Leaving Through Basil

The purported properties of basil have no end. It is associated with love and hatred, life and death. It is used to calm and to invigorate. Over the years it has been believed to have magical powers used for both good and evil. It is grown in pots by doorways to attract good fortune and repel scorpions. Sweet basil... grows by the entry to my building in Mahboula, and I enjoy brushing by it's blooms on my way out, smelling its scent.  One of basil's magical properties is the belief that a whiff of the crushed leaf on leaving will reveal the correct path ahead.

In my neighborhood that means avoiding the worst of the overflowing dumpsters and piles of construction rubble. Mahboula, meaning 'mad woman', is an acquired taste. There are many reasons why you might feel sorry for yourself if you have to live here, but I realize that it is the one part of Kuwait I will miss when I leave. For all its faults, Mahboula is the real thing, and there is a camaraderie here that only the hopeless find with each other.  My memories of this place are now intrinsically associated with the scent and sight of the basil herb.

From my window I watch cricket matches on the stretch of sandy lot between the unfinished construction sites. This seems to be the only pastime in a neighborhood with no bars, coffee shops or movie theaters (and an unused beach nearby).  Dedicated to the game, the players are out in sunshine or sandstorm. I watch the same players line up each morning to be bused to work, line up at the only ATM to withdraw their well earned cash, and line up again to wire their money home. I have never joined in their cricket,

but all of their other business is my business too. There is no pretense that we are here for any other reason than the monthly payslip.  And trust Mahboula  to find a way to wire my money to the US when the larger banks couldn't be bothered.
I walk out, through the basil bushes, and immediately hear the horns of taxi cabs, waiting to take me away, out of Mahboula. I am indebted to the cab drivers, with some I am on a first name basis, as they will know where I need to go better than I know myself. They are intelligent, articulate and polite. With them I feel both safe and connected to my neighborhood.

None of us contribute much financially to Mahboula, we send all our money elsewhere. But I am quite happy to let one of the local restaurants cook for me and have my dinner delivered. And if I'm feeling in the mood to bake chocolate chip banana bread I go out in search of ingredients. The nearby bakalas have a strange assortment of products and I enjoy poking around to see what can be found. The storekeepers greet me warmly and then beg me to let them help me find what I need. One digs up fresh red apples, another has tonic water tucked away, and they always find change.
I was quite proud of myself in finding a local bakery. The bakery workers didn't quite understand why I was taking pictures with my phone of their open-air ovens, and I never quite worked out when and what to buy.  But I was still greeted with shouts of enthusiasm when I walked by. I don't think they get many women walking by.

Mahboula's streets do not have women and children.  At first I felt uncomfortable being a lone woman among so many men.  Now I know that I am safe here. Everyone here behaves in fear of deportation. We all line up obediently to be counted, to be fed, to be moved from place to place and to be allowed to live in Kuwait. It is when I leave my neighborhood, my community, that I encounter prejudice, disrespect and disdain.  Here in Mahboula I am safe from those who wish me harm.
Foodies is my nearest eatery and serves rotisserie chicken. In order to walk past Foodies I have to climb over a pile of construction material or go into the street, jump across an open sewer and try not to be disgusted by the rotting garbage of the open dumpster. I am repelled, yet the owner will often run out and greet me as a long lost friend. I am drawn into conversation and make a mental note to put his chicken on the menu soon. Like the basil plant, Mahboula both repels, and sustains; supporting its own by recognizing what each really needs: community.

Mahboula saw through me when we met,

Then would leave me not alone;

Time, you thief, who love to set

 Memories, carve that in stone!

Say I'm beaten, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me,

Say I failed again, but add

Mahboula suffered with me.

(adapted from poem by Leigh Hunt 1838)