Ward And Wardah

The End but not the End!

2005-07-02T15:09:00.000+03:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, I regret to tell you that I have decided to call the blog off due to uncontainable circumstances.

Last night I had a dinner with a well known English writer to ask him for advice and he pointed out many things that I hadn’t thought off at the beginning. For a start, I intended and promised myself to tell the true story without making anything up and I have already mentioned many names so far. But luckily, most of these names were for people who are already dead. In the following chapters, I will have to talk about living characters which might cause me legal troubles if I mention their names without their prior acceptance. I will have to contact each one individually for a permission which will take quite a lot of time.

The writer, who I have talked to, agreed to help me editing the story. By now, I am sure you all have noticed my bad English which will never be ok for a book. Of course, the writer didn’t offer his help for the sake of God. Lets not to talk about this now as I am still negotiating with him.

The other reasons that made me make my decisions were:

- I face a critical problem with the blog. Writting a novel requires time. And you can only write it when you feel to. Not to speak about my duties towards my job and my family. The blog puts a pressure on me to write something every week and very quickly which I admit has influenced the quality of my writing.

-Another problem is with editing. Once I put one section, I cannot change it after publishing two more sections. Because if I change the previous sections it would contradict the new ones.

-I need to change the narrative style of the previous chapters. I need to tell the story from a kid’s view. My friend pointed me to a special course that teaches how to write a book from the kid’s view. I have already registered for it :)

All those reasons with others that I didn’t have the chance to talk about led me to decide to call the blog off but NOT the book. I will keep writing it and inshalla one day in a year time you will see it on the shelf of your favourite bookstore. Email me for your special discount ;)

Before I say good bye, I would like to introduce you to ---> Baby Ward who will see the light in 5 months time inshalla -:)

For now good bye :)

Chapter one - Part seven: The reason

2005-06-29T17:49:00.000+03:00

[Ward] The dinner table was full of various dishes as I expected. Hospitality in our country is second to none, and nowhere is it better expressed than in the age-old custom of serving freshly-brewed coffee or mint tea to every guest, whether the gathering be business or social. The traditional dishes can rival any international gastronomy for originality and good taste.

The main dish on the table was the traditional Kuazi which consists of whole lamb baked over rice so that rice absorbs the juice of the meat. There were several other side dishes. Harees, which is the favourite daily Ramadan dish, served either topped with melted butter only, or sprinkled with cinnamon powder and sugar. There was also Al Legamat which is also a favourite dessert, often served during Ramadan. Many plates of Fattoush, my favourite salad of toasted croutons, cucumbers, tomatoes and mint, were distributed across the table. Basically, the food was irresistible and I could tell that Um Wardah was a great cook.

“In the name of God, please start eating”, Abu Wardah said, inviting us to table.

We moved towards the table and I sat next to Wardah.

“Your mom is a good cook”, I told her.

“Yes she is. Her food is the best. Try it and judge yourself” she confirmed.

“Next time, you should have dinner or lunch with us. Actually, you know what? We should exchange visits between us frequently”

“Sure thing. You can visit me everyday. We can play or set with my father. My father teaches me many things after the sunset. He will be glad to have you here”

“Try this”, She handed it a piece of Al Legamat to me.

“ummm it is delicious” I articulated with delight.

“Well, as I said, Sayed Hadi had a good relationship with the government, but since the Iranian revolution everything has changed”, Abu Wardah started talking again to my dad at the other side of the table.

“Why?”, my dad asked.

“Sayed Hadi has always wanted to create an Islamic movement which inspires people towards Islamic values and principles. He established the Hussani Social Charity in Manama as a source for his movement. He made his own radio program which he used to give lectures during Islamic ceremonies. However, he always felt that he lacked for something. When Ayatullah Ruhollah Khomeini led the revolution in Iran, Sayed Hadi adopted Khomeini strategy in his movement. He used the revolution as source of inspiration to enlighten people for their basic rights”

“I suppose the government didn’t like that?”

“Exactly, however, the government is not the only part who didn’t like it. The British also put all their powers to end anything that might lead to another revolution in the region”

“Yes, I agree with you. I wouldn’t be surprised if the American didn’t have their hand dirty with this too”

“The worse of all was that Sayed Hadi had the military expertise which scared the government”

“Anyways. Sayed Hadi was asked to leave the country. I hope he finds happiness in his new place”, Abu Wardah lowered his eyes with a sign of sorrow.

“Where did he go?” my dad asked with curiosity.

“Well, he went to U.A.E first but then travelled to settle in Iran”.

“Since Sayed Hadi left the country, the Hussaini Social Charity was put under surveillance”, he added.

“Are you part of it?”

“Yes, I worked with Sayed Hadi to raise the Islamic principles between the people. I helped him in distributing his books among the people. I was also an assistance to enlighten people to demand for their basic rights especially after closing down the parliament six years ago”

“And as you can see, we had to leave our house as a result”, he smiled to my father.

“Were you asked to leave your house?”

“Technically speaking, No. But the close surveillance made me sick. I decided to move to one of the villages far from Manam, the place of all the political riots”

And that was it. That was the reason that I had wondered since I had met Wardah. I had felt it had something to do with the government. Our village, although it was occupied by lovely people, wasn’t picturesque enough to convince anyone to move to it.

Since that moment I stopped asking or listening to the political conversions that took place between adults. I had something more worthy that I should spend my time with. She was this great friend, Wardah.

