Palestinians who had been chased out of their homes in Jerusalem, Haifa, Yafa, Akka, Jenin, Bethlehem, Gaza, Nablus, Nazareth, Majdal, and every major Palestinian city found a place in Kuwait. The oil boom offered opportunity to build a new life there. Although Kuwait never allowed us more than temporary residency—making it clear we were always guests—Palestinians prospered and had a major hand in building Kuwait as the world knows it now. We participated and contributed in nearly every sector of life, but we remained an underclass.

I knew that, but it didn’t matter. I loved Kuwait. It was my home, and I was a loyal subject of the royals. I lined up every day of school with the other students to sing the national anthem. I sang with passion and allegiance to Kuwait’s successive ruling emirs. I grieved when Emir Sabah Salem el-Sabah died in 1977. And every February 25, we partied like mad to celebrate Kuwait’s Independence Day as if it were our own.

I loved everything about Kuwaitis—their delicate Khaleeji thobes, their matchboos with browned chicken and hot sauce, their diwaniyas, pearl diving traditions, and tribal ways. I even taught myself to speak their dialect and could dance Khaleeji “better than their best.” That’s what someone told me. In eighth grade, I was even selected to be part of the official troupe that danced on a televised celebration for the royals during Independence Day. But unlike the rest of the group, I wasn’t included the following year because people complained, insisting that such an honor should be reserved for Kuwaiti kids.

“They don’t like seeing Palestinians excel at anything,” Mama said to make me feel better, but she only managed to annoy me. I didn’t appreciate her speaking ill about Kuwaitis; but for her, everything came down to being Palestinian, and the whole world was out to get us. It wasn’t until I had survived time, war, and prison that I understood why.

“You see how the whole country is eating zeit-o-za’atar, trying to be like us?” She laughed big. I could see the fillings in her teeth. Now, alone in the Cube, I laugh at the memory, and it’s as if the silver fillings I remember are my own. I tell Mama how much I loved it when she guffawed like that. The guards are accustomed to the conversations I have with the walls. I know I’m alone here. I’m not delusional. But the way memory animates the past is more real than the present. I see and feel and hear Jehad, Sitti Wasfiyeh, Mama, Baba. Most of all, I am with Bilal here.

There were no cell phones or computers when I was a kid, and television offered just two channels—one in Arabic, the other in English with subtitles. Programming started in the evening and lasted until midnight. Both channels opened and closed with readings from the Quran, which we kids waited through impatiently before we could watch cartoons (Tom and Jerry or Road Runner), followed by soap operas. Once a week, each channel showed a movie, heavily censored to remove any hint of physical intimacy, which meant I never saw images of lovers even holding hands. It was obvious where the cuts were made. One moment actors would be looking deeply into each other’s eyes, leaning in for a kiss; next thing they’d be standing farther apart than when they started. The film would spasm, which encouraged us to fill in the cut with a kiss or more. But I wasn’t even good at that. I could only imagine what I already knew, which was simply a peck on the lips, until Suad Marzouq informed us, a group of stunned fourteen-year-olds, that adults kissed with their tongues. We thought she was lying, but we practiced on each other anyway. By the time I was sixteen, I thought I knew everything there was to know about love. My friends and I had managed to get our hands on one or two dirty magazines. Once we even snagged a VHS porn video.