‘The Interpreter’ is the English version of Arabic novel ‘Al Tarjuman’, authored by Ashraf Aboul Yazid, an eminent writer and poet of Egypt

“Nationalities are nothing more than geographical or historical coincidences.”

Ashraf Aboul-Yazid

May God guide you Mother. Your voice, which once gave me a sense of security, is no longer the same. Today, your voice was a cocktail of turmoil, intermittent silence, and tears between the words.

Have you now realized that the idea of marrying this Egyptian man is nothing but a ridiculous story? Or have all your emotions shifted entirely toward him, and your calls to me are now nothing more than a duty?

I never knew my father except through photographs, yet he filled our lives for twenty years. He was with us in every small and large matter—not just through his legacy and pension, which ensured our comfortable life and allowed me to study in the United States. Even my scholarship was thanks to the priority given to the children of martyrs. And our travels around the world were a result of his generous hands that blessed us, even though we never saw him. Yet, here you are, deciding after all these years to place everything you have in the hands of this unknown Egyptian man.

I told you, Mother that this is a midlife crisis. I told you that it’s worth taking some time before throwing yourself into this disaster. Marrying this Egyptian will destroy the framework we’ve lived in and may bury the patience you’ve shown over these years—eschewing marriage, raising your only son, and preserving the memory of your absent husband.

During my last vacation, I revisited the papers you had kept, where you documented your days with my father, Badr. I told myself that someone who writes such things could never love anyone else.

Can passionate love die? Can profound feelings be forgotten?

But let’s leave that aside. Have you considered the reaction of the family? You, a descendant of the Al-Abdullah family, and my father, who was the pride of the Sultan family—as you’ve repeated to me a million times—how can my uncles and aunts accept what you’re about to do? And when I propose to marry, will the perception of families in our community remain the same as it has been for the past twenty years?

Two months ago, as my departure approached and you pressed me for my approval—which I know was a formality and would neither change nor prevent anything—I agreed. I want you to be happy, Mother, even though I don’t believe that marrying this Egyptian will bring you joy. On the contrary, I see it as opening the gates of hell—for both you and me.

Wasn’t what you’ve already done for him enough? You’ve showered him with your generosity and kindness. You secured for him a job he never dreamed of. As you told me, he enrolled his daughter in the British School and applied for her to attend a Canadian university. In other words, he’s achieved equality. What more does he want?

Aunt Badour told me about the family crisis ten years ago involving that Lebanese poet. You swore to me when I confronted you that nothing had happened between you and him to tarnish the family’s reputation and that Aunt Badour disliked you because she believed you were a bad omen for her only brother. Later, it seems you changed strategies, hosting salons in Cairo, away from Aunt Badour’s prying eyes and those of other nosy relatives. Poets like him—and dozens more from Egypt, Syria, Morocco, and Lebanon—came and went, yet you never once decided to marry any of them. So, what’s the difference now?

Do you feel that my absence, especially during my years of study and my master’s program, created an emotional void in the house that you wanted to fill with someone else? I never felt you were suffering from any void. When I’m with you, I see that your phone never stops ringing, our door is always open, and book signings, seminars, and trips fill your schedule every month. In fact, all of that slowed down in the last three years after you became close to this Egyptian man and brought him to Kuwait. Perhaps he’s been bad luck, considering your last novel was published two years ago, and you wrote it before you even met him.

Whenever we discuss this Egyptian man, I hear the same phrases from you:

“I’ve completed my mission in life to the fullest, Khaled, my love. Twenty years have passed since your father disappeared, and I’ve been patient. I poured all my love and tenderness into you. I stayed up countless nights, watching over every page you studied, every subject you learned, and every grade you passed. But soon, you’ll have your own independent life. God willing, you’ll marry, start a family, and have better luck than I did—I’ve been alone.”

Mother, there are many like you—women who were struck at their core by the brutal invasion—but they never lost their reason. Yet, I doubt any of them loved their husbands as deeply as you loved my father.

“My love for your father was like an earthquake; it shook me to my core, unleashing its fiery force upon my being. But after its initial eruption, it left me shattered, living only among the ruins. As I told you and you remember, we met in London and parted ways there. I arrived in the city of fog a month before Saddam entered Kuwait, preparing for my due date as Bader and I had planned. Then your aunt, Badoor, called me, her voice a mix of vindictiveness, sorrow, and anger, to tell me what had happened to Kuwait. I waited for your father to join me, but he vanished.

