Manette Ansay. Kuwait was, after all, a country tangled in red tape. Fatma was in her late forties. It had been a few years since she was last pregnant. They knew something drastic had to be done, so they ploughed patiently through daunting name change procedures.
They submitted pillars of forms to the proper ministries. Small bundles of cash slipped quietly under desks. Once the paperwork was done, Ahmed and Fatma informed friends and family of the change and invited everyone to their home to celebrate over istikans of saffron tea.
Men in one room, women in the other, eating like locusts and singing along to music. They were free once again, safe together in the long afternoon. Ahmed and Fatma were not wealthy. They lived in government housing near a gas station in the city center. Ahmed pushed paper in a ministry job that masked unemployment.
Fatma stayed at home, swamped with the details of domesticity. Their decision to have eight children was largely economic. While both had an uneasy sense that birth control, like a gynecological exam, was against Islam, it was mostly for the per-child social allowance that they had permitted their family to grow. Fifty times eight could not be passed up, so Fatma had spent most of her adult life ballooned by babies.
With every pregnancy, Fatma prayed for a girl. A daughter to follow in her footsteps and to help with chores. A daughter to share the burden of her disappointments, to scold and to love.