Chapter one - Part six: At Wardah's

2005-06-22T13:50:00.000+03:00

[Ward] The dinner with Wardah’s family had been fixed for half-past seven, immediately after the Esha’a pray time. The weather was quite nice that evening. There was a cool breeze coming from the near by sea. Myself and my parents were on our way to Wardah’s house. The street was quite as usual. There were few people walking here and there. They were either going to their houses or to the bakery (Khabaz) to get bread (Khuboz) for their dinner. Others probably were going to socialise with their friends.

When we arrived to Wardah’s house, her mom opened the door and welcomed us. Um Wardah was wearing Dafah. Dafah is the traditional black robes that women wear to cover their body. It usually covers the head and the body. When Um Wardah opened the door, she was hiding her face behind the Dafah.

“God greets you to our house”, Um Wardah greeted us.

“How is everything going with you, Um Ward?”, she asked my mom.

“Praised be to God. Everything is fine with me”

“I am glad. How is your Son?”

“Praised be to God. He is good”

“Praise be to God, the Cherisher of the Worlds. I am pleased to hear that”

“How are your news, Abu Ward?”, she turned to my father.

“Praise be to God. My news is fair. How about you Um Wardah? How is your family?”

“Praise be to God. We are fine”

They would exchange the regards between them for ever. This was the way or the protocol I should say the people used to regard each other here. They would ask about your situation, your news, your family and they would glorify God after each word. The people believe that God must be glorified for the pleasant things in our life.

“Abu Ward, Abu Wardah is praying at the moment. The Majilis on your hand side, please set there. He will follow you shortly”

The Majlis is the Arabic name the people used to call a special room in our houses used particularly to gather with guests. I shall emphasis that most of the time it is used by men.

My father headed towards the Majils and I followed him. The Majlis was small. It had one small window in the centre of one its four walls. There was an old air conditioner at the corner and a dusty fan hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Three portraits were hanging on the walls. The three of them were for a man whom hooded eyes and severe demeanour, his unkempt grey beard and his black turban and robes conveyed an avenger's wrath. The portrait was the man I had seen his picture a lot on TV and on graffiti’s recently. Ayatullah Ruhollah Khomeini was his name. Ruhollah Khomeini -his given name meant "inspired of God". He was the man who led an Islamic revolution in Iran, perceived himself above all as an avenger of the humiliations that the West had for more than a century inflicted on the Muslims of the Middle East.

While my eyes were scanning the Majlis, I glanced a shadow of a huge man standing next to the door. In few seconds, I realised I was looking at Wardah’s father. Abu Wardah was tall and his deep eyes and his neat beard along with the worry beads which hanged on his hand and the portraits on the wall all conveyed he was a religious man.

My father and Abu Wardah greeted each other according to the greeting protocol for the next five minutes. This time, the greeting embraced questions like how Wardah’s family felt about village and how the people treated them well.

“So you are an enthusiast of Ayatollah Khomeini”, my father said to Abu Wardah.

“Well, he is our religion and political inspirer not mentioning the revolution he led to free Iran from the west dominance”

“Interestingly the world observed many Muslim autocrats in this century who embraced a mission designed as a corrective to the West. Kemal Ataturk, Jamal Abdel Nasser and of course Khomeini are examples of those autocrats”

“I tend to agree with you to some extent, Abu Wardah. Kamel Ataturk introduced Turkey, after the fall of the Ottoman Empire in World War I, to Western-style secularism in order to toughen his society against Europe's imperial designs. And in Egypt, Gamal Abdel Nasser initiated a fierce campaign of Arab nationalism aimed at eradicating the vestiges of Western colonialism from the Arab world. That’s all true but Khomeini took a different course. All three, at their apogee, were rulers of once great empires that had fallen into political and social disarray. But Ataturk and Nasser were committed to resurrection by beating the West at its own game of building strong secular states. Khomeini's strategy was to reject Western ways, keeping Iran close to its Islamic roots.”

“Some of the men I was dealing with in Makharga asked me several time that focusing on that strategy, whether Khomeini was riding a popular wave in global affairs. In the regard I always said that in the late 20th century, Muslims were not alone in organizing to restore religious belief to government. Christians in America, Jews in Israel, even Hindus in India were promoting the same end. As a revolutionary, Khomeini sought to bring down not just the Shah's Western-oriented state but also the secular Weltanschauung that stood behind it.”, he added.

Abu Wardah was talking in confident. He sounded too passionate about the subject. While Abu Wardah and my dad went deep in the topic, Wardah came in. She was holding Arabic coffee’s on a tray. The tray also had small coffee cubs on it. The cubs were called Finjans in our slang.

Since she came in, her eyes were looking at the floor, the exact behaviour that will convey how the girl was shy at that moment. Abu Wardah cut off the conversation with my dad and took the tray from her hands.

“Now go and say salam to our guests”. He ordered her. Salam is the Islamic version of the word “Hi”.

Wardah shook hands with my father and me. When we shook our eyes were fixed with each others with excitement. Although we had met only once two days before but we felt connected. That was my feeling at least. Wardah sat on my left and smiled at my face with excitement.

“How are you Ward?”

“I am fine. How about you?

“Asking about you”, she smiled with her tongue out.

“Good you came here. They have already started talking about the boring politics. The topic that you will hear everywhere in this village”

She winked at me and said “I wonder if they have already talked about why we moved here.”

“No, the topic hasn’t been opened yet”

“This is a record. It has been more than five minutes since you arrived and your father hasn’t asked dad why we were here”

I chuckled on that. That was true. People were too curious. They would love to know about every single move you do. I should admit though that curiosity was one of the reasons why people loved each other in this small village.

Abu Wardah was standing before us now. He handed a Finjan of coffee to me; I took it and thanked him “May God repays you back with good health, my uncle”.

He smiled at me “You parents raised you well, my son”

“So Abu Ward, what brought you here?” my dad asked.

