What's Inside

Chapter 1

The echoes of recited passages slowly drift into a satisfying silence. As I begin rising, my feet sink heavily into the soft, richly-designed rugs uniformly spread across the spacious floor. I feel the stickiness of my flesh, soaked by the suffocating presence of purpose pressing upon me. My cousin Noor stands next to me, in another row, behind the imam. A flush of contentment squeezes through his rugged war torn face. It’s been three years since I’ve seen him last, when he denounced me, accusing me of not following true Islam. He looks older now and more beaten down. I’m just glad to see his heart’s still beating.

With their foreheads no longer greeting the floor, the men slowly begin vacating the mosque. Following suit, I slip on my brown leather sandals settled behind me, while quickly scanning the soldier-like crowd for Noor’s face. I recognize a few of the faces, some old, ravaged and creased with scars from the merciless battles in life, to those as young and fresh as an unreachable mountain spring, all gathering together for the same duty, fajr, but Noor’s nowhere to be found. I carefully merge with the others, maneuvering myself through the courtyard. In the immense openness men are huddled together entrenched in serious conversation, while others are swarming the streets, waking the city from it’s nightly slumber.

Most days, I’m one of those willing to engage in meaningful conversation hoping to be enlightened by some wise words; however, I often leave disappointed. And despite my intellect telling me I should be involved in something more productive, a part of me needs these exchanges. Yearns for them. Today is different though. I have much to prepare for.

As I follow the worn cobblestone path in front of me, it leads me to the streets flowing with abundant life. It is early, before the heat has grown ferocious, where in the faded half-lit sky the ghost of a crescent moon can still be admired. Heading north on Tahlia street, private businesses, shopping malls and restaurants decorate the street on either side. Fake palm trees lining the center median offering little islands of life below the eclipsing skyscrapers. Passing by me are Pakistanis, Indians, and Saudi women accompanied by their male relatives, while navigating with their gleaming eyes through niqabs. My destination, the next door on my right.

It’s a small shop, deserted from the view at a distance, squished between a coffee shop and a clothing store revealing its relaxed atmosphere. Many Saudis’ come here to enjoy the privacy offered when conversations are at the utmost important. Inside, I survey the tables determining whether my guest has arrived yet. As usual it is relatively quiet with only a few older men seated far off in a corner table as well as a pair of men, one young, seated next to the windows conversing between the sipping of tea. Aware of my visitor’s absence, I instinctively direct my eyes to the table of choice. The same one I’ve been sitting at since I was a boy, stationed below the massive glass wall staring right into the heart of Riyadh. Lightly strolling over to it, I mindfully position myself to face the entrance.

“Can I get you anything?” I hear coming from behind me in broken English.

Glancing over my shoulder a small Filipino man approaches me with chocolate brown eyes set in a round pudgy face. His black shirt snuggles tightly against a slender frame. His recognition of me enhancing the warm presence already exuded.

“Yes, a glass of orange juice,” I answer, watching him trod off until disappearing into the back.

Bits and pieces of a business deal invade my ears from the two men across from me. The younger one seeking a favor of some kind, no doubt paying for it. As without wasta (connections) one will get nowhere in Riyadh.

The fresh glass of orange juice is gently placed before me. Without wasting any time, I bring the full glass to my lips. The cold, sweet, citrus taste satisfies the dryness invading my mouth, slowly allowing my body to relax, to drift into daydreams, while peering through the glass at the daily living of Saudi’s. I remember walking these streets as a young boy clinging onto my mother’s black abaya opposite my sister with my uncle Kamal accompanying us everywhere, approving of nearly every request my mother presented. She raised us by herself with my father merely acting as judge, imposing discipline and rules, while offering no real relationship. She was informed, not long after giving birth to me, that resulting from an internal complication involving an injured uterus, she was incapable of conceiving again. This news ripped something out from deep within her soul. She blamed herself, strapping this burden upon her back through life.

This may be partly why the unconditional love she showered upon my sister and I was magnified beyond what was typically observed among other mothers. She faced many struggles because of it, unleashing a fierce determination to be different and accomplish all she set her mind to. This led her to graduating from King Saud University, studying abroad at Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, then becoming a prominent physician at King Faisal Specialist Hospital and Research Center, one of the top women’s clinics in Riyadh. She not only gave me the love and comfort of a mother, but provided me with an intellectual and independent perspective in life requiring me to wrestle with questions in my own mind, which stands in opposition to normal Saudi thinking.

Her beauty is striking, constantly mesmerizing friends and family with her high cheekbones reflecting off her luring golden eyes conveying the gentleness of a butterfly; shiny, oil black hair flowing naturally over her slender shoulders, leaving her mocha skin glowing brighter. But, what made her presence was a rare confidence, a fighter-like spirit creating a special aura that lured you in.

Sadly enough, I’m unable to count the times that beauty was swiftly struck down by the meaty hands of my father. Deep down he despised her for not being able to bear any more sons for him along with her independent nature, challenging the boundaries in Saudi life. From that first time I tried to protect her, I became a sponge soaking up the aftermath from his outbursts of fury. He once told me, after I endured a ravaging, leaving me in a bloody helplessness, that everything about me reminded him of her.

