Khaleeji Identity in Transition: Modernity & the Comedies of Survival
INTRODUCTION
During the twentieth century, as empires dissolved and wars waged across the Western world, a quiet change unfolded in the seaside villages of the Arabian Gulf states. The transition from old villages to modern cities began to take shape, and it was time for Khaleeji communities to depart from the unassuming yet familiar and intimate spaces they held dear. These included the mudbrick houses, the ragged markets, the weathered ports, and the wooden ships that carried both hope and death. The freej also deserves a notable mention as the narrow rustic neighborhood where inhabitants forged strong connections with one another amidst their collective battle for survival. In the late 1970s, audiences of three generations representing the Gulf’s defining stages of transition — the pre-oil period, the transformative and liminal phase of in-betweens, and the new modern society of the nation-state — came together to watch dramas that reminded them of a time caught between two worlds: the old and the new. Blurred lines were drawn between the past and the present, with automobiles driven in a surrealist spectacle in pre-oil districts, while mechanical ships with loud engine noises competed with the folkloric nahma, the sea shanties sung by brown-skinned crews.
This Essay attempts to analyze two Khaleeji dramas of transition: Ash’hafan (1978), which premiered on Abu Dhabi TV, and Darb Al-Zalag (1977), which premiered on Kuwait TV. Ash’hafan was co-created by its leading actors, Sultan Al-Shamesi, also known as Sultan Al-Shaer (1939-2009), who was both the writer and the protagonist playing the title character, and Mohammad Al-Janahi (1940-2008), who was both the scenarist and an actor in the work. Darb Al-Zalag, which translates to “The Road that Leads to the Fall,” was written by Abdulamir Al-Turki, and starred Abdulhussain Abdulredha and Saad al-Faraj, among others. These works, I argue, portray both the tragic and the comic aspects of Khaleeji seaside villages during a pivotal stage of inescapable transformation and change. Interestingly, the actors and screenwriters were either born or came of age in this era, most likely the 1940s and the 1950s, and their performances became, in themselves, acts of remembrance. What this Essay aims to reveal is that these works, though seemingly comic on the surface, were implicit manifestations of the somewhat tragic lives experienced by previous Khaleeji generations. They represent modern experiments that showcase how Gulf intellectuals and artists engaged with the early emergence of modernity in their countries. Beyond mere nostalgia, these tragi-comic works were centered on the narratives of mock-heroic characters situated in the liminal space between the pre-oil, pre-modern past and the ambitious, prosperous present. This thematic focus necessitates a scholarly inquiry that recognizes these profound artistic endeavors within the literature and cultural productions of the Arab Gulf states, which remain both understudied and underrepresented in modern discourse of identity formation in the Khaleej.
DEFENDING THE KHALEEJI MODERN
Defining the period reflected and remembered by the two Khaleeji dramas is a necessary point of departure in uncovering the cultural, social, and political preoccupations of the time, in addition to how they relate to and project the complexity of transition. In a recent book chapter, Kuwaiti author Farah Al-Nakib answers the inquiry of when the experience of “modernity” began in the region, arguing that it is “historically situated in the mid-twentieth century (roughly from the end of World War II to the early 1980s),” a period that would eventually reach the globalized, postmodern present.1 Thus, Ash’hafan and Darb Al-Zalag were produced at the peak of the Khaleeji modern era. Al-Nakib is attentive and critical of how Western and Orientalist scholarly tendencies have neglected this “modern era” and its subsequent complications and paradoxes, which accompanied “oil modernization in the Gulf” in the decades between the pre-oil past and the globalized present. She states that “a range of processes, experiences, and conditions were distinct to that time period not only in the region but also globally.”2 The Gulf has often been viewed through a limited, two-dimensional lens: the traditional/pre-oil and ultramodern/post-oil. This binary perspective is a symptom of “the prevailing disregard and denial of the Gulf’s modernity.”3 The Orientalist gaze often constructs a narrative that juxtaposes hypermodern developments with timeless tribal traditions, failing to account for the complex historical transition and cultural amalgamation within the Gulf.
