic lesson,’ he said with an evil smile.

I turned the key in the lock and swung the door open. Before I could close it, the man was pushing from the other side. With all the strength I could muster I managed to close it and lock it with the key. The man started pounding on the door with his fists. From the sitting room I heard the sound of Ghassan’s voice. ‘Who is it?’ he said, rushing into the little corridor. He had a cigarette in his hand and looked surprised. ‘Isa!’ he said. ‘Why are you wearing those clothes?’ he asked, before I had time to explain.

I pointed to the door, postponing any answer to his question. ‘There’s a madman following me,’ I said.

He patted me on the shoulder. ‘OK, OK, calm down,’ he said. He handed me his cigarette. ‘Hold this,’ he said. From the expression on his face, I had a better idea of what a sorry sight I must have been. He pulled the door wide open and faced up to the man. The man was taken aback. They had a conversation and voices were raised. The man laughed. Ghassan shouted at him and gave him a push. The man withdrew to the lift with his headdress on his shoulder and clutching his black head ring in his hand. Ghassan closed the door. He put out his hand, two fingers splayed like a pair of scissors. ‘My cigarette,’ he said. I gave him what was left of it. He took it between his fingers disapprovingly. Blowing smoke out of his nostrils, he looked at me and burst out laughing.