The Bamboo Stalk (31 page)

The young woman turned to me and said, ‘But it doesn't look as if you have anything to offer.' She gave a vulgar laugh. ‘I have an old mother and three younger brothers. I've sacrificed everything for their sake,' she added.

The woman had experience. This wasn't her first time. She said she didn't usually stay in jail long. If the policeman in charge on the morning shift was incorruptible, his colleague on the late shift probably wouldn't be. If the first day went by without someone trying to seduce her in exchange for setting her free, then that certainly wouldn't continue through the second day.
‘I've often paid for my residence permit by illegal means. Sometimes it happens in an empty room at the police station, or in their car or in an apartment where things like that take place,' she said. ‘Do you know how many policemen I have on the contacts list in my phone?' she concluded defiantly.

Our mobile phones were confiscated. Before anyone questioned us, we were moved from the van straight to a foul holding cell. I thought to myself it would have been much better if I'd run into a fake policeman like the one who had taken ten dinars from my wallet a year earlier. That way losing the money would have been the end of it, rather than meeting a real policeman and ending up detained in the police station.

I spent two nights behind bars in the cell, at least by my watch. But it felt like many nights more. It was a small room, as dirty as the ten inmates. The smell of the place and of the people was unbearable. The dry January cold numbed my fingers and toes and went right to the bone. People looked calm. Except for me, they all knew what was in store for them. I didn't know how long I would be held there. We could hear women's voices nearby and I later found out that the cell for women was at the end of the corridor. The older Filipina woman had been crying since we were in the van but now it was louder. She kept complaining, sometimes in English and sometimes in Arabic, in the hope that someone would understand and give her a chance to get out. ‘They'll die of hunger if I'm deported. I beg you, I beg you,' she said. My fellow prisoners fell asleep one after another. The woman's wailing grew even louder. From behind the bars I saw a policeman with a black stick hurrying towards the women's cell.

I cowered where I sat, imagining what might be in store for the woman. ‘
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar
,' I murmured. ‘Don't let him do her any harm.' The policeman shouted something
unintelligible. My heart raced. The woman shouted back. I pulled my knees up against my chest and mumbled, ‘Please don't provoke him.' They shouted louder. ‘Please don't hurt her,' I said to myself. A loud crack interrupted their conversation. The prisoners woke up around me. The policeman was hitting the bars of the cell with his stick. Then the place fell silent. The policeman went back where he came from and my pulse reverted to normal. The men went back to sleep, but I couldn't even close my eyelids. I gave a long sigh. ‘
Allahu akbar
, God is the mightiest, thank you,' I said.

At least once every ten minutes someone would wake up, call for the warder and ask to go to the bathroom. I don't know how the others managed to sleep, what with the cold, the loud snoring and the wailing of the Filipina woman in the cell nearby.

I had my knees pressed up against my chest and my back against the wall. The later it was at night, the more desperate I felt about the prospects of getting out of the place. When I sent the text message to Khawla, I never imagined I would have to stay long in detention, but nothing of what I had hoped came about. Had Khawla abandoned me?

Late at night, when everyone else was asleep, I heard the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor. Steady footsteps. I looked up at the metal bars and saw a policeman walking past our cell without looking aside and then continuing down the corridor. The sound of his footsteps stopped. I heard the jangling of keys and hushed whispers. Someone opened the metal door. The Filipina woman had apparently been sleeping but now she woke up. She resumed her crying and pleading. Someone closed the door. The sound of footsteps returned, coming closer. I was still looking through the bars. The men around me were
still snoring in their sleep, oblivious to the woman's crying. The policeman walked past in the other direction, his body erect, his face fixed firmly forward. This time the pretty Filipina girl walked confidently behind him. She looked towards the cell I was in. We made eye contact for a moment as she passed. She raised her eyebrows and gave me a smile that reminded me of what she had said in the van. They disappeared. I stayed awake till morning thinking about the girl. Somewhere she was making illicit payment for her residence permit before being released.

I wondered whether my aunt Hind, who was interested in human rights, knew what was happening here. Should I tell her what I had heard and seen? And most importantly, would she be able to do anything if I told her what was going on in the cells?

