As a Kuwaiti who writes in English, am I ‘Westernized?’

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.

"So, why are you writing in English and not in Arabic?"

My vision for Kuwait is not only tied to Anglophone literature. Arabic, as a language of creative expression, can (and must) attempt to carry out the same ideal. I write in English, though, because it is how I was taught to think and to communicate. I was educated in private English schools in Kuwait, gained a Bachelor’s degree in English Language and Literature at Kuwait University, and then enrolled in the Master’s Program of Comparative Literature (which is taught entirely in English). Does this make me Westernized? I argue that it does not.

The people who ask me why I write in English if I’m an Arab (let’s call them ‘Traditionalists’ for now) fear everything Western at the same time that they absorb everything Western. They attend Western cinemas, purchase entire wardrobes from Western retail stores, drive their Western cars to work, check their schedules on Western gadgets, and generally live a remarkably bourgeois existence based on the idolatry of Western commodities. Their homes are decked in Western paraphernalia, their knowledge of Western brands supersedes their knowledge of Quranic history or verse (which they memorize out of context, anyway), and their worldly goals or aspirations crystallize in their ability to travel to Western locations. They, in fact, burden themselves with loans just to spend a few weeks in London or New York. Yet, when I write a story about Kuwait in English, I am called "Westernized."

When I attend private schools that teach English as a primary language, schools that submit to Kuwait’s Ministry of Education’s guidelines, schools owned by Kuwaitis; and when I am surrounded by other Arabs in these schools, or when I return home to the bosom of my own family afterward — I am called "Westernized." When they watch a Western movie, when they brag about their trips to the West, no one brings up the topic of ‘choice.’ When I learn English as a primary language from a young age though, ‘choice’ is the only issue that comes up. Nobody mentions Kuwait’s agency.

“Why do you choose to neglect Arabic and write in English?”

This contradiction is a trivial place to start this conversation, so allow me to switch gears. What I do and what they do are entirely different things. That’s why it’s important for us to discuss this further. Traditionalists, who consume Western culture, feel confident in their ability to recognize the constellation of commodities as Western products. What I do is different. I produce something using Western features, and yet, I, myself, am not Western. I am thus creating a bastard commodity that fits nowhere in their mental binary structure, which threatens their convenient notions of “self” and “other.” They are Arabs who use Western commodities, but they know, deep down, that they are much better than Westerners — after all, their language (Arabic) will be spoken in the afterlife. Yet, here I am talking about an identity rooted in the English language and not an identity that merely uses the language the way someone puts on a pair of socks in the morning without it impacting their sense of self.

But isn’t English the language of colonialism?

Traditionalists in Kuwait fear the hybrid product (an English text by an Arab) for a reason. Arab history is fraught with various forms of Western oppression: colonialism, wars, orchestrated coups d’état, economic exploitation, and vilification in global media, for example. Writing in the ‘language of the oppressor’ has been a serious concern for many writers of color. I understand their concerns; but I would also like to point out that Kuwait has its own history and relationship to the English language, and to conflate our own struggles, fears, or aspirations with a blurry notion of ‘Arab’ identity built on nostalgia and depthless memories is harmful to the welfare of our country.

Unlike many Arab states, Kuwait was never ‘colonized’ by the West. Colonialism was a despicable period in human history, and every serious writer (Arab or otherwise) must assert this point. I am, however, distinguishing a vital feature of Kuwait history from the vague montage Traditionalists define as Arab identity. Additionally, what threatened Kuwait’s national security or assaulted its people and their values came not from the West — as with most other Arab states — but from other Arab/Muslim countries, such as Iraq, Iran, and Saudi Arabia.

Throughout its history, Kuwait has continued to struggle to maintain its independence. Liberals in Kuwait glorify the West for their role in protecting Kuwait from the Ottoman threat in 1899, and for liberating Kuwait from the Iraqi aggression in 1991. It would be naïve though to embody a blind form of gratitude. The world, after all, has moved on from 1991 (even though Kuwait finds this hard to believe), and global capitalism has infiltrated minute aspects of our lives. Western exploitation, today, takes shape on both macrocosmic and microcosmic levels, and as serious Anglowaiti writers, if we are going to be quick to recognize Arab aggressors from our past (Iraq, Iran, or Saudi Arabia), we must also be vigilant about modern forms of Western exploitation, including the types we have localized and engraved in our common culture.

I am referring to the colonial attitude of the master/slave dichotomy or the God’s-regent-on-earth mentality plaguing today’s Kuwaiti politics, which were both adopted from the British Empire and transformed into, nowadays, recognizable Kuwaiti character traits. (“You mean to tell me that by letting my servant eat the leftovers of my children’s dinner I am acting like a British imperialist? But… I pray five times a day!”).

"Alright, Kuwait’s position in the East/West binary is complex, but you are still Westernized, aren’t you?"

If I’m anything, I’m patriotic. My loyalty is to Kuwait, its leaders, its people, and its welfare. Let me be clear about my severe criticism of Western politics and culture. I do not and will not call for a remodeling of Kuwait based on Western standards. History shows it never works. What I am endorsing, however, is conscientious adherence to our inherent policies of inclusion, democracy, and cooperation. I don’t know what the man at the book fair meant when he spoke about Muslim blood. Kuwait used to be extremely supportive of religious diversity. So was Islamic culture, in fact.