I couldn’t hold myself to laugh hysterically.

Abu Wardah gave me a gentle smile. “They were betting on when you will talk about it” he said to my dad.

“Well, the Iranian revolution brought our destiny here”

“What do you mean?” my dad asked.

“It is Sayyed Hadi Al-Madrasi. Since he came to Bahrain he sat himself a mission to spread the Islamic values among people. Especially among seculars whose number was growing in large in the last years due to the influence of the global socialism”

“Sayyed Hadi did a good job. He made good relationships with the ministries, the government and the crown prince. His radio program did a good job to enlighten people to the Islamic values” he continued.

“What did happen then? Why did he leave Bahrain?” my dad interrupted.

“Well, Sayyed Hadi had a good relationship with the government. As you know he helped the crown prince who is also the minister of defence Sheikh Hamad Bin Isa Bin Salman Al-Khalifa in establishing the MoD. But after few years, Sayyed Hadi sensed the bad motives of the government and he moved himself away from them gradually”

“The dinner is ready guys”. Um Wardah’s voice cracked the conversation.

Abu Wardah got on his feet and said “We will continue this on the dinner. The tummy is more important at this time”.

Announcement - This blog is protesting in silence today after arresting a close friend of mine

2005-06-19T18:24:00.000+03:00

My friend Abdul Hadi has been arrested and beaten by the stupid riot ploice today. Please pray for him!

"A group of about 50 unemployed and other sympathisers were demonstrating peacefully near the royal court when police harshly attacked them, beat them and arrested more than 30 of them," human rights activist Nabeel Rajab told Reuters.
Among those beaten and arrested was Abdulhadi al-Khawaja, head of the banned Bahrain Centre for Human Rights, Rajab said.
Other witnesses said police hit demonstrators with batons."

more on reuters.

Chapter One - Part five: My Friends

2005-06-14T16:05:00.000+03:00

[Wardah] The big closet in the nursery room was my private play space. My mom had cleared the floor for the purpose. I liked to sit in there when I wanted to be alone. I would draw or make puzzles. Or I would play with dolls, absorbed in their stories, speaking their dialogue quietly to myself.

Ranged around the closet walls, like an audience, sat my stuffed animals. Teddy bears, alligators, martins, clowns. Kermit the Frog, Strawberry, Strawberry Shortcake. My friends – that’s what I called them. As in “Can I bring a friend to the Matam?” or “Mam, can you sew my friend’s eye back on?”

I was standing now in the closet doorway looking down at my friends. There were so many, dozen of them. I hated anyone who will take them away from me, even the old ones. I would usually look up at my mom with trembling lips and beg her “Oh, don’t throw my friend away, Mommy”. My mom would shake her head and murmur “what I am supposed to do to this silly girl”. “Get me a new one”, I would say. My mom wouldn’t count on my words because she knew I would never throw my old friends even if I get new ones and that was just a trick I used to get new friends. It really did seem as I’d kept every creature they’d ever gotten to me. Afroot – he’d been my favourite’s for almost six months when I was three. And Miss Sakeena, right up near the front – she’s shared my bed thought most of last Ramadan (the fasting month). And then there was Snow. Way toward the back of the closet. White snow.

“Wi no”, I said aloud.

He was a small teddy bear, grey now, even black in some places. He was missing one orange eye. His right paw was leaking foam. A patch purple stitching marred one side – it had been an emergency and purple thread was I’d had. Still, it was sad to see old Snow shunted to the back like that. Half buried under Poison Crab and Naughty Puppy. Supplanted by a dozen other characters I had seen on TV or at toys stores.

White Snow has been there first, been there before any of them. He was the very first, in fact. Our friend’s wife, Um Al-Sadah, had bought him to the hospital the day I was born. She’d tucked him under my mom’s arm where she lay in bed. She’d said “About time,” and she’d nodded once firmly.

Um Al-Sadah , a pretty woman, early to mid forties. Spoke with an Iraqi accent. She had the grin on a cheeky urchin face which seemed to run from one ear, laden with rings, to the other. The way she set the scarf (Hijab) around her face would make you feel how religious she was. She was my mom’s closest friend since the first day she came to Bahrain with her husband, Sayed Hadi Al-Madrasi, in 1972. Our relationship with them had begun years before they arrived here.

Our relationship with them started when my uncle, Sayed Mohamed Al-Alawi, met Sayed Mohamed Al-Shirazi, who was Sayed Hadi’s uncle, in a memorial gathering for Bahrainis in Kurbala in Iraq in 1967. My uncle shared the same passion of developing an Islamic movement with Al-Shirazi. Their relationship strengthened in a short period and my uncle visited Al-Shirazi several times when he was in Iraq. By time they decided to develop an Islamic movement in Bahrain. As Al-Shirazi was already heavily involved on the political situation in Iraq, he nominated his nephew, Sayed Hadi Al-Madrasi to go to Bahrain and work with my uncle side by side.

On arriving to Bahrain, Sayed Hadi Al-Madrasi stayed in my uncle’s house where my parents were introduced to him. Two weeks later, my uncle invited the whole family for a dinner to introduce Sayed Hadi. Among the guests was Sayed Mahmood Al-Alawi who was the financial ministry at the time. Sayed Hadi and Sayed Mahmood became friends and they exchanged regular visits. During these visits, Sayed Mahmood introduced Sayed Hadi to Bahraini leaders, among them, was the Crown Prince, Shiekh Hamad Bin Isa Bin Salman Al-Khalifa who asked Sayed Hadi later on to help him in establishing the Ministry of Defence. Sayed Hadi was the spiritual leader in the MoD.