On the first day after the weekend my name was called. I stood to attention in front of the policeman, with the iron bars between us. He asked me for the keys to my flat. I gave them to him and he went off without saying a word. About an hour later I was taken to the room of the officer in charge before I could be released. I found Ghassan waiting for me there: he had brought my papers to the police station and he spoke to the officer, who was polite with us. He gave me my mobile phone back and apologised. ‘Don't forget your wallet next time,' he advised me.

I left with Ghassan. In his beloved Lancer on the way home, he said, ‘Khawla told me on the first day and I did everything I could.'

‘Thank you,' I said, interrupting him. He didn't say anything more. His silence irritated me on the way. I wanted him to talk, to defend himself against Grandmother's allegation that he was taking revenge on the Tarouf family through me. I wanted him to make excuses or show regret for what he had done if he couldn't justify
it. But he stayed silent, adding to my anger with him. I looked towards him when he was busy driving. I examined his face.
Damn you, Ghassan, your face isn't the real you
. Some of the sadness on his face touched me deep inside. I looked away, out of the window, to escape his sadness and my own uncertainty. Like Grandmother, I wondered what Ghassan wanted to gain by helping me this time.

 

6

In one of our webcam chats I asked my mother about Merla. ‘We haven't had news of her for some time,' she said. ‘When we asked Maria, she said she didn't know anything about her. Your aunt Aida is going almost crazy. Hasn't she been in touch with you?'

I said I hadn't logged into my email account for a while. I logged in straight away. I found it was full of adverts, along with one message from Merla that she had sent nine days earlier. She had left the subject line empty.

‘José! Can you see me?' Mother asked me, waving her hand at the camera.

I was busy with my email. ‘Yes, Mother, but I'm busy. Let's talk later,' I said. I turned the webcam off and went back to my email. I deleted the adverts and kept Merla's message without opening it straight away. Something told me the message contained unwelcome news. She had signed off her previous message with a quote from Rizal:
The victim must be pure and spotless if the sacrifice is to be acceptable.
What was this crazy woman referring to?

Just as she had ended her previous message with a Rizal quote, so she started her next message:

José,

‘Death has always been the first sign of European civilisation when introduced in the Pacific Ocean.' Do you remember that saying of José Rizal's? Anyway, I'm reminding you of it. You may
wonder what this has to do with my message. I don't know myself, but it's been on my mind for days. Is it a prediction that comes true for everyone who goes near Europeans? I'm not talking about death during the occupation, which is what Rizal meant, but another death. When that unknown European man invaded Aida's body, he left me like a seed in her womb and disappeared. A few days before I was born death showed up and snatched away my grandmother, who I've only seen in photographs. Ever since then death has lodged in our house without us noticing, disrupting our lives, even if our hearts have kept beating. Aida, who you love and call Mama, has been dead a long time, ever since the massacre of the cocks that we
–
you and I
–
heard about when we were growing up. I was born dead, in a living body. Aida nursed me on death from her breasts, which I hate because they were readily available to the hands and mouths of disgusting men, one of whom
–
I don't know which
–
was my father. The death that Aida nursed me on is now feeding on my feelings year after year. I grow up and my feelings die towards macho men and submissive women and whatever hatches from their eggs.

José, do you remember something I said years ago in Biak-no-Bato? You may not remember, but I remember. You told me that only cowards who can't face up to life try to commit suicide. Do you remember now?

I was annoyed when you unintentionally described me as a coward. I didn't want to be a coward. But today I feel differently. Yes, I'm a coward and I haven't been able to go on living complacently. In what you said to me in Biak-no-Bato, you told me half the truth and left out the other half. Those who try to commit suicide are either cowards who can't face up to life or brave people who are able to face up to death.

Do you think that European man gave me life by invading Aida's body? I won't let him change what Rizal said: ‘Death has
always been the first sign of European civilisation when introduced in the Pacific Ocean.'

MM

*   *   *

Some families in the Philippines with Chinese Buddhist roots hire people to mourn for their dead. These rites are usually performed in temples. The idea is that the mourning helps the soul move on to the other life and find acceptance there.

