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

“You stepped out of the gates of noble deeds, but you entered the world of contemptible figures.”

I see this man as a “shoe” at the feet of Egyptians, unable to withstand not submitting to them for even a few days. When his interpreter disappeared for a few weeks, he promptly brought in a replacement from Egypt.

Despite my close friendship with him and his acknowledgment of my writing—unlike dozens of Kuwaitis who ignore or undervalue me—I can clearly see that his only weakness lies with the sons of Al-Mahrousa (Egypt). It’s as if he’s bound to them by a talisman hanging atop the Cairo Tower.

I respect Dr. Salman Al-Ibrahim because he has reciprocated my respect generously. He never judged me based on the sensitive issue I’ve lived with since I became aware of it, nor did he ever treat me the way others do, labeling me as part of the stateless—or that other despicable term dripping with condescension: the “Bedoun.” On the contrary, I’ve seen him exert all his effort to ensure I secure my rightful place in a society that only acknowledges privileges and rights for holders of the national identity, even though it grants rights and benefits to over two hundred foreign nationalities living on its land, enjoying its bounty.

Dr. Salman told me about the interpreter’s arrival, and he seemed ecstatic after meeting him in Cairo. He couldn’t wait to return to tell me about it; he called me at midnight, thrilled:

“Finally, Shaden, I’ve found the right person to help achieve my dreams and ambitions to elevate the institution. The dreams that once resided in the great Kuwaiti cultural patron Abdulaziz Hussein’s mind are about to see the light. At last, I’ve met someone who believes in the true role of the translator in fostering a renaissance and building civilization.”

“Has Zohair Al-Shaib been resurrected, Dr. Salman?”

“I’m serious, Shaden. You know how hesitant I was before meeting him, even though he came recommended by your dear friend Fawz Al-Abdullah. But I have to thank her. His expertise, qualifications, intellectual output, and energy will surely be the secret to success.”

“First of all, I’m not a friend of your dear friend. As you well know, Dr., we are far from being on good enough terms for a healthy relationship. However, her recommendation will be credited to her literary reputation if she managed to bring in someone who does their job to the fullest.”

Al-Ibrahim danced with joy, but his celebration didn’t last long—especially after learning about the deep connection between the interpreter and Fawz Al-Abdullah. His feelings toward the man changed, and his lingering doubts were confirmed. As for that sly woman, she revealed nothing to him or me, but perhaps she confided in her close friends, her companions, the priestesses of the world of aging women.

But… how did the interpreter gain such influence so quickly after his arrival?

I, Shaden, personally called him upon his arrival, introducing myself and letting him know about my closeness to his benefactor and patron. I hinted that my approval of him was integral to his master’s approval. Then I waited for him to visit me at my office, as his colleagues had done. But he didn’t.

I might have forgiven him—if not for his major offense!

I knew that obtaining Kuwaiti citizenship wouldn’t be easy. I’m not an Arab athlete guarding the national football team’s goal to earn their sympathy for a passport. Nor do I possess a beautiful voice to sing my way to citizenship. I’m not an Indian or Pakistani actress whose fame grants her nationality. And while I write, writing has become surplus to the needs of a nation that only reads scandal news.

Whenever I sat with Dr. Salman Al-Ibrahim, lamenting my plight in Kuwait, he would tell me that exceptions are made for those who perform noble deeds that elevate Kuwait’s name.

Where is this gateway to noble deeds, Dr. Salman?

Then the gates of fate opened, and the idea struck me—a spark igniting a series of interconnected ideas, like weaving an intricately designed Sadu piece.

“Why don’t I become a Kuwaiti literary icon like Suad Al-Sabah or Laila Al-Othman? No, I’ll surpass their fame and achieve what neither of them could!”

On the internet—an immense parade of ideas and the greatest landfill for waste—I found my solution: I would win an international award. An award no Kuwaiti woman had ever achieved, no Arab woman besides me had reached. An award that would place me alongside the greatest women of the world.

“But where will you find such an award, Shaden?”

“I won’t find it. I’ll create it from nothing, and it will come from the land of Uncle Sam. They believe here that the sun rises from his domain.”

“That’s difficult, Shaden, if not impossible. Who do you know in the United States to grant you an award? Who even knows your work, written only in Arabic, to award you an international prize? Such awards are only given to literature that has been translated.”

“The key is planning and execution. I’ll say all my works have been translated. To shape the story, I’ll align myself with elites atop the blaze of fame. I’ll arrange everything to make it real and authentic. The press will take the bait, and overnight, I’ll be the first name in Kuwait. That will be the pivotal episode leading to a series of similar, well-crafted chapters.”

“Aren’t you afraid of being exposed?”

 “And who will expose what? They’re eager to celebrate any Kuwaiti’s recognition anywhere in the world, even if it’s for eating the most pizza… or blowing the largest balloon. Besides, the names that will share the award with me are real… But I need to stop talking to myself. There’s a lot of work ahead.”

In the days following the revelation of the idea in the cave of my mind, I had already established a website in English for an American literary institution. This institution would annually award prominent intellectual women around the world. On the internet, I gathered all the information—university names, addresses of previous winners, judging committees. For those who sought proof, I added a Wikipedia entry about the institution. Everything had to look real.

I translated the titles of my poetry collections with the help of a Lebanese friend. Then, I approached the newspaper designer where I worked and told him that my collections had been translated by a global literary organization. I needed to send cover designs for printing in America, and his name would be credited as the designer. In short, I took care of every detail. I also began preparing my audience on Facebook for big news they would soon hear, hinting that my entire life was about to take a skyward turn.