My mom could only shook her head warily in response to Um Al-Sadah’s words.

A teddy bear. White snow.

Of course, I didn’t care about the bear in the beginning. That was what I was told. For more than a year and a half, the faithful creature just sat nameless and ignored in one corner of my playpen. But one Friday, just before Muhhram, when I was nineteen months old, his time arrived. My father was reading in the living room. My mom was lying on the sofa. I was on the floor, “cribbling” with a crayon on one of my mom’s drawing pads.

Suddenly, I looked up, my eyes opened wide and my jaw dropped. My finger hot out, pointing urgently at the balcony doors as my mom had always told me when she had to describe the scene.

“Dis is..? Dis is..?”, I cried. “Dis is..?”

My father glanced over at the doors. He grinned. “Hey! Dis is snow. Snow.”

“Noe!” I said. I spoke the word with amazement.

I lowered my hand and stared at the bug flake tumbling out of the sky. “Noe!”

“Noe!” I wrestled my way to my feet. Toddled over to the playpen as quickly as I could. My mom laughed. When I hurried like that, I looked, My father said, like a robot stumbling downhill. But I’d made it to the pen, reached inside, and plucked out my old teddy bear. I held it up to my father. My voice was strained with urgency. “Noe!”, I cried.

“Yeah, that’s right!” my father laughed. “Snow is white. White snow.”

“Wi noe!”,I cried out in triumph. “Wi noe!” And I clutched the bear to myself fiercely. Rocked it back and forth in tremendous hug. Cooed over and over in its ear, “Wi noe. Wi noe.”

From that time – oh, for at least a year – I had dragged that bear around with me everywhere. I had taught White Snow the new words I learned. Showed him the pictures in my books. Tucked him into bed for his naps. Held him under my arm when I went to sleep.

I moved to him now at the back of the closet. I knelt down in front of him. I wanted to straighten him a little. And just then, the doorbell rang.

My breath caught. I didn’t move at first.

The door rang again.

I raised my eyes, searched the closet ceiling for.. I didn’t know what I was searching for.

There was knocking now. Soft, but steady and insistent. The knocking paused a second. The doorbell ran again. Then there was more knocking.

“Come in, the door is open”. It was my mom’s voice, calling to the people who had been knocking the door.

Slowly, I rose to my feet. I moved out of the closet a. My feet drifted foreword as if I was being drawn on by come mysterious force.

“They must be Ward’s family coming for the dinner”. “Ward is here.. Ward is here in our house”. I murmured with great excitement. “My real friend is here”. Snow white would be forgotten now.

Chapter one - Part four: Invitation

2005-06-09T18:07:00.000+03:00

[Ward] “Mom, we are invited tomorrow for dinner at Um Wardah’s”, I announced as my first foot stepped in our house. My heart was pumping so hard that I could hear the blood rushing in my temples and a slight pain in my lung as I breathed heavily from my mouth. It just confirmed what I’d already began to realise. I’d been running from Wardah’s house without a stop off.

“Cool it, Ward, cool it. Take a deep breath. Long and slow.. and again”. As my lung filled, my mind began to clear. Looking around me made me realise that the house was quite. I could only hear the noises of chickens.

“Ward?” I turned at the sound of the familiar voice. “Ward, you naughty kid, where have you been? Your mom was looking for you?” My aunt Zahra emerged from her room which was the closest to the main door. “You better have a good reason for coming late this time”. She slapped me vigorously on the back. “Go to your mom now, she is resting in her room”. I smiled at her and headed to my mom’s room.

My mom used to have a nap for an hour after the noon prayer. I knew my mom was tired and didn’t like to wake her up if she had already asleep. When I reached the door of my mom’s room, I pulled my hands out of my pockets and took hold of the doorknob. I turned it slowly – slowly as quietly as I could.

The door clicked and swung in. I pressed my face to the opening. The room was almost dark. There didn’t seem to be anyone in it. I pulled the door in a little more, stuck my head out. I looked to the left, down the length of the room. I saw my mum lying on the right side of the bed. That was her side. My dad owned the left side of the bed. The room was small. There wasn’t enough room for a lot of furniture’s. The bed in the middle of the room, a big closet to the right and a dressing table to the left. The window was in the centre of the wall opposite to the bed. The curtains were drawn across it.

I was about to pull my head back outside the room when I heard my mom murmuring “Ward, is that you?”

“Yes mom”

“Where have you been? Haven’t I warned you from playing with the street’s boys after The Teacher?”

“I didn’t play with anyone. I was with Wardah; the new girl I met at The Teacher’s”

“Who is she?”, she opened her eyes with an effort. “The interrogation time”, I thought in my self.

“Her family just moved in to our village few weeks ago. They came from Al-Makharga”

“Oh, I know who you are talking about”.

“I was sure you heard of them. The matam’s news agency wouldn’t let pass such thing” I was teasing her. The matam’s news agency was the nickname that I used to call the local matam (memorial gathering) of our village. Women used to gather in the matam everyday in the evening. The main purpose was to listen to lectures related to our religions, but women treated it as a place for spreading news and rumours.

“By the way mom, Um Wardah invited us for dinner tomorrow night”

“Really? When did you meet her?”

“Well,..” My voice was law and hoarse. I leaned forward and I sat on the bed next to my mom. “Let me tell you what happened”. I closed my eyes trying to picture what had happened at Wardah’s place.

Wardah didn’t stop talking on our way to her house. She chitchatted about almost everything in her ex-house. When we research her house, she asked me to come in to introduce me to her mom. She was content with my company as I was too. There was something elite about her. She was quite, yet extremely hilarious to my surprise. She had the talent of describing everything and anything in an amusing fashion.