After reading Merla's letter, I needed to perform such a ritual. I needed to have loud weeping and wailing in my flat, simply because I was so shocked that I couldn't shed a tear. Was it the surprise? Or was it because I dismissed it in disbelief?
No, Merla isn't dead. Merla's still alive
, I said to myself.
One day we'll meet again. She's no longer Catholic and nor am I, and I'm the only man she doesn't feel hostile towards, she said. My old dream will now be easy to achieve
. I was sitting at the laptop ranting to myself, unable to believe that Merla . . .

*   *   *

With their compassion, women are more than human. All I needed was the embrace of a woman, a mother, a female friend or a sister. I called Khawla and said, ‘I want to see you.' She didn't object. In fact she was very pleased. I rode over to Qortuba on my bike. I didn't plan to tell her about Merla. I just wanted not to have to think about Merla's message. I could have spoken to my mother again on the webcam but I was worried about telling her about the message because, if I did, I would kill Mama Aida.

Because Merla stood for what I found most beautiful in the Philippines, I escaped the Philippines on my bike and went to Khawla, who represented for me the best aspect of Kuwait.

Khawla opened the door for me. I leaned my bike against the wall in the inner courtyard and looked around. There was no one. I wrapped my arms around Khawla and she laughed at what I was doing. I held her in my arms a long time. She tried to break free and said, ‘Isa, are you all right?'

I tightened my grip. ‘Yes, please stay as you are,' I said. I let go of her a few seconds later.

She looked right into my eyes. ‘What's the matter?' she said.

I shook my head. ‘Nothing,' I said. ‘I just missed you.' I would have burst into tears if I had told her about Merla's message.

‘Grandmother's upstairs,' she said. ‘Go and visit her as soon as she's finished her physiotherapy session.' She saw I was surprised, so she explained: ‘As soon as you left Grandmother hired a masseuse for her legs.'

I bowed my head. ‘I didn't leave because I wanted to. She was the one who wanted it,' I said.

Khawla pretended she hadn't heard my last remark. She took me by the hand and led me to Father's study. ‘This is the third masseuse to come and see Grandmother. After every session, she says, “She's not as good as Isa”,' she said. I pretended not to hear.

She had me sit in the chair at Father's desk and she sat down on the other side, with her elbows on the desk and her head on her hands, looking into my face. ‘So? How's Kuwait?' she said.

I smiled at her. ‘The search continues. I haven't found it yet,' I said.

‘I'm worried you might have found it without recognising it,' she answered sadly.

I was horrified by the idea that Kuwait was the Kuwait I had experienced every day since I arrived. ‘I'm ready to take the trouble to look for it, as long as there's more to it than what I've seen so far,' I said.

‘And how does it look to you so far?' she asked.

‘Lots of images, all different..'

She looked into my face and said, ‘Tell me about Kuwait, Isa.'

Kuwait, an old dream that would never come true for me, even when I went there and walked on its soil. Kuwait for me was a sham reality, or a real sham. I don't know, but Kuwait has many faces: my father, who I love, my family, towards whom I have contradictory feelings, my homesickness, which I hate, my sense of belonging, which I feel – as a Kuwaiti – whenever someone insults Kuwaitis. Kuwait is the fact that Kuwaitis have failed me by looking down at me. It's my room in the annex of the Taroufs' house. It's a lot of money but little love, not enough to build a real relationship. Kuwait is a luxurious flat in Jabriya full of emptiness. Kuwait is a dark cell where I spent two days through no fault of my own. And sometimes it's more beautiful – I see it as a big family whose members greet each other in the market, in the street or in the mosque. ‘
As-salam aleekum'
. . . ‘
Wa aleekum as-salam.'
Or I see it in the guise of a kind old man who lives in a large house opposite the building where I live. I often see him from my little balcony. He stands at his front door after dawn prayers every day surrounded by men in yellow uniforms carrying brooms and black plastic bags. He gives them money and food. Kuwait is Nouriya, who hates me and refuses to recognise me, and Awatif, to whom it's all the same whether I exist or not. Kuwait gives and doesn't give, just like Hind. Kuwait is a society that's like the Taroufs' house. However close you go, however long you stay in one of the rooms, you'll still be at a distance from the others who live there. Kuwait, Kuwait, I don't know what Kuwait is.