During that treacherous war, some fled, some were captured, some were martyred, and others were lost. In those moments, I felt I was no longer Arab. My great Arab neighbor had destroyed my life, my noble nationalist neighbor had obliterated my future, and the guardian of the Arab eastern gate caused my only son to be born into a cradle of orphanhood.

I returned after liberation with you holding British citizenship, but you still keep your cherished nationality. Now, you are free, Khaled, and I beg you, do not talk to me about family involvement in choosing a bride for you. I didn’t marry that way, so why should you seek a family-arranged marriage? Everything is relative, Khaled.”

There’s no relativity in sensitive matters like these, Mother. I am Kuwaiti, no matter how many passports I carry. But this notion of Arab unity—I’ve started to doubt it. The United States seems more concerned with the safety of our lands than the Arabs!

“Listen, Khaled, I may have stepped out from under the cloak of Arabism after the invasion, but writing, traveling, and meeting people introduced me to a broader tent under the sky of humanity. I’ve come to understand that emotions do not recognize passports and that nationalities are merely geographical or historical coincidences. To the British, you are one of them. To Kuwaitis, you are the son of two noble families. Both nationalities have their merits, but when you love and marry, you won’t check a passport before your heart beats.”

“You are a knight, Khaled, walking with your head held high. I watched you grow up, and I never saw the eternal defeat that shadows the eyes of orphans. I thank God and say that I succeeded in raising you.”

But in our society, Mother, a woman must respect traditions and customs.

“Khaled, a woman is a human being before she is a mere addition to the population. I write about women’s freedom, so how can I not live mine? I have done nothing in the past to feel ashamed of, nor will I in the future. But I refuse to be a prisoner of gossip or to suffocate because the air is polluted.”

I don’t oppose the principle, Mother. But if only you had agreed to marry my uncle Nawaf Al-Saleh, as his sister and your lifelong friend, Aunt Zuweina, suggested, the situation wouldn’t have been this sensitive… But this Egyptian…

“Excuse me, Khaled. It deeply saddens me when you refer to the man your mother chose at this stage of her life as ‘this Egyptian.’ Khaled, that’s not an insult. The ancestors of this Egyptian were among those who built Kuwait alongside our Palestinian brothers. If you look back at our cultural history, you’ll see their fingerprints clearly. Even in our political history, they were very close to us.”

You’re going to tell me, Mother, about 150 years of relations between Kuwait and Egypt. You’ll recount how, 80 years ago, the Kuwait Literary Club would bring in daily newspapers and cultural magazines from Cairo to discuss literary and political developments there and draw inspiration from them. You’ll remind me of the start of official cultural relations in 1942 when Kuwaiti students began studying in Egypt under an agreement with Minister of Education Dr. Taha Hussein. You’ll tell me about the first group of Kuwaiti female students who studied in Egypt in 1956. Then you’ll dig into your papers to recall Gamal Abdel Nasser’s telegram congratulating Sheikh Abdullah Al-Salem Al-Sabah on Kuwait’s independence in 1961 and his response to Iraqi President Abdul Karim Qasim’s threats to annex Kuwait, saying, ‘Egypt rejects the logic of annexation.’

You’ll mention how, without Hosni Mubarak’s stance against the invasion, his call for an international coalition against Saddam, and the Egyptians fighting on the frontlines, we wouldn’t have regained Kuwaiti territory so quickly. And you won’t forget to remind me that Kuwait supported Egypt, sending the Yarmouk Brigade to back Egyptian forces in 1973. You’ll also note how, during that war, Kuwait halted oil exports to nations supporting Israel…”

“But Mother, all of this is history and empty rhetoric. The present has pushed us into a new reality.”

“True, all of this is history and documented; it cannot be forgotten. Egyptians are like Kuwaitis—they have their good and bad, just like all humans.”

Mother, I’m talking about the Egyptian you’ve brought into our lives today, and you respond by recounting history from fifty years ago. You talk about him as if you’re about to marry Nasser himself! Even he was the one who sold Arabs a false dream, convincing them of a shared future. In Britain, they see no difference between Gamal Abdel Nasser and Saddam Hussein—both dictators, both held back their people, and both sent their armies to fight losing wars.