“Come in, Ward”, she said.

They had a red metal door. I pulled myself as my eyes took a look around the living room. There house looked small. They didn’t have many things. There was only a TV on the top of a small desk which I thought I had been Wardah’s. There were a couple nightingales singing in a sterling silver cage which resided at the top of a wooden book case. My eyes were fixed on them.

“Kaslan and Habooba”, she said while pointing at the nightingales.

“Kaslan is the male nightingale. I called him Kaslan because he eats only. He doesn’t sing. Habooba on the other hand sings all the time”, she smiled and winked at me.

When I lowered my eyes, I noticed the countless books laid out in the book case. Wardah picked three small books and hand them to me.

“These were written by our friend”, she said.

I browsed through them. The first page of each book there was a picture of an old man with a turban at the top of his head. He looked a religious jurist (Marja'a) or Ayatollah or something like that.

“Who is he?”

“Sayyd Hadi Almodarresi”

“Oh, I know him”, the name rang the bill. “My mom used to listen to his lectures on the radio”

“He travelled to U.A.E last month”, she said. “He was a really nice guy, prominent scholar, speaker, author, and ideologist”

“He had written all these books” she pointed to the second shelf of the book case. There were over a hundred of books. Most of them were small books of fifty or forty pages.

“He used to tell me stories about the prophets”, her voice was a little bit gloomy.

“He was my father’s best friend you know. They ran a charity in Matam Al-Qasab. They called it the Husseini social charity. The people liked them a lot. But now he is gone and we had to leave our place too”

I felt my heart explode as the words flowed out of her mouth with deep sadness.

“My sweet nightingales how are you?”, her mom emerged behind us from no where.

“Mom, this is Ward. I met him today at The Teacher” she was wiping the tears in her eyes.

Her mom smiled at me. “How are you Ward? You must be a nice boy or Wardah wouldn’t talk to you”

I was flattered. Her mom then asked me about my family and the usual questions that I used to hear when I meet any stranger.

“You should visit Wardah sometimes” she said while hugging Wardah to her legs.

“Well, listen. When you go home, tell you mom that Um Wardah have invited for dinner tomorrow. Don’t forget that”

I was excited and nodded with acceptance. We have new friends, I thought.

I squeezed my eyes hard until the image faded from the inside of my eyelids. When they opened again, I was back at the left side of the bed in my mom’s room. My mom was listening to me thoroughly.

“We should definitely visit them tomorrow. I heard they are nice people”.

Chapter One - Part three: Ward

2005-06-05T15:22:00.000+03:00

[Wardah] I really didn’t know why I was attracted to him when I saw him for the first time. He had something alluring and charismatic. I really wouldn’t know how to explain it. “Everyone, indeed, loves this boy”, I imagined. When he came in to the room, he greeted everyone individually in away that made me feel he knew each one very well. Even the way he apologized from The Teacher was so polite and gracious that didn’t leave her any choice but accepting it. Actually she should be the one who should show her gratitude to him. I was sure she had felt amused for the alluring smile that was drawn on his face. He had the same smile of my favourite motion picture character, Tom Sawyer who was the star of the motion picture “The Adventure of Tom Sawyer”. In that motion picture Tom Sawyer and his friend Huckleberry Finn had the kinds of adventures many boys could imagine: racing bugs during class, impressing girls, especially Becky Thatcher, with fights and stunts in the schoolyard, getting lost in a cave, and playing pirates on the Mississippi river. “This boy could be Tom Sawyer him self”, I thought.

I wouldn’t count the number of times when I wanted something and prayed for it. I had never complained for not getting what I had had wanted. I truly had faith in God though I had seen many people around who had suffered from lack of faith. I remembered this young man who asked my dad once. “You see Abu Wardah, the thought of the existence of God distracted me to anguish, to enigma. I shut my eyes and ask myself if everyone has faith, where did it come from? And then they all say that it all comes from terror at the menacing phenomena of nature, and that none of its real. I have never seen God or heard his voice. And I say to myself, “What if I’ve been believing all my life, and when I come to die there’s nothing but the burdocks growing on my grave?.” It is awful” How- how can I get back my faith? How can I prove it? How can I convince myself? If I let this chance slip, no one around here will answer me.” My dad was a religious man. Many people trusted him and relied on him for their religious affairs.

“You can be convinced of it with your relations to others”, my dad said.

“How?”

“By the experience of active love. Strive to love you neighbour actively and indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul. If you attain to perfect self-forgetfulness in the love your neighbour, then you will believe without doubt, and no doubt can possibly enter your soul. This has been tried. This is certain.”

At the time, I was playing with my tidy bear and the last words of my dad had crushed me! I had always loved everyone around me, and yet I was incapable of feeling secure with anyone. My mum used to call me the silent sheep. I found it too hard to talk to strangers. If someone came and talked to me, I would be shy and wouldn’t talk. Many of our family friend’s never heard my voice. It had been almost three weeks since we moved to our new house in this village, and yet hadn’t had any friend. I had always felt I was a complete stranger and thought everyone would give me a strange uncomfortable look if they saw me walking on the street. Sometimes, the wish of having a hat that would make me transparency came into my mind when I had to go to the local cold store no one would see me or talk to me. However, this time was different. I really wanted this Tom Sawyer to talk to me. I felt I would be comfortable talking to him and I really wanted someone to talk to. I had been urgently begging for it, I had prayed for it! I was ready to fall on my knees and kneel to pray for it. I wanted a friend. “God, I want a friend and if you think this boy will be a good friend of mine, please send him to me”

I saw him moving towards me. “Don’t raise your hope Wardah, he is coming to sit closer to you because there is a room for him here.” His eyes were fixed on me as he was approaching me. “What a beam!”, I thought. He sat and in few seconds he looked toward me. “Salam, How are you today?”, he asked. If anyone had looked at me at that moment, he would have caught a quick flush crimsoning my cheeks in an instant. I was speechless, and my tongue was heavy. “My name is Ward”, he said.

