by Nada Faris

My wife lay on the hospital bed glowing with the perspiration of labour while I sat next to her. She slid her delicate fingers into my dark hand and looked lovingly into my eyes. “Tell them to bring him to me,” she asked me and I obliged. When I returned to her side, she told me that she wanted to call him “Andrew.” “Why Andrew?” I asked quite perplexed. She mumbled something about the monarchic weight of the name but when they brought in her child, whose skin was as white as snow, I knew why she named him Andrew and not Ahmad as planned.


Nada Faris works full-time at Kuwait University, and is a part-time graduate student in its Master's Program of Comparative Literature. Her morning begins at 4am with a large mug of Turkish coffee and a heavy dose of writing. (She fills her free hours with football training.)