But I want you to always win, Mother. Always, Fawz (victory).”

I’ve done a lot of reflection, Mother—starting from the steps of the airplane that took me from Kuwait to a layover in Frankfurt Airport, before embarking on the long flight across the Atlantic. That’s why I ask you to postpone everything until I return. There’s no need to rush something that could have serious repercussions. What do you think about him finishing his work in Kuwait and returning to Egypt? If you both still want to move forward with the relationship, then you can do so there—away from the prying eyes of those watching him and us.

I believe his presence in Kuwait is what makes the idea of this relationship seem inevitable. I’m saying that if he leaves, it might free you from that inevitability, Mother. And most likely, he’ll get preoccupied with his own life and view the matter pragmatically, nothing more.

I’m thinking out loud, Mother, searching for a way out of this dilemma. You need to think with me. As long as we’re in Kuwait, we have to think, act, and live like Kuwaitis do.

Talking about the past only keeps us prisoners of it. If you knew how Egyptians talk about us now, you wouldn’t still believe in the Arab unity that supposedly ties us together or in the blood of martyrs that mingled on shared battlefronts—all that grand rhetoric.

“It’s no longer confined to their private gatherings, Mother. It’s spilled out like a genie from a bottle, spewing filth in our faces on Facebook. All it takes is for a worker’s salary to be delayed or a dispute to arise between one of them and a Kuwaiti citizen—even if we’re in the right—and you’ll see the flood of hateful comments against us.

You say Egyptians and Palestinians helped build Kuwait, but you saw the Palestinians’ stance during the invasion—how they formed a fifth column aiding the Iraqi occupiers in every department. As for the Egyptians, had it not been for their government’s official position, they would’ve done the same. Today, they fill every line—fifth column or otherwise.

And when I talk to you about Egyptians in Kuwait, I won’t hide from you, Mother, that the situation is worse outside Kuwait. I’ve felt it at every step during my studies. To them, Kuwait is nothing but oil. In their eyes, we’re just a bunch of robes covering oil wells, our heads wrapped in a headdress made of dinars. The few exceptions to this common perception aren’t enough to form a current that counters their condescending views of us.

We need to wake up, Mother. Your marriage to this Egyptian won’t be an ordinary matter. You’re a well-known writer, and this won’t remain a secret. The consequences will be more than we can bear.

This Christmas break, I’ll try to be with you. It depends on how many days I can take off from my study program. I’ll come so we can sit together, go out, and reminisce about our time together. Let’s try to reclaim the memories that the passing days have stolen from us. We’ll sit and watch the old films we shot together in London, Rome, Berlin, and Thailand. It’ll be a chance to relive our life together.

I brought some of the albums documenting our beautiful trips with me. I’m flipping through them now, feeling like I own the world. The picture I’ll never forget is from Berlin when I was 15. You told me as I stood beside you, ‘Now you’re my height, Khaled. From now on, you’ll grow taller, and your height will remind me of your father—not just your features.’

I’ll tell you a secret. I talk to my father constantly, as if he’s right in front of me. You’ve painted such a vivid picture of him—stronger than the images in the albums. I talk to him a lot, and his expressions seem to respond, as if he understands me!

At first, I spoke to him about myself. Then I started talking to him about you, and he would smile. I told him about your immense love for him, about the loyalty and devotion embodied in you, Mother. I told him I miss him, but I assured him you’ve done the impossible to keep his presence alive. I even remember how, at mealtimes, you’d offer me a spoonful, saying:

‘Eat this for your mother, Fawz.’

Then you’d offer another, saying:

‘Eat this for Baba Bader!’”

I told him he was present at our meals, in bedtime stories, in our house during our London trips, and in the things you often bought just because my father would’ve liked them.

Yesterday, I decided to talk to him about this Egyptian. But when I saw him, I felt a sudden tightness emanating from his eyes. Maybe he sensed what I wanted to say and silenced me, or maybe I was the one feeling uneasy and projected it onto him.

I didn’t say anything… Perhaps I’ll try again later when I feel more at ease. Maybe then he’ll speak for the first time and share his opinion with me.” (Continues)

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Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"