“I am Wardah”, I managed to talk at last!.

“I haven’t seen you here before; I suppose you came from a different place.”

“Yes, we just moved to our new house three weeks ago.”

“Oh, really. What do you think of our village?”

“Boring!”. I said.

“Oops, why did I say that? It was rude. My father warned me from criticizing others. He said that if I criticize people, I won’t have the time to love them.” I was saying that to my self. “I should correct that and say something nice. Quick – Quick Wardah”

“It is quite here. The place where we came from was crowded. There were many cars, foreigners, shops everywhere”. I hoped that would rectify what I had said.

“Your old place was exciting then. Where was it?”

“Moscow”

“What?”, his eyes opened widely.

“Al-Makhargah”, I smiled. “But we call it Moscow”

“Why do you call it Moscow? It is a strange name”

“I don’t know. You should ask my father”

“Will you stop talking, Ward?”, The Teacher yelled at him.

“I am sorry Teacher. I was introducing myself to the Moscow girl”, he replied.

“You are not allowed to talk here, haven’t I told you before when someone reads the Quran you should sit silent and listen?”

“Yes Teacher. I will be quite” He looked at me again and said: “Can you tell me about Moscow later on. I will walk you to your house” I nodded with acceptance and felt my cheeks flushed again.

One hour passed until we finished from The Teacher. As we walked out, Ward came to me and said “Wardah, you promised to tell me about you place, didn’t you?” Hearing my name made me feel happy. “Of course”. There was a smile on my face. I didn’t know what was happening with me. In normal situation I would have given him an excuse and wouldn’t talk. But he was really my Tom Sawyer. “Where shall I start?”. I said. “Where shall I start – Where shall I start” The question was repeating itself in my mind.

Chapter one - Part two: The bartering man

2005-06-01T17:16:00.000+03:00

[Ward] Just before washing my hand after feeding the chickens I heard his voice humming in my ears. Sometimes I felt he was singing and sometimes I felt he was calling for something. The words he was saying weren’t too clean although his voice was too loud that even the deaf would hear him. Nobody bothered to understand what he was saying. They only cared about the bartering opportunity he was offering. That voice came from Zari Ateeq.

Zari Ateeq wasn’t the real name of the old man who was yelling, but it was the title that the people used to call him. Very few people knew his real name, as he wouldn’t engage in any conversation with anyone. He was concerned with one and one thing only: bartering. Zari Ateeq didn’t live in our village and he used to appear from time to time, once every two months maybe. He used to come with his big trolley that was filled up with varieties of goods. The majority were dinnerware though. He would exchange anything with something from his trolley. People usually exchanged unwanted things like antiques with new dinnerware. Last time, my mum had bartered my bicycle with five plates only. The bartering wasn’t fare and it was never fare with anyone, otherwise he wouldn’t make profits.

I knew my mum wouldn’t miss the opportunity to barter the vase that her friend Khadija had giving her when she came from Iran last month with more plates. My mum wouldn’t ask me to barter it myself as she knew bartering with Zari Ateeq needed some skills. When I saw her heading to Zari Ateeq, I followed her. I enjoyed it when I used to see Zari Ateeq fooling my mum and bartering her with few plates that didn’t even have half the value of what would she give him in exchange.

My mum insisted to barter the vase with four blue plates. But he didn’t accept. He said that the vase worth two plates only. After a long argument, she told him she wasn’t interested anymore. She gave him her back and her legs started to move towards our house. “Stop”, he cried. “I can do it for four plates”. I saw the hidden smile on my mum face. That was the trick she used to do to get what she wanted. It wasn’t hard but required patient and good acting.

He looked at me and said: “Your mum is a tough woman.” “I know. That’s why I love her”. I replied. I was really proud of her at that moment.

“What is your name Zari Ateeq?”, I asked him.

“My name is Zari Ateeq, my son. Haven’t you heard you mum calling me Zari Ateeq a while ago”, he smiled at me.

“I was asking about your real name!”.

“Why are you asking about my real name? If I tell you my name is Mohmmed, will you know who I was if someone mentions my name? But if they mention Zari Ateeq, you will know who they are talking about”

“Come on Zari Ateeq, what is your name? Is it Maki, Jaffar or Abbas?”

“None of them”. He looked at me. “My name is Mohammed, I just told you. Now let me go to my work.”

I felt I was silly. “I have one more question, Zari Ateeq.”, I exclaimed.

“You better be quick.”

“Why are you doing this job?”, I asked.

“Because it is the only thing I am good at”. He frowned. “You know son, once I was a technician at Babco, the Petroleum Company, and I was good at my job. But..”. There was a pause and I noticed the moisture in his eyes. “We were fired. Fourteen years ago, the company fired all of us; me, my friends and eight hundreds others. We thought that the company wouldn’t survive but we were wrong. They brought foreigners to occupy our positions and forgot about us”.

“Why did they fire you?”, I asked.

“It is a long story son. Those people didn’t hesitate to do anything to stop the expansion of the demands for our unity and independency.” He sighed and pushed his trolley. He didn’t say anything more and I knew he wouldn’t like to talk about anymore. Zari Ateeq was talking about the days of the Egyptian leader Jammal Abdul Nasser. My father told me a lot about him. Jammal was the hero character for Arabs everywhere. He called for the Arab unity and appealed for their independency. The Arabs everywhere responded to him and saw him the leader they waited for. Here in Bahrain, people raised their voices and called for independency. But the British forces stopped everything. They didn’t hesitate to do anything to stop the people demands. Zari Ateeq was just an example of what they did.

