Saud Alsanousi - The Bamboo Stalk

I called Khawla to share my happiness at meeting Mishaal, after the disappointing response I’d had from Ibrahim. ‘ As-salam aleekum, shloonik ?’ I said.

‘ Ana zein, inta shloonak ?’ she replied with a laugh.

‘I’m fine’ I said.

‘Isa!’ she said. ‘Grandmother was just asking about you,’

‘I guess her knees must be hurting,’ I answered mischievously. I regretted my horrible joke.

‘Or perhaps she misses Rashid’s voice,’ she said earnestly.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,’ I cut in.

‘Never mind, but don’t be too hard on Grandmother. She loves you, Isa,’ Khawla said. My heart raced. ‘Would you believe it?’ Khawla continued, ‘I wish we belonged to some other family.’

Khawla sounded upset, and unusually sad. She immediately took the conversation in a different direction, nothing to do with why I had called. She wanted to talk about the family name and she came out with things I didn’t understand. ‘All the advantages the family name brings to family members are in fact no more than restrictions and a long list of taboos,’ she said.

Puzzled, I asked, ‘And what does this have to do with now?’

‘Because you still have something against Grandmother, but she’s not that bad,’ she said. I didn’t deny the charge. I just said nothing. ‘People envy us for no reason,’ Khawla continued. ‘In fact they’re freer than us.’ I was still puzzled. ‘Do you mind if I share my thoughts with you this evening?’ she said after a pause.

I had planned to share my excitement at meeting Mishaal but it doesn’t make any difference whether you share your happiness or your sadness with someone else. What matters is the sharing. ‘Yes, yes, with great pleasure,’ I said.

‘If we belonged to one of those families we like to describe as. .’ She hesitated. Perhaps she was about to describe them as lower-class but she checked herself. ‘Ordinary families,’ she said, ‘then Hind would have been Ghassan’s wife long ago and no one would dare speak badly about us or make fun of our family name. The Taroufs marry their daughter to a bidoon man! Even if that bidoon man is descended from the same tribe as the Tarouf family! If only we belonged to some other family, an ordinary family. Then you would be living with us now, instead of Grandmother trembling all over whenever someone visits the house, in case they find out about you. Isa, I know how badly you’ve been treated but there are things you have to understand. Grandmother and the aunts don’t bear full responsibility. The people around us are full of envy. They’re trying to catch us out, waiting impatiently for any opportunity to do us down. We’re constantly being monitored. Some people may think a man can marry a Filipina woman, but if the man comes from a family of high social status, then it would be a crime condemned even by those who come from. .’ She hesitated again, but this time she spelt it out: ‘humble origins.’ She continued to air her frustrations. ‘Dozens of young Kuwaitis die from drugs and no one cares, but it’s a big deal and a great shame if it happens to someone of good family. He may rest in peace but his family inherits the shame when he’s gone. If some businessman goes bankrupt all his problems come to an end as soon as he’s declared bankrupt, but if someone from an old family goes bankrupt, then they’ll never hear the end of it. People’s tongues will lash him like whips for the rest of his life, and his descendants after him. If someone succeeds at work and makes a fortune then he’s a self-made man, but if Faisal al-Adil, Nouriya’s husband, succeeds, then he’s a thief. Hello, hello, Isa, can you hear me?’

She rambled on. To be the victim of a tyrant is normal, but to be the victim of another victim! My sister tried to explain. And did I understand? Even if I did understand, was I convinced? And even if I was convinced, what did it matter?

‘Yes, carry on, Khawla. I can hear you.’

She continued: ‘You know you’re from the Tarouf family, but do you know what the word tarouf means? I don’t expect you to answer this question because it’s a purely Kuwaiti word and many people here hardly know what it means. A tarouf is a net that Kuwaitis use for fishing. It’s set up in the sea like a volleyball net and big fish get caught in it as they pass by. And we, the members of the family, get caught in this tarouf , caught in our family name, and we can’t escape it. We can move only as much as the net allows. But you’re a small fish, Isa, the only one, and you can slip through the mesh of the tarouf without getting caught. Isa! You’re lucky! You’re free. Do what you want.’ At last Khawla was done with her speech.

Ignoring everything she had said, I replied, ‘So I’m a small fish, a rotten one that spoils the rest of the fish, as Grandmother says.’

‘You’re not like that, Isa, you’re not like that,’ Khawla said gently.

I gave a long sigh, then said, ‘I wish I were beside you in Father’s study, listening to you. I miss you, Khawla.’ Should I tell her I saw her smile through the telephone? ‘Soon I’ll invite you to a special session in the study, but after we’ve dealt with the question of Aunt Hind,’ she replied.

‘The question of Aunt Hind?’ I asked.

‘I’ll tell you later. It’s something excellent for the family in general, and especially for Hind,’ she said.

Without thinking I found myself making that ‘colololooosh’ sound. ‘So Hind’s going to get married?’

Khawla burst out laughing. I pressed the question. She put down the phone or moved it away from her ear. Her laugh sounded distant. Sometimes she was laughing and sometimes coughing. I waited for her to end her laughing fit. ‘You made me laugh, you crazy,’ she said when she came back. ‘No, no, she’s not getting married. I’ll tell you later. Good night.’

‘Good night. Sweet dreams.’

I was about to hang up but she called me back: ‘Isa!’

‘Yes.’

‘I love you a lot.’

I smiled. I didn’t add to what she’d said. Words are too limiting for some feelings, which prefer silence.

‘Goodbye,’ Khawla concluded.

I held the phone in both hands, tapped out a message with my thumbs: And I love you more , and sent it to her.

I leaned my head back and remembered why I had called Khawla in the first place. I had forgotten to tell her that I’d met Mishaal and that he would soon arrange for me to meet the other Kuwaitis from Boracay.

I knelt on the ground and bent down to look under the sofa. Nothing. The other sofa. Nothing. Under the television table. There she was! I picked up Inang Choleng. ‘Guess who I saw today at the lift door!’ I said. As usual, she was listening with interest. ‘Mishaal,’ I said. ‘After two years. By chance. Young guys. Boracay. Crazy guys. We’ll get together again. My friends. Kuwaitis. Kuwaitis. Kuwaitis.’

11

A few days after meeting Mishaal, I finally went to a diwaniya , one of those places my mother had told me so much about. There’s hardly a house in Kuwaiti that doesn’t have one — an outer room where friends meet. The image that the name evokes is the one my mother planted in my imagination when I was young. It was where my father, Walid and Ghassan got their fishing tackle ready, where they discussed books or important political events, where they gathered round the television to watch big matches. I wasn’t planning to do any of that. Just going into a diwaniya was enough for me.

A little after sunset my telephone rang and it was Mishaal at the other end. ‘Are you ready?’ he said. ‘I’ll meet you in five minutes in the car park under the building.’ What could he mean by ‘ready’? I’d been ready for a day like this for years, ever since my mother had talked about my father and his friends when I was on Mendoza’s land, when I wanted to have friends like my father’s friends.