The disparity becomes evident when contrasted with the scholarly descriptions of cities like Cairo, Damascus, Beirut, and Baghdad. These cities are not only depicted as the “old centers” of Arab modernity but also as places that represented “a long, rich, and complex dialogue with, struggle over, and acceptance of modernity,” as reflected in art, intellectual thought, architecture, and urbanization.4 Promoting such a view neglects the fact that the Arabian Gulf has long been a crossroads of diverse cultures. Nomadic tribes traversed the peninsula, intersecting with migrants and pilgrims on the way to the holy cities of Makkah and Medina. For centuries, the Gulf served as a vital trade link along the Silk Road, playing a notable role in cultural and economic exchanges. The region was also a global hub for pearling, with pearls symbolizing wealth and power not only traded in major cities like Istanbul and Bombay, but also sought after by international jewelers. This is exemplified by Jacques Cartier’s famous visit to meet a prominent pearl trader in Bahrain in 1912.5 Even before the advent of oil, the Gulf was “deeply integrated into the economic and cultural world of the Indian Ocean,”6 and this historical integration is evidenced by extensive archaeological findings, including early trading networks and urban settlements that reveal a complex and interconnected society.
Such evidence dispels any notion of the Gulf’s isolation from international connectivity in the pre-oil era. Khaleeji modernity, and the way it accepted, rejected, negotiated, and appropriated new ideas, was never a mere replica of Western modernity or of what are often labeled as the ‘great’ centers of modernity in the Arab world. Al-Nakib aptly argues that “being modern in the early decades of oil was embraced with much pragmatism and enthusiasm across the Arab Gulf — and, for the most part, in true modernist style, with little sentimentality or nostalgia for what was being left behind. Sentimentality and nostalgia — which eventually found their physical expression in national heritage — came later.”7
I aim to focus specifically on the nostalgia that came later and the dramas of transition that brought into light these forgotten in-betweens of a liminal world that is neither fully traditional nor yet modern. While Al-Nakib was intrigued by how the memory of the modern experience was “erased into obscurity in official, popular, and scholarly discourses of the region’s political, social, cultural, and urban development,”8 I pursue a reading of popular works that confront such lingering forgetfulness by creating a remembrance in performance.
MODERNITY AS THE BACKDROP OF KHALEEJI DRAMAS
It is exactly the in-betweens that inspire the creators of the two aforementioned Khaleeji dramas. Modernity, with its element of “the shock of the new”, a defining feature of modernity as prescribed by Richard Dennis,9 is set against the backdrop of the narrative and performance as opposed to its traditional surface. One of the most enduring themes in modernist literature is its obsession with the classics, or what are considered the foundational works of a given culture. When doing so, one can not only create a sense of continuity and dialogue with the past, but also use such literary references to critique contemporary issues. Ash’hafan and Darb Al-Zalag can be associated with the masterpieces of Arabic Literature, such as Al-Jahiz (776-869) and his Al-Bukhalaa, or the Book of Misers, which tell stories of both historical and imaginary tight-fisted individuals. As such, these works could operate as notable sources for Al-Shaer’s Ash’hafan. For Darb Al-Zalag, one may refer to Maqamat Al-Hariri, written by the Hariri of Al-Basra (1054-1122), which narrates tales of thieves, con artists, and students wandering the Islamic empire and using deception and roguery, often through language, to obtain money by unethical means. Both classical works were written by authors who resided in an area that overlooks the Arabian Gulf. Given the flexibility of movement and the fact that nation-state boundaries were only imposed in the last century, one might be tempted to consider them the works of Khaleeji medieval authors. The Khaleej, as a Mediterranean sea in West Asia, was the locale from which all of the aforementioned artistic contributions, medieval and modern, were created.