It is true that Islam is identified as the country’s primary religion, which means that Kuwait has clung to some Islamic policies, like sounding the prayer call five times a day and imposing fasting guidelines during the holy month of Ramadan. Nevertheless, Kuwait also contained, not very long ago, a thriving Jewish population. Additionally, cross-cultural marriages during the pearling era prospered as Kuwaiti merchants and sailors married women from different backgrounds. This means that Kuwait used to be much more tolerant of race and religion — in other words, diversity is inherent in our own history. It’s not a ‘Western’ import. I understand the horror associated with the ideals I am preaching, because ‘democracy’ and ‘tolerance’ have been utilized by Western powers to subjugate the Arab world. Nevertheless, the reason I am asserting them today is to reclaim them. These words do not belong to the West. They never did. To blind ourselves to our own agency, to our own ability to repossess these terms and, instead of the terror affiliated with them, attach our own concepts and ideals is to revel in fruitless victimhood, and I cannot with good conscience submit to this attitude.

My education does not make me Westernized. It makes me the result of contemporary circumstances, a byproduct of a Kuwaiti society impacted by modern conditions. By the time my parents began paying for my private education, Kuwait had already launched a national TV station dedicated to English speakers; street signs already included English translations, and so did everything from medicine bottles to milk cartons. In other words, to call anyone who studies in English schools ‘Westernized’ is to call absolutely everyone living in Kuwait today the same thing. We are all ‘Westernized,’ if by that it means ‘transformed by modern conditions instigated by Western powers.’

Your children, who are using iPhones and Android devices before learning to speak, who are wearing clothes from Mothercare, and who watch Barney or Big Bird on flat-screen TVs, will also be affected by the same socio-economic conditions. Because of continual changes in the social sphere, we, the people, transform. We become different from previous generations. Our youngsters exhibit certain skills and patience when video gaming, for instance, and disinterestedness and distraction when confronted by old, educational methodologies. Our youngsters are not aberrations of national culture. They are natural outcomes. And so am I.

The only alternative to the accusation that we are all ‘Westernized’ is a luddite and fundamentalist view of the world where the only pathway forward (to cleanse the stain of ‘Westernization') is moving backward into premodernity. Why should these ‘youngsters,’ or you, for that matter, dictate how we should live? Don’t you trust that older people know what’s best for us? Since the bulk of Kuwait’s population is below the age of 28, I don’t see why we, young adults, are prohibited from social, literary, or political deliberations. I am not saying we should forget about ‘old people’ who are entrenched in outdated notions like East/West, nature/culture, or tradition/modernity. I am saying it is time to modernize our lexicon.

We need to address palpable struggles that we — people in Kuwait, that is, not imagined variations of ‘the Arab’ — experience on a daily basis, things like cross-cultural marriages, reconciling our national and regional identities, the growth of both apathy and violence, repressed sexualities, and, as artists, what our work should look like, to whom we address it, and from whom to seek patronage, to name a few concerns. Traditional media (our local newspapers, state-sponsored TV, or publishing houses) continue to represent the ideology of an outdated figuration of Kuwaiti identity based, in part, on the 90s invasion, and in another, on the closed-minded, racist superiority of nationals derived from our quasi-colonial history. These publications sideline the struggles of more than 60% of the population. Indians, Egyptians, Filipinos, Palestinians, and others who continue to build the country are represented as mere fillers or extras in national narratives while also sidelining their abilities to tell their stories and express themselves in their own words.

"What then does Anglowaiti literature offer?"

First, it offers a decentered perspective. As the book fair example attests, though Anglowaitis are natural outcomes of our nation’s fabric, we are viewed with suspicion and our struggles are concealed or marginalized. Of course, some of us (like me) are also very privileged. By virtue of our citizenship, we get away with things that non-national Anglowaitis or non-nationals in general cannot. I would thus cut off my writing arm before I claim that we can or should “give voice to the voiceless” in our own works. I have always turned away from the prospect of ventriloquism for real representation, one based on extending our privilege in terms of access to resources and platforms so those who were previously invisible get to tell their stories and create art on their own terms.

What I will claim, however, is that making English a language of national creative expression and shedding light on Anglowaiti struggles (for example, like the person who was born in Kuwait and who has lived all his life here but whose parents had immigrated from India) will democratize our views about national identity. In other words, not to give voice to the voiceless but to soften the people in charge enough so that they decrease institutionalized racism, or to go about the more practical business of reshaping our own cultural landscape, one day at a time. From my experience thus far, I have found that English can indeed act as a medium of communication between nationals and non-nationals in Kuwait.

For instance, creative social workers could convey their personal struggles to an Anglowaiti audience already cultivated to recognize and criticize (objectively) social and economic malpractices. And before any self-righteous Kuwaiti begins to claim, “But they are too poor to be creative,” “or too foreign to know English,” I ask you to keep your racism to yourself. I have known a number of ‘tea boys’ who shared my same degree (BA in English Language and Literature), and I have also performed on stage with some talented ‘fast food workers.’ So do me a favor and, before you make any racist claims, maybe get to know some of the people you want to talk about first?


Conclusion
​
I recommend Anglowaiti literature for the love of Kuwait. Please bear in mind that whereas I coined the term, I was not the first Kuwaiti to write in English. Kuwaitis have been publishing and producing Anglophone literature for ages. Some works, like Shurooq Amin’s poetry, Slaiman Al-Bassam’s theater, Zahed Sultan’s music, or Mai Al-Nakib’s prose, possess a caliber of excellence that I could never emulate. What I am proposing, however, is a joint effort by all Anglowaiti writers to give our art a social dimension, to join a collective debate about what it means to live in Kuwait yet write in English, and to support one another.

---

Nada Faris has more than 10 years of experience facilitating writing workshops that help people increase their self-awareness and uncover their authentic desires.​ Consider booking her for readings, workshops, or speaking engagements, and schedule a free discovery call to discuss your event and timeline.   ​

---

Notes

• This is an edited version of the Introduction, “Was the Word,” that appeared in my self-published book The Elephant in the Room: Stories and Articles from Anglophone Kuwait, June 2014, pages 5–16.
  
• I wrote a book titled Mischief Diary.