There is the well-known story that, over the years, has morphed into something like a legend, even myth, about the man who–married or not, we will never know– one Tuesday morning in April was walking down Salem Mubarak street thinking of nothing in particular, minding his own early- morning business, when he happened to spot two women with hijabs sitting outside a coffee shop, drinking their coffees, smoking cigarettes and laughing about last night’s Turkish soap opera that was cleverly silly, in a romantic way.
The story goes on that the man–whose name we will never know or even care to know – first heard the women, their big laughter filling the morning, and then second, saw them, and without the slightest hesitation, as if all along it had been a part of his early-morning mission, walked up to the louder, the smokier of the two, and with thumb-and-forefinger precision yanked the cigarette from her mouth and tossed it into the street where almost immediately a bread truck crushed it. The man never broke stride, never looked back, never said a word.
The woman, once the initial shock wore off, by now had half-risen from her coffee shop chair and in her best Turkish soap opera voice, yelled, “Hey.” Of course, she said more, so the story goes, louder, harsher, a terrible- Arabic name-calling, as did her friend who stood to join her, as wisps of hijab-free hair swirled about their faces. However, by now the man had crossed the street and was busy looking up into the trees that were full of springtime bloom.
The story goes on to say that after the name- calling did nothing to stop him, not to mention flinging a cigarette lighter his direction, not even a glance back, that the two women called the police, and before long a police car with flashing lights pulled up in front of the coffee shop, and the two women told all. The police officer took notes and nodded and asked a question or two. When it came to the part about, “What did he look like? His appearance?” the woman who had had her cigarette abused repeated, “What did he look like?” while busily tucking strands of loose hair under her hijab. The police officer waited, ready to take more notes, his police car at the kerb, engine running, red and blue lights flashing. This is when she looked at her friend, and after a short wait, followed by some head- to-head murmurings, they shrugged, saying, “A man, not too tall with dishdasha, yes, he was wearing a dishdasha, and oh, by the way, yes, yes, his hair was dark, very dark.” All the while the police officer nodded, his pen and notebook at the ready.
As abuses go, this plucking a cigarette from a woman’s lips, in the grand scheme of things, is nothing. And yet – the myth goes on to say – later that day there were more rumors and reports of cigarettes being pulled from women’s mouths, the culprit being a not too tall man with dishdasha who silently went about this business, strolling through a bright April morning.
More police were alerted, more police cars with lights flashing, screeching to a halt in front of assorted coffee shops. But he was never captured and to this day, as they might say on TV police dramas, remains at large.
In certain traditional circles that April, Tuesday has become one of celebration, a day of remembrance; and, if truth be told, the no-named stranger has, over the years, gained a heroic stature – the stuff of gold-plated plaques and diwaniya speeches because he dared to take things into his own hands, to right the many wrongs infecting the Salmiya district, not to mention the country, and beyond, so say certain traditional circles.
Photo by Alev Takil on Unsplash.