I couldn’t share all the details with Dr. Salman Al-Ibrahim, fearing he might discourage me. He wanted noble deeds in Kuwait’s name, and here was the first of them.

I requested a meeting with him in his office. I didn’t want to deliver the news over the phone. I was convinced that my physical presence would have a greater impact.

“You’re my lucky charm, Dr. Salman. The gates of heaven were open when you told me that noble deeds were my gateway to Kuwaiti citizenship.”

“You’ve made me even more eager to hear the news. I want to celebrate with you, Shaden!”

“The Women for a Better World foundation is a literary institution around ten years old. Each year, it selects intellectual women with literary or political achievements, those who have served their communities or helped minorities, to grant them its prestigious award. This year, I am the only Arab recipient. I will receive the award alongside a writer from Mexico, a minister from South Africa, and a university professor from Bulgaria…”

He looked at me with his usual suspicion, but he couldn’t hide his delight.

“Finally, Shaden, you’ve received what you deserve. From now on, I won’t be the only one standing by your side; the entire country will rally around you. We have to celebrate… How about this: I’ll come to your office at the newspaper next Thursday morning with a photographer from the institution and a cake with the award’s name on it. It’ll be a global celebration.”

At that moment, Dr. Salman Al-Ibrahim requested the interpreter’s number. The interpreter’s voice echoed through the office speakerphone.

“Good morning, Interpreter. Today, I heard wonderful news that delighted me, and I’m sure it will delight you too…”

“Good morning. Of course, Dr., whatever makes you happy naturally makes me happy as well.”

“Our sister Shaden has received an American literary award… I promised her we’d celebrate this achievement with her. We’ll go to her office the day after tomorrow, bringing the biggest cake in Kuwait… Don’t forget to confirm the photographer.”

After a silence that felt like an eternity, I heard the interpreter’s voice, devoid of any emotion:

“Of course, Dr., this certainly calls for a celebration.”

After the call ended, Dr. Salman said to me:

“This is an opportunity, Shaden, to warm up relations between you two. You’ve complained that he hasn’t visited your office. Now’s the time. He’ll come to you with your head held high. You know he doesn’t visit anyone—not Kuwaitis, nor anyone else…”

 “And where does he categorize me—in the Kuwaiti box or the non-Kuwaiti one?”

“You always twist the neck of words. I mean, even his own compatriots don’t build personal relationships with him. Take Mustafa Sanad, for example—he hasn’t set foot in the library for over a year. And then there’s Mohyi Saber—he’s not comfortable around him. You’re no exception. I insisted that he attend my weekly diwaniya, but since coming to Kuwait, he’s only been to my house twice—and both times it was because there were guests from Europe, and he needed to engage in smooth, necessary conversations with them. Perhaps his personality doesn’t appeal to many, but there’s no fault in his work.”

Unfortunately, that was the bitter truth for me.

Thursday came, and Dr. Salman arrived at the newspaper with a delegation from the institution. Among them, I recognized Mustafa Sanad, Mohyi Saber, and Chico, the photographer. But the interpreter did not show up. When my eyes carried a questioning look to Dr. Salman’s, he turned his face away, as if unwilling to respond.

The delegation accompanied me to the editor-in-chief’s office, where Dr. Salman spoke about me with great affection and pride:

“Shaden is an exceptional figure. I believe in her talent, and I think this award is a well-deserved recognition. We could’ve celebrated her at the institution, but I felt the best place to honor her is here, where she gives her all.”

When we exited, the workers had already prepared the celebration in the meeting room. With Chico, the photographer, and the newspaper’s cameramen, flashes of cameras began to light up the space.

The interpreter’s absence, I initially thought, was due to jealousy, envy, resentment, or simply a lack of desire to participate. Perhaps he was busy, as Dr. Salman had said, or perhaps it was his stubborn refusal to step into the newspaper office, unwilling to lower himself to the level of others. Never did I imagine the matter was far deeper than that.

Dr. Salman’s phone call a few days later shattered the dream of noble deeds:

“You deceived me, Shaden. I trusted you blindly. I treated you like no one else ever has. And if you were to harm someone, I never imagined that person would be me…

For three days, I reproached the interpreter for not joining me last Thursday at the celebration I organized for you at the newspaper. I scolded him, and he remained silent, not responding. But when he saw I wouldn’t let it go, he finally excused himself from my office, only to return with a file. I went through it, and the facts were shocking…

There is no institution called ‘Women for a Better World.’ The website bearing the name of this so-called institution was designed and hosted from Kuwait… as confirmed and pinpointed by the network engineer at our institution. And no doubt, you know exactly who did that.

The names of the previous award recipients listed on the site do not correspond to any women with such honors in their biographies.

As for the Mexican writer you listed as a co-recipient of this year’s award—she passed away two years ago. The name of the South African minister you mentioned? It belongs to a male minister of public works. And the Bulgarian academic sent an email confirming she has never heard of this institution and refuses to accept awards from America, as it would conflict with her principles and the values of her leftist party.

The interpreter uncovered the first thread of your deception in the list of judges. You included the name of someone who—unfortunately for you—happened to be a former classmate of his before he moved to America. He reached out to him and discovered the entire scheme was fabricated. Not a single line has been translated for you, not in America nor elsewhere.

Shaden, you stepped out of the gate of noble deeds only to enter the world of disgraceful characters, the kind who live burdened by their crimes—especially after news of your award has spread. Now, you must come clean about the truth, or someone else will expose it in a way that will be even more disastrous for you.” (Continues)

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Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"