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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. We view the past as a concrete edifice on which we now stand or as the source of all our grudges: economic inequalities, bureaucratic stagnation, and xenophobia. Herein lies the deadlock: We either return to “our roots” or sever from them for good. Our historical identity used to be “tribal,” “religious,” “familial,” or “sectarian.” In the beginning of the Twentieth Century, our “national” identity was formed with the implementation of citizenships. All of these ways of identifying as members of collectives, however, are mythical constructs with productive power. Historical identity is based on our social past and our collective memory of this social past. Similar to other forms of identification (gender, class, race, disability, sexuality, our religious sects, ethnicity, and so on), historical identity (which transcends citizenship) is vital to our stability as a nation. In other words, a historically Kuwaiti identity existed before the political one that emerged as a result of the introduction of citizenships and identity cards. Casting our historical identity aside (throwing the baby with the bathwater) is detrimental to our wellbeing. While national identity contains mythical features, it also unlocks incredible potential for solidarity, resistance, and generosity. This potential manifested during the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait in 1990, when Kuwaitis prioritized their national allegiance above all others. In other words, neither a historically Kuwaiti identity (which transcends citizenships) or a political Kuwaiti identity (who the law dictates we are) are inherently evil. They have both aided in protecting our homeland in the past and are both equally problematic when weaponized against people or used to legitimize and justify barbaric laws that merely dehumanize others. A homeland, after all, must feel like a home that one can decide to be rooted in. How can an Anglowaiti writer approach identity in their works? An Anglowaiti writer may approach the subject of identity by grappling with its tensions. While merely a categorical label, for instance, our historical identity is still important on social and political levels. Second, the past contains seeds of powerful potential for the betterment of society. In sifting through the past, one of our responsibilities as Anglowaiti writers is gathering these seeds and cultivating them in the present, so that we may nurture the hidden legends that ensure a more inclusive, secure, and productive future for our homeland, and by extension, to the rest of the world. Third, accompanying these seeds involves a series of misfortunes and shameful blunders. The past is not the site of eternal glory. Rather, it is a chain of choices, some beneficial and others disastrous. Unlike individuals who sound only the praises of the past, the Anglowaiti writer’s task is to conduct serious, critical, and objective analyses of our previous mistakes: these mistakes ought to be highlighted, displayed, and discussed in the Anglowaiti text. In other words, Anglowaiti writers should view the national narrative through a pragmatic lens, not an idealistic one, and they should build on the kernels of positivity while locating the roots of our serious errors in order to help discover solutions and avoid duplicating errors. To break the deadlock, we must think beyond binaries. Our identity is indeed a result of the past. This doesn’t make it stable. Rather, our identity is fluid, always ready for new transformations. The choice for us should not be about reliving a dead identity or adopting an idealistic, abstract, and perhaps a politically motivated version, because the world is still full of borders, sanctions, and legal constraints. Instead of pretending that they do not exist, our job is to change, mend, and render political narratives more inclusive. In the introduction of my self-published book, The Elephant in the Room: Stories and Articles from Anglophone Kuwait, which I wrote for the community as I was developing my thoughts on identity, language, and art, I write:
I write this because there is no “us” and “them” in a country. There is only us, all of us living in close proximity to one another, working for our livelihoods and families, enjoying public and private resources, and contributing to the nation’s history, security, and future. This does not imply that there are no differences or distinctions between citizens. There should be. We are human after all, and these variations mean we are living beings, striving and evolving at different paces. Even conflicts, when resolved, lead to closeness and higher planes of awareness. Friction that is the outcome of differences in contact is fundamental. The aim is not to deny or efface differences, or to write stories that entrench them. Rather, the aim is to ensure that regardless of our differences we interact within the nation-sphere as valued members of society, enjoying our unbiased rights, and exercising fair responsibilities. Our art should aspire to generate (even if it does not spoon-feed) an identity based on cooperation, respect, agency, hard work, and strength. If we, as artists, are not mindful of the power of our words, we may, as Slavoj Žižek says, set the stage for another post-Yugoslav experience “where ethnic cleansing was prepared for by the poets’ dangerous dreams.”¹ Anglowaiti literature is art with a social function. Through this literature we can fashion a better future for Kuwait one word at a time.
NotesThis is an edited version of the article originally published in CityPages in March 2015, page 88.
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AuthorNada Faris is a writer and literary translator from Kuwait. BookingConsider booking Nada for: readings, workshops, or speaking engagements
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