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

“It is my right to live, to buy a little space, and to dream of getting married in it.”

A cursed man is cursed, even if they hang a lantern on the tip of his tail.

But you are the cause, uncle.

I was your loyal servant, year after year. And you never looked at me as your nephew, never. You treated me as they treat an Indian servant.

You made me afraid to speak to you. I spoke to myself as you wanted, until everyone who saw me thought I was crazy. My words were nothing but reproach and blame, just a mixture of wishes and hopes. How many times I wished you would see the good for me as you saw it for yourself.

While your son was learning at university, I never completed my education because you convinced my mother that there was an opportunity for work, for her only son, an opportunity in Kuwait that could not be missed. You told me that people pay thousands to get a visa to come looking for work, but my work was already waiting for me.

When I came, I was shocked! My uncle works as a building guard, and I am his assistant. My uncle, whom everyone in our country regards highly, and everyone proudly repeats, “Abu Mina in Kuwait,” “Abu Mina traveled to Kuwait,” “Abu Mina returned from Kuwait.” And here he is, “Abu Mina,” worth nothing in Kuwait, just a doorman.

You cut me off from befriending anyone, not wanting anyone to know what we do and where we work. In the small ground-floor room designated for building guards, you threw me onto the top bunk bed, with only a small space between me and the ceiling, barely letting my breath return to me. Every night I tried to sleep, while you would get up from your bed on the first floor, only to sleep again.

I cook, I clean, I sweep, I wash dishes and clothes, and you, my uncle the Pasha, do nothing but occasionally give me instructions and sometimes scold me. I once expected you to increase my share of the apartment tips, but you never did.

I was hopeful when “Rose” and her friend “Miss Vicky” started finding their way to us. You had figured out how to profit from the vacant apartments, and I waited for you to honor me, but your hand remained tight, uncle. I hear you day and night talk about “Mina,” about the apartment you would one day buy for him in October 6th City, about the bride you would choose for him after he graduates. Every time a tenant came, you would ask about the work conditions and whether “Mina” could come, after graduation, to work!

I never heard you talk to anyone about getting me a job. Of course, how could you sell the servant who makes your life easier? Money started flowing through your hands, and every week you’d go to the exchange shop to convert the dollars into “Mina’s mother.”

I remain your eternal guard. You sleep while I stay awake, until the woman leaves the apartment, brings the key, and retrieves both cards. I waited for a day when I could count the money as you do, and open an account in the country to send money to my mother. For it is my right to live, to buy a hole, and to dream of getting married in it.

Now we are in detention, awaiting deportation, after months or even years. But our disgrace is greater than that, and it will continue to haunt us. Our reputation is lost, and we’ll never get it back. Now, uncle, you won’t find a wife who will accept marrying your son “Mina.” You might later have to leave the country and live in Cairo, where no one knows you and no one looks at you with eyes of contempt. Have you finished the installments for the 6th October apartment?

It was a cursed night!

“Miss Vicky” went to the apartment, accompanied by someone. From there, she called me, but unfortunately for me, for her, and for you, the phone was off, the battery dead. The Filipino woman came late, later than usual, and it seemed she got her customer at the last minute before midnight. She didn’t want to waste her time; maybe her companion urged her not to wait, so she didn’t try calling again.

In the midst of everything that happened, “Miss Vicky” didn’t realize that the neighbor in the next apartment saw her, after seeing her companion go ahead to the apartment. He knew “Mr. Mohsen” and knew about his absence, and it seemed to him that they might have come to rent the apartment, but he didn’t see my uncle or me with them, so suspicions arose. No doubt he scratched his beard for a long time and decided what to do.

The cursed man waited a little outside the apartment, and how else could he have heard what was going on? Instead of coming to us to ask or inquire, he directly called the police, claiming that thieves had entered the neighboring apartment, that he heard noises, and feared they were planning something disastrous.

Not minutes after his call, I heard the sound of police sirens. My uncle was asleep, as usual. My phone was mute. I saw the police car lights flashing around the building. “Abu Mina” woke up because of the noise, just as the door was knocked violently, and I opened to find two policemen asking us to come with them.

In the following days, during the investigation, “Miss Vicky” admitted that she had met the young man who was caught with her at the nearby pizza restaurant, that he was looking for a shared room to stay in, and that she had kept the key from a past visit. The guard had offered her the apartment after it had been vacated, and she had forgotten to return the key, and sleep overcame her in the apartment, so she wanted to stay there until morning.

“Miss Vicky” wanted to tell me the details of the story she had made up and confessed, but she couldn’t. When they asked my uncle, “Abu Mina,” he seems to have initially denied knowing anything. He said that he leaves the keys with me and doesn’t know what I do with them.”

So you wanted to implicate me to the end, uncle!

At the end of the investigation, which was no longer friendly at all, the details of the story became clear to the police. The soft questions led them nowhere, unlike what happened afterward. On the way from our detention in the police station to the court, my uncle was silent, but his eyes told me everything, mixed with blame and hatred. I couldn’t face them. I couldn’t speak to him.

I wanted to tell him it was his fault. His greed led me to mine. We weren’t thinking at that moment that crime doesn’t benefit us; I thought, and I believe he was like me, not thinking of the guilt we were committing, but contemplating the reason for our downfall.

That cursed night, and with our double misfortune, our building was next to another one designated for hotel apartments under security surveillance. There was an illegal network using the “Wnasa” website as a portal to trap customers. The site was being monitored until the police identified its source and manager and started tracking it.

On this website, the site manager requests new customers to provide their details to establish a connection and confirm their seriousness. The drought among some young men hungry for sex, and their boundless mischief, along with their ignorance of the consequences, led them to register with real names and addresses, sometimes even adding personal photos!

In the “Wnasa” online room, members could view images and videos of semi-naked girls from various nationalities, mostly Asians and Europeans. Some had photos with famous landmarks to prove they were in Kuwait. A member could see a Romanian next to the Liberation Tower or a Russian on the Gulf Street. When the visitor selects a girl, they click “Enter.”

This is where the agreement between the customer and the site manager starts, who then sends the address of the venue, which was one of those hotel apartments. The specified amount was to be paid in cash, and the selected girl would confirm receipt; if not, the deal would be canceled, and perhaps we could have escaped. But that is no longer of any use now.

In the neighboring building, one person continued contacting the “Wnasa” site after selecting the meeting place for the girl. The man, who was in the reception hall holding a phone in his right hand and a rose in his left as a distinctive sign, was none other than an undercover police officer!

The girl entered the hall and told the site manager that she was ready. Both parties confirmed their readiness: she with the features she had shown in the video, and he with the specified amount after he had sent a message confirming receipt.

At the next moment, the source signaled the raid to the Vice Squad officers, who caught the girl, who was in her thirties. She had arrived in the country a week before via an international prostitution ring to provide entertainment services to customers. Her visit visa was no barrier to her, as a foreigner could obtain a visa upon arrival at the airport.

At the moment when the anti-narcotics forces were about to raid the “Wnasa” network member, a call came in from Mr. Mohsen’s neighbor to the police, which intensified the communication with the patrols, especially since the officer suspected that this nearby apartment might be another “Wnasa” operation. This was what one of the hotel apartment workers, who was arrested during the preliminary detention, told us.

I hadn’t yet saved up the 150 dinars before everything ended. They would stamp our passports, take our fingerprints, and deport us, stripping us of everything. We wouldn’t be able to return to Kuwait or to the Gulf at all.

What matters now… is that the prison term passes quickly.  (Continues)

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Published under Intetrnational Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"