Returning to modernity, once explored and investigated, the works appear to engage with the ‘new’ in a pragmatic manner. At times, this ‘newness’ co-exists with the characters and is employed to drive the narrative. At other times, it serves as a prophecy for the future of the nation-states that each drama represents. For instance, Ash’hafan, the stingy character in the small community of the freej, gives a defensive rhetoric for why he only purchased the head of a sheep.10 He delivers the speech to Makadeet, the prankster who tries to humiliate Ash’hafan, and Al-Karrani, Makadeet’s sidekick. Ash’hafan defends his choice by displaying his knowledge of modern technology and engaging in a dialogue that addresses power dynamics in political and military spheres:
“I’ll add a verse to the poem for you,” Ash’hafan tells Makadeet.
Makadeet asks, “What else?”
Ash’hafan responds, “Who created the samareekh (rockets in old Khaleeji dialect)? Wasn’t it the brain? And who created al-ajl al-electroni (the electronic brain, likely a reference to computers)? And what succeeded in getting humans to land on the moon? Wasn’t it the brain?”
“All of that in the head, Ash’hafan!” Makadeet inquires.
“Yes, and I’ll add more to it if you want,” Ash’hafan continues. “The head is only devoured by the head. Haven’t you heard of the head of the army or the head of the battalion? And the word ra’ees (which can be translated to ‘President’ in English) actually comes from ras (which means ‘the head’ in Arabic).”11
In this scene, Ash’hafan is clearing himself from the accusation of bukhl, or “miserliness”, by presenting the “theory of the head,” which convinces Makadeet and Al-Karrani to steal the head after it is cooked. The “electronic brain,” al-ajl al-electroni, pronounced in a very traditional Emirati accent, leaves the two friends in awe of the head’s physiological significance and its potential when used to its full mental capacity. This speech leads Al-Karrani to designate Ash’hafan as the originator of the theory of “the right mind in the right head.” Pragmatic in his pursuit of immediate vindication, neither Ash’hafan nor Al-Shaer, who portrays him, could have foreseen that the United Arab Emirates would become a regional pioneer in high-tech and space exploration. What was once merely a dream has now come to life in the same land that heard the memorable speech of this iconic Emirati character. Thus, modernity is present in the early phase of the transition as a concept – welcomed, though rarely adapted – and the achievements realized a few decades later demonstrate how the artistic captured the concerns of the period while also foreseeing future advancements. Between the artistic of the ‘then’ and the scientific accomplishment of the ‘now’ lie the amalgamated efforts of generations that engaged with modernity, culminating in today’s hypermodern reality.
In Darb Al-Zalag, the shock of the ‘new’ is absorbed, yet the enthusiasm of the possibilities of the future take a turn for the worse, as suggested by the title, indicating an unfortunate and tragic fall. The main characters were preoccupied with overcoming inherited class distinctions, dreaming of becoming businessmen, and, more specifically, tiyar, a term that refers to wealthy elites in the pre-oil period in Kuwait. The drama illustrates how the hierarchies of the past have seamlessly integrated into the framework of the modern nation-state, revealing the political and social dimensions of Darb Al-Zalag. When the government buys the house of the two brothers, noting the valuation or tathmeen era, the transition from one economic status to another, which mirrors the broader national transition, finally seems possible. The Kuwaiti government purchased homes in the downtown area to develop modern Kuwait City. Most residents used the compensation they received to buy or build new houses. However, the valuation committee, lajnat al-tathmeen, unfairly favored some individuals, leading to a wealthy class who benefited from personal connections. This issue is humorously discussed throughout Darb Al-Zalag.