“You are late, Ward”, my mum’s voice broke my thoughts. “You won’t make it for The Teacher today”, she added. She was right. I should have been at The Teacher’s place. I apologized to my mum and ran as fast as I could. When I reached The Teacher’s house, I knocked the door and went in. The Teacher was sitting in a small room on the left. The Teacher was sitting in the middle of the left side of the room. In front of her there was a small table for the Quran. One of the kids would sit before her and read the Quran and she would ensure that he reads it correctly. If he made a mistake in one part she would ask him to read that part again and again until he reads it without any mistake. That was the way she taught us Quran.

On the right side of the room, there were five kids sitting waiting for their turns. They were the same kids I see whenever I come to The Teacher. I came in and apologized for the delay. When I walked in I saw a shadow of a kid at the corner. I didn’t notice it when I glanced at the kids at the first time. The shadow was for a small girl. She was sitting and hugging her legs towards her chest. She looked scared or shy, I wasn’t sure. I never saw her before at The Teacher’s. Actually, I never saw her in the village. “Who is she?”, I was wondered and went to sit beside her.

Chapter one - Part one: A new morning.

2005-05-29T18:41:00.000+03:00

[Ward] It was eight in the morning when I opened my eyes on October 6th 1979 on my mum’s voice calling “Wake up, Ward. Rise and Shine”. I scratched my eyes with my hands and stared up at the cracks that ran along the top of the walls. A moment later, I heard my mum calling again “Wake up, sleepyhead. You don’t want to be late”. “Oh it is Saturday, I have to go to The Teacher”, I said to myself. The Teacher was the nickname that we used to call Mrs Fatima. Mrs Fatima was an old lady; her age was forty something I would say. Mrs Fatima ran a class four times a week for teaching the Quran to the children of our village. I didn’t know why they were calling her The Teacher, but I heard my father once saying that it was the traditional title that villagers used to call the person who taught Quran.

Sitting up in bed, I glanced at the clock on the far end wall of the room. It was ten past eight. “I still have enough time to feed the chickens”, I thought. Every day I had to feed our chickens three times; in the morning, after lunch and before the sunset. We had about ten or twenty chickens. They were located at the back yard of our house. At the back yard we had a small farm. The chicken coop was on the left. On the right there was a large cage for sheep. We had two sheep’s at that time. Actually, they were three but my uncle slaughtered the third last Eid. I was too scared. Watching this, and seeing the blood all over the place, was a scary experience for me. At the same time, I was happy to get rid of that sheep. He was badly behaved. He would make strange sounds and run after me when he sees me. But it was over. He was dead and his meat was on our tummies. I always thought I would become a bad boy one day because I ate his meat. On the corner, we had a cage for pigeons. We had a lot of pigeons from different types. My uncle brought them five months ago. He said they would prevent the ghosts from appearing in our house. I didn’t want to think about the ghosts in the morning.

I had slept soundly. My knee was stiff because I had fallen down when I was playing hide and seek with my friends the day before. I stretched it out, grimacing. I slid it carefully over the side of the bed. I got up and limped gingerly into the bathroom. I took a shower, letting the warm water pound at my knee. My knee felt better. I had had a nice dream that I would say it to my mum later. Something about a garden. I tried to remember but the images drifted apart like clouds. I got up to the shower. Dried myself and wrapped the towel around my middle. I stepped out of the bathroom and there was my mum, waiting. She smiled at me. She kissed me “How’d you sleep?”. “Good”, I replied. She went past me into the bathroom. She didn’t need to use the bathroom, but she went to check if I had brushed my teeth. She would check my brush and see if it was used. I didn’t care a lot about my teeth. It didn’t like to stand before the mirror and brush my teeth. I always thought a ghost would appear behind me and I would see him in the mirror. I had said I didn’t want to think about ghosts in the morning, hadn’t I ?

I headed back to my bedroom. I shouldn’t call it my bedroom because I shared it with my grand mother. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters. I was the only kid in the family. Our family was huge. I had five uncles (my father’s brothers) and four aunts (my father’s sisters). We all lived in one big house which was divided into three sections. Each section consisted of two rooms and a bathroom. We had our own section. There was only one kitchen in the house and one big living room where the whole family would set together to have lunch and dinner. In the morning, the house was usually quite. My uncles used to go to work and the younger ones to school. My aunts would gather in the kitchen with my mum to prepare the family lunch.

I opened my drawer and picked up a white Thob, the traditional cloth in Bahrain. I put a Gafiya, the traditional hat, on my head. I didn’t need to do anything to my hair as I would be wearing the Gafiya all day. I went into the living room. My aunt Zahra was cleaning the floor with an old Ma5amah. My mum was setting bread down on the dining table. She returned back to the kitchen singing out as she went, “Zahra hurry up, we need to cut the onions”. I sat down at the table. My mum returned with bowels and milk. “Eat well, you have a long day”, she said to me. I poured some bread into my bowl and poured the milk on the bread. I heard someone opening the main door and saw a shadow of a woman entering the house. We didn’t have a bell in our house. No body had. We didn’t even have a lock on our door. Women would come in after knocking on the door for two or three times. They didn’t need a permission to come in.

