Yaqoot is an unusual name for Palestinians. One finds it more among Iraqis, which is why I figure my father’s lover was a daughter of Babylon. It means “ruby,” and everyone agrees it’s a rich and resonant Arabic name. But when Mama saw the birth certificate, she screamed and cried and hit my father. She smashed all the plates in our house, hurling a few at him as he ducked left and right. He let her vent, apologized, swore Mama was the only woman he loved, and promised he wouldn’t do it again. They probably made love afterward, had a good run together for a while, then the whole scenario was repeated with another woman.

When she was pregnant the second time, Mama threatened to kill my father if he named the baby after one of his “whores,” but she didn’t have to worry when she birthed a boy. My father named him Wasfy, after his mother, Sitti Wasfiyeh, which was just as bad as far as Mama was concerned. Needless to say, Mama never used the names recorded on our birth certificates. She kept her promise to the river and called me Nahr. My brother Wasfy was Jehad, a name Mama chose, which became yet another point of contention between her and Sitti Wasfiyeh.

Only my family and some administrators at my school knew my real name was Yaqoot, which had an element of fate to it, because when the Americans ousted Saddam, Kuwaiti police asked about someone named Nahr, but my identification card said Yaqoot.

My brother wasn’t as lucky. People called him by either name, or both, Wasfy Jehad. When the Kuwaiti police went on the hunt for Palestinians to exact revenge because Yasser Arafat had sided with Saddam, they knew who they were looking for.

Jehad was only three years old when Baba died of a heart attack in the arms of another woman. Mama lied and said Baba was home when it happened. She made up an elaborate tale that shifted each time she told it. “He was wearing the red flannel pajamas I bought for him,” she would say one moment. The next, he’d be in the green pajamas or just his underwear. In that version she had to dress him quickly before the ambulance came. Mama was a terrible liar, but the truth was too humiliating, even though everyone knew, and Mama knew they knew. The lie wasn’t just to protect her and us from shame. I think she wanted to protect Baba too. Despite everything, Mama loved my father very much. And he loved her, in his own way.

Once, in the heat of a fight over money (it was usually about money), Sitti Wasfiyeh blamed Mama for the death of my father, her only son. “If you had been a better wife, he wouldn’t have had to go to other women,” Sitti Wasfiyeh had said casually as she ate the food Mama had prepared.

“If you had raised a man who knew how to keep his dick in his pants and spent his money on his family instead of on whores, we wouldn’t be having this argument,” Mama fired back. That night, I heard her on the balcony apologizing to my dead father for what she had said. “I forgive you, my love. I miss you,” she spoke softly to the ether.