The first project of the two brothers, Hussein and Saad bin Aqool, was selling shoes, but they were scammed into ordering only left pairs. Saad tells an unsatisfied customer that “this is how they wear them in Europe,”12 in an effort to use an imagined style of modernity in the sale of the product. Their second business venture was selling canned dog food. Hussein tells the Indian employee to pass by the Kuwait Oil Company base in Al-Ahmadi, “where Europeans reside,” assuming the likelihood of caring for dogs would be higher there.13 These locales are precisely the places Western scholars of the region’s cultural history have designated as either teaching or imposing modernity on the area. However, modernity was never imposed. Global cultural influences, including those from the Arab world and the Indian Ocean trade routes, provide ample evidence that even though British and American oil companies certainly positioned themselves as agents of new lifestyles that promoted a particular “brand of modernity,”14 Arab Gulf states modernized on their own terms. The failure to sell canned dog food to foreigners, particularly because the employee traveled all the way southward to the Kuwait-Saudi border without stopping in Al-Ahamdi — where English and European expatriates reside in company towns and garden suburbs constructed in the desert — highlights how the drama suggests that modernity, while diverging from the past, is not inherently Western. Pivoting the failure of the first iteration of the enterprise, Hussein, acting both as an entrepreneur and a con artist, decides to rebrand the product to deceive people into believing it is a modern food industry innovation that cans traditional Kuwaiti dishes like margoog and majboos. The product becomes popular among Kuwaitis because it is perceived as modern and foreign, leading them to continued consumption. This epidemic results in Hussein’s arrest and punishment by the police.
One of the business ventures preceding the ultimate downfall is paradoxically futuristic and anti-colonial. It builds upon the myth that the British Empire, during its occupation of Egypt from 1882 to 1956, contemplated transporting the Egyptian pyramids to England but were thwarted by their immense weight and monumental scale. Hussein, who has witnessed every stage of his nation’s transformative era, is both astonished and mesmerized by the grandeur of Khaleeji modernity, leading him to believe that such an audacious task is achievable. On a business trip in Egypt, the quintessential center of Arab modernity, and after striking a deal with a con man named Fuad Basha, Hussein tells his brother Saad: “I decided to move the Pyramids to Kuwait, I’ll take them wholesale!”15 By the final episode, a matchbox factory — falsely claimed by Hussein to be outperforming a competitor in Oklahoma — is deliberately set on fire. The two brothers had invested all their remaining funds in this factory, and Hussein orchestrated the fire to save himself from financial ruin and reclaim the insurance money. When the scheme fails, the two brothers are once again plunged into extreme poverty, now amidst a city of modern buildings and skyscrapers in a wealthy nation.
LONG LIVE OUR FREEJ: THE TRAGICOMIC & THE MOCK-HEROIC
In both Ash’hafan and Darb Al-Zalag, comedy was a means of surviving the harsh conditions of pre-oil communities. Poverty, and shouldering its undeniable reality, was re-experienced by actors who came of age in similar communal quarters and societal structures in Kuwait and the UAE. This is confirmed in multiple interviews with the actors of the two shows, where their recollections, often comedic and genuine, always refer to the poverty they endured, the transition that they witnessed, and the friends and neighbors they knew in the freej. In a way, the memory of the freej is captured in its entirety through the pranks played in Ash’hafan by Makadeet and Al-Karrani, or by the failed business ventures of the brothers, Hussein and Saad, which all unfold in the very intimate spaces where neighbors engage in romantic affairs, poverty is ridiculed, and the sense that the daily and the familiar were about to change forever.
In one of the opening scenes of Darb Al-Zalag, viewers come across the phrase “Long live our freej!” written on the wall of a mudbrick house constructed by the late patriarch of the Bin Aqool family. The family informs the government official, who has come to appraise their property for replacement by the modern Kuwait City infrastructure, that their father not only built the house himself but also maintained it with bricks he salvaged from the sea, which nearly cost him his life. The writing on the wall would invite viewers to remember a different form of communal belonging, one that was strongly felt before the transition and experienced by only a few in the current generation. The district was seen as a larger home, where bonds were formed not only in childhood, but also through the identification with the memories and post-memories of older relatives. Post-memory, a term introduced by Marianne Hirsch, refers to the subsequent generation’s connection to their predecessors’ trauma through the narratives, images, and behaviors they were exposed to. This concept is valuable for analysis, as it helps us understand how memories of the freej, and stories of love, struggle, sacrifice, generosity, or even pranks and humorous anecdotes, are passed down through generations.