She was Um Ahmed. She used to visit our house every morning to buy eggs. That was one reason for keeping chickens in the coop. Um Ahmed headed to the kitchen where my mum was. She knew where she would find her. Um Ahmed had a story, and what a story. My grand mum once told me that once of her relative who was exiled twenty years ago to a far place called St. Helena. I didn’t know where that place was. Her relative was deported after the football match incident in Muhraq. Muhraq was a city close to the airport far away from our village. I heard that a British officer was transiting in Bahrain and when he passed by the Stadium where the football match was taking place, the crowed attacked his car with stones. I laughed when I heard that. I knew he was a bad man.

The name of Um Ahmed’s relative was Abd Ali-AlUlaiwat as I remember. He was working with two more men. My father said their names were Abdul Rahman Al-Bakir and Abdul Aziz Al-Shamlan. Al-Bakir name was strange. I even heard that Al-Bakir family were originally from Qater and the some British officer claimed that Al-Bakir wasn’t Bahraini and withdrew his Bahraini nationality accordingly. I was told that the British officer didn’t like Al-Bakir because he was demanding for something that the British officer didn’t like. Abdul Aziz Al-Shamlan was a known name. I was told that his father was also deported to India in the late thirties for the same reason. He demanded with other leaders for a parliament reforming and other things that upset the government. I didn’t understand why they were deported to other places and didn’t understand what a parliament reforming was all about. I also didn’t understand why the people had gone out in the street and demand for that parliament thing. I heard scary things happened in street clashes with the police. There was this man Saead Sarhan whose son’s Abdulla was shot dead by police during a mass demonstration eleven years ago. Sarhan had a small cold store in our village. I was thinking of going to buy ice cream from him if I behave good during the day and my mum awards me a Rupee. I might ask him about the story of his son Abdulla.

I finished my breakfast and washed my hand. I went to feed the chickens and headed to The Teacher where my life story began.

Announcement: Minor Correction

2005-05-29T18:38:00.000+03:00

I should apologize for a mistake resulted from my software which keeps tracks of the calendar of events. The date on which Wardah was exiled was in 1982 not 1973. I have made the right correction.

Synopsis

2005-05-27T18:54:00.000+03:00

This is a true story of love and coercion. Ward and Wardah are two Bahraini citizens who grew up together in a small village. Ward and Wardah used to play together when they were kids. They were close friends. Innocent kids who liked hang out with each other. Wardah was Warda’s best friend. She used to tell him everything. When she comes from school, she would go to his house and do her homework with him. Warda was Wardah’s hero. He used to protect her from the other kids. He wouldn’t let anyone to make fun of her.

At 1 p.m. on February the 5th 1982, Ward came back from the elementary school as usual. After having lunch, he went to Wardah’s house. He knocked the door. No one answered. He knocked the door again after an hour and no one answered. He kept knocking the door. “Where is Wardah?” he thought. He sat by the house’s door waiting for someone to answer him. At 6 p.m. he saw Wardah’s uncle from a distance. He rushed at him. He wanted to ask him about Wardah. “Uncle, where is Wardah”? He asked him. He looked at him with teary eyes “You don’t know where Wardah is? Wardah is gone. She left the country. She will never come back.”. Ward’s heart felt down. He didn’t know what to say. She was playing with him the day before. She never told him she was leaving.

“Where did she go? Why did she leave? I want an answer”, Ward shouted. “She went to a far place. The government exiled her family”. Her uncle said. “Her father fought for a democracy and freedom which of course upset the government”. Ward didn’t understand a ward. He was 5 years old. He only understood that Wardah was gone to a far far place.

On the other side of the road, Ward heard people demonstrating. People yelling, people saying things about freedom, constitution, colonization, the royal family and other words he didn’t understand. But he knew they were demanding for something. Something he wanted too. Ward run as hard as he can. He joined the protesters and yelled: BRING ME WARADAH…. “Bring me Wardah”.. He never forgot those words. He never forgot Wardah. He never heard anything about Wardah since.

Wardah and her family went to Europe. Wardah grew up as a Moslem girl in a European society. She didn’t hear anything about Ward. In fact, she didn’t know anything about Bahrain. She only knew she was once a Bahraini citizen. Wardah, went to school, graduated and went to college to study international politics. It was that course which opened her eyes to the political situation in Bahrian. Wardah became a journalist whom mission was to brought the truth of the island that was known to her as Bahrain.

It was September 1994 when uprising broke up across the country demanding for democracy. Ward didn’t spare any power to participate. Although, this time he was demanding for democracy, he knew that democracy was the way to bring his childhood’s love back. During the uprising security forces had tortured adults and children with impunity, and had fired on unarmed demonstrators with live rounds.

In 1996, Ward was arrested and was released in March 2001, when the new ruler organised a referendum to approve a National Action Charter that seemed to mark the end of 25 years of oppression. In September 2001, Ward left the country to study in London. In July 2004, Ward graduated and was awarded a postgraduate scholarship to a leading university in U.K. for his excellent academic performance.

On Wednesday September 15th 2004, Ward was invited to give a speech for the Red Cross organisation on the human right violation in Bahrain. 500 people were listening to his speech. One thousands eyes were looking at him. But there were two eyes that his eyes were fixed with.. “Could it be Wardah?” he thought.

On the left far side, she was sitting there. Listening to him and noting down what she could catch up with. She was inspired by him. She was inspired by his passion. She was thinking: “Do I know this man?”.

In this blog, Ward and Wardah will write them their complete story trying to plot the political crisis in Bahrain from the 1970’s to present. Ward promises to tell the hidden truth about the prisons and the human violation in Bahrain as he lived it. Wardah, will write her experience as an exiled girl who lived as a Moslem girl in a western society and will express her opinion about Bahrain as a journalist who used to be Bahraini once.

Ward and Wardah promise to reveal their identity at the end of story. It if it ends!!