First, let’s address the elephant in the room. I am a Kuwaiti who writes in English. Does this make me ‘Westernized?’ Or worse, a traitor to ‘authentic Arab heritage?’

Since publishing the first edition of this book, The Elephant in the Room: Stories and Articles from Anglophone Kuwait, which was then titled Before Young Adult Fiction, I’ve been asked by several well-meaning individuals why I neglected the language of the Quran (and of heaven, apparently) and ‘the richest language in the world’ to propagate the language of infidels. And no, I wasn’t asked this in Saudi Arabia or Iran, but in Kuwait, one of the most democratic and liberal states of the Arabian Gulf.

In fact, one man in national garb waved my book in the air at Kuwait’s National Book Fair and cried, “Aren’t you an Arab? Don’t you have Muslim blood running through your veins? Why are you doing this?” And by ‘this,’ of course, he meant ‘write in English,’ as if the language of creative expression somehow cancels out your ethnicity and religion. I smiled and said, “Contrary to popular belief… my blood is O+.”

It should be noted that while I am always tongue-in-cheek (Mischief* is my middle name after all), I am relaying this incident for a serious reason and not simply to make you laugh, though I always make that a priority.

We’re all aware that the entire Arab region is teetering on the brink of a transformation. Change in itself is not entirely a bad thing. The fear of it lies only in the darkness engulfing the manifold opportunities for new ways of life to emerge. Forces with fleshed-out ideologies have already mobilized their troops to elicit the kind of metamorphosis that benefits them most. Today it seems that dogma and ignorant fundamentalism about race, class, or faith are gaining strength.
​
In a nutshell, the aim of my work (and my whole Anglowaiti movement, really) is to establish a serious mindset that recognizes Kuwait as a democratic, Arab sovereign state that appreciates diversity, advocates hard work (not wasta), and offers a haven for anyone (Kuwaiti and non-Kuwaiti) to work and live with respect.

Identity is a peculiar thing. It works despite its mythical origins.

As humans, we cannot help but create narratives about the world and ourselves. Whether true or false, narratives about the self and its place in the world, its duty, and destiny, are imbued with productive energy. Simply put, our narratives allow us to face the immensity of our world and our difficulty in understanding our place within it. Our narratives, therefore, enable us to comfort ourselves and others.

It seems that rather than being about accuracy, identity is about force. It doesn’t just tell us something about ourselves. It moves us; makes us do things, build things, break things. We do not simply invent identities, we embody them, and when we do, we draw on their sources of power.

While only humans create stories about themselves, we live within social and political structures as well as our subjective worldviews. By this I mean that we evolve in social settings, imitating our elders in behavior, language, and taste. When we desire to differentiate from our ancestors, to confront the world, and face the balagan of our existence, we break free, especially when we realize that the very narratives that used to serve as solace now act as anchors, weighing us down, immobilizing us, and blocking our abilities to explore the hidden legends lurking underneath our human skin: our gut instinct.

Today, it seems that everywhere we turn, the debate about our national identity rages on opposite poles. One group eschews the present and shuns modernity with its Western influences (from culture to commodities to travel), dedicating their lives to the very time-consuming task of recreating the past in the present. The other group rejects the past itself, disavowing its influences on their individual and collective identities, and dwelling, instead, in the commercial, secular present, amid their garments and gadgets, desiring to pay taxes, freed from familial and tribal connections.
​
Our battle for national identity in Kuwait is therefore waged in binaries.

Anglowaiti literature is literature in the broadest sense of the word, created by an Anglowaiti for an Anglowaiti audience. It handles Anglowaiti themes, places, characters, and events. The first part of the word (Anglo) refers to the language in which the text is presented. The second part (waiti) is the suffix from the word Kuwaiti and pertains to the focus of the piece.

An Anglowaiti writer is thus any person, born or raised in Kuwait, who writes about their lived experiences using English as his or her language of self-expression.

I coined the term to give Anglowaiti writers a sense of belonging to a collective, because Anglowaiti writers feel alone and ostracized from Kuwait’s mainstream culture, writing for themselves, rarely for others. Even our readers feel separated, since those who purchase an Anglowaiti’s book will not buy another’s. Therefore, it feels as though flattery drives these sales, not genuine interest in the text, because most readers of Anglowaiti literature are in fact related to the authors of the books they purchase. An Anglowaiti’s fan base is therefore comprised of a mishmash of relatives, friends, and acquaintances; rather than genuine fans of their works.

Readers in Kuwait who are capable of reading in English often regard Anglowaiti projects as mediocre imitations of Western texts. Their argument (that the works published in this field are littered with errors, both structural and grammatical) is unfortunately an accurate description of Anglowaiti texts today (including my own). Due to the lack of demand, most writers resort to self-publishing, and since their texts do not generate profit, this makes professional editing services expensive. Thus,  Anglowaiti writers often sacrifice this editorial step on their path toward sharing their words, and when writers request edits, most end up affording only the bare minimum before publishing the final product.¹ While English is ubiquitous in Kuwait, its proliferation is not based on a mastery of the language or writing as a craft, but on how practical its usage is in Kuwait. In other words, despite people’s ungrammatical employment of English here the language continues to serve as an organic vehicle of self-expression, because its available, usable, and graspable.

This means that we begin this speech by agreeing with the detractors of Anglowaiti literature. Many Anglowaiti projects are in fact poorly written because writers do not think anyone reading their texts will judge them. In fact, hardly anyone ever reads their words to begin with except when coaxed. The quality is also low because there’s no commercial drive and thus no motive toward excellence, for example, apart from vanity presses there are currently no publishers seeking Anglowaiti stories, poems, or creative nonfiction.

Put differently, today, Anglowaiti literature faces three interrelated problems.

1. Only a small segment of people in Kuwait read English texts, and those who do would rather read Western literature than what they consider as a mediocre facsimile.
2. Because Anglowaiti literature lacks a built-in audience, international publishers would rather not risk their capital on Anglowaiti projects. The only way that a printing press would take on Anglowaiti manuscripts, therefore, is by asking authors to pay for all the expenses themselves and to market or sell their works on their own. 
3. Because Anglowaiti writers are aware that neither publishers nor readers care about their works, they have been lax with the quality of their final products, wondering, "Why pay for professional editing, publishing, and marketing" when their books won’t make them any money?

I would like to emphasize, however, that this just means that Anglowaiti literature is nascent, still crawling out of its hefty obstacles, hopeful about building a stable foundation in the near future. It is my belief that Anglowaitis must stick together, to share and cultivate our readership, challenge one another by actively improving the standards of our expressions, and to create enough competition among ourselves that will eventually draw publishers and a steady audience to our works.

To begin this journey, I ask all Anglowaitis to stop and ask themselves:

1. Why are they writing in English in the first place?
2. What they’ll write about.
3. And how they’ll tackle the subject.