Both the Kuwaiti and Emirati dramas do not fail to substantiate that element of the freej life. In several scenes in Ash’hafan, Makadeet persuades the title character to join or become the victim of his roguish schemes by repeatedly emphasizing that they are sons of the same neighborhood. Such sentiments of communal allegiance underscore how the Kuwaiti and the Emirati pre-oil experiences intersect. Departing from the freej is artistically met, decades later, with the performative act of returning to live in an imagined version of it in production studios. Directors and actors likely debated and shared insights into what the old freej looked like, engaging in a layered process of collective memory and reimagination.
Designating a genre for the two Khaleeji dramas poses a challenge, yet it helps us appreciate the genius behind their creative contributions. These works are mock-heroic, particularly when compared to earlier dramas, films, and television shows that highlighted the heroism and nobility of people from the pre-oil period, celebrating the epics of the sea and the desert. In Ash’hafan and Darb al-Zalag, the epic is reimagined to reflect the experiences of a generation that endured poverty and modernity, emerging with resilience. These dramas are also tragi-comic, blending elements that evoke both sadness and amusement in their audiences. Hussein’s attempted suicide after losing his only opportunity to leave his social and economic status, and Ash’hafan’s loss of his hidden cash, devoured by insects and other creatures, symbolize the ultimate fate of those who live through such conditions. These sorrowful and traumatic events display the profound emotional impact of the dramas, offering both catharsis and insightful social commentary.
“DEBT IS FORBIDDEN!”: TRANSITION & PAYING THE DEBT OF PAST GENERATIONS
The transition portrayed in these works, if we view them as dramas of transition, is dually external and internal. The internal transition is evident in character development, especially in how Ash’hafan transforms into a generous individual after his cousins and tribe members visit him from the desert. This shift highlights how the ethical foundations of his community influence his transformation into someone deemed honorable and praiseworthy. As discussed earlier, the community’s heroic and noble traits are valued above individual characteristics. In the Kuwaiti drama, after the numerous naive and roguish business ideas of Hussein and Saad fail miserably, leading them to tragically return to their uncle’s shoemaking corner in the same freej, their hope of changing their socio-economic class transitions into a sense of hopelessness. Morality and classism remain intact, and the persistence of these ideals reflects how modernity was never imposed but interrogated, albeit with less favorable outcomes. One might envision how Ash’hafan and the Bin Aqool brothers enter the new and prosperous stage of their nation’s history: Ash’hafan, now opening his meelas, a reception hall in one’s home for communal gatherings, symbolizes the generosity of Emirati people, while Hussein and Saad, ironically depicted in the last scene, are living their tragic fall, the zalag in the title. They are the last two Kuwaitis left behind in the pre-oil era, with everything else having changed except for them.
Focusing now on the writings on the walls of the freej of Ash’hafan, in contrast to Darb Al-Zalag, we find a warning in the small shop, the dukkan, of Abu Tubar: “Debt is forbidden.” Despite this, the works pay a memorial debt to bygone times and places, highlighting that while spatial transformation was real, it was never thoroughly examined in relation to the temporal shift from the traditional ‘then’ to the hypermodern ‘now.’ Within these stages, the creatively and genuinely depicted liminal in-between in the two Khaleeji tragi-comic shows resonated deeply with audiences. This is primarily because the actors, as well as the viewers, had personally experienced and lived through these transitions. The authenticity of these portrayals bridged generational gaps, enabling a collective memory to be shared and appreciated.
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The statements made and views expressed are solely the responsibility of the author and do not represent Fiker Institute.