Apart from his anger, my father has always been an exceptional source of knowledge regarding Islamic history and tradition. The endless hours of the deepest gray eyes you only see in the clouds of a thunder storm reciting surahs and stories of Muhammad’s life have ingrained themselves in my memory forever. His intimidating, thick, six foot three frame captured the attention of most when he entered a room, not only from his genuine handsomeness, but from the unique demeanor he carries, the kind that makes you feel obligated to listen when he speaks and believe every word that comes out of his mouth. As a sheikh, these characteristics serve him well. Although financially he provides for us, his physical presence is nonexistent. Any spare time left from speaking sermons on television or recording videos for the internet is spent on debating with other religious men or with one of his other two wives he married after my mother.

I was instructed early on by my father, Imam and teachers to hate kafir (unbelievers) and to never question the beliefs or traditions instilled in me. Otherwise, I would bring aa’r (shame) upon myself and my family. Appearance to family, tribe and country is most important. And if by chance a confusing question arises, I am directed to my father first, then an imam, but I’ve always saved my mother’s advice for last, as her answers force me to contemplate in the deepest of ways.

“Umar,” I hear, echoing through my ears, waking me back to the present.

Slightly shifting to my right, my eyes fall on Nayef. Staring down on me with those lost black eyes always makes me feel a little uneasy. Uncomfortable to say the least.

“Marhaba, akhi, khaif halak (Hey, my brother, how are you)?” he says, extending his arms.

“Bakhair (Fine),” I respond, receiving his embrace and kiss.

“Listen, we are counting on you to deliver today,” he says almost angrily from his bare, round face comfortably parked under his shemagh.

“Don’t disappoint us.”

“Have I yet?” I answer without hesitating picturing the performance required.

I’m ready, the pressure always falling on me, as if I’m the only one out there treading the grass. I’m accustomed to it now. Everyone expects perfection, yet they themselves fall short without a word.

“I know this game is important to you. That you’re hoping to be recognized and signed by a professional club abroad, but afterwards some of us are getting an istirahat (guest house). Sheikh Mohammed bin Ismail Khan will be speaking on some controversial contemporary issues and temptations faced in the kingdom. I want you to be there.”

I refresh my mouth with a sip of juice.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it. I’ve already made prior arrangements,” I say sternly, an image of my mother and I appearing in my mind below the date palm, secluded from the draining action of the city, enjoying the peace and quiet it provides.

“Well, if something comes up and you can make it, give me a call,” he says with a touch of disappointment in his voice.

“I will.”

“We better get going if we plan on arriving on time.”

We make our way to his white Toyota. Patiently entering the endless rush of traffic, we head north on King Fahad Bin Abdul Aziz Road. I can feel the adrenaline beginning to manifest itself within the pit of my stomach, the same as the first time I touched a ball at eight years old when my uncle Kamal kicked it into my feet challenging me to get by him. I failed over and over again, but the competitive nature surging through my bones left me yearning for more, to be better than him. After that, countless days were spent recruiting players to play pick-up games at a moment’s notice. With soccer in my life, I had no spare time. Fathers brought their sons and young daughters to the games enjoying the full ninety minutes, except my father. He’s never seen me play. Never wanted to, only criticizing me for not following his path in becoming a sheikh. Watching the traces of the streets flash by, I suddenly realize we’ve taken a sharp left heading away from the field.

“Where are we going?” I ask curiously.

I need to pick something up first,” he mutters without averting his eyes from the traffic ahead.

Something inside yearns to ask what’s so important, but I relent, not wanting to intrude, allowing the silence to fill the air. Soon we pull into his driveway. I slowly climb out of the seat following him to the door, while watching his face for any objection. Once inside, he briskly walks through the kitchen, as I wait in the sitting room. His two sons are on the floor next to each other eating Ma’amoul. They briefly acknowledge their father’s presence when passing by, sensing his urgency from the determined expression on his face. It feels as only a few seconds disappear before I hear Nayef shouting followed by a couple deep thuds. It is that distinct sound when flesh collides against flesh. My heart begins pounding with nervousness. With fear. Boom. Another one, this time ending with a groaning. A familiar groaning heard when one is left suffering, wishing to escape only alive. The doorway leading to the noise is out of sight, about ten paces straight ahead and to the right. Thoughts relentlessly eating away at my mind. Should I check it out? Who else is in there? Is Nayef in trouble? This is not my home though. Not my business. A quick movement activates my peripheral. Shooting over my shoulder on my left little Ali stands staring fearfully in the direction of the disturbance. What is he thinking? Is he going to investigate? I can’t risk him getting hurt. Against the overwhelming feeling in my gut screaming not to go, I force my feet forward until standing a few feet outside the door. It’s slightly cracked open, Rana’s face lying split and bloody just inside the room. For a long moment I have the strong urge to rush in and help her regardless of any consequences. But I have to obey. It’s unlawful for me to interfere.

Suddenly a firm grip latches onto the crevice in the back of my leg. Thrusting my head down to find the intrusion, my eyes fall on Ali. Trembling in fear with horror ripping through his body, I reach down shoving his face into my thigh to shield the trauma. A low mumble draws my attention back to Rana. She’s staring directly at me, paralyzed on the floor. Helplessness tragically escaping from her eyes, yet a glimmer of hope is present in the midst of it.

Her lips begin moving. “I’m so……y,” she mutters unrecognizable.

Struggling to take another breath, she tries again. “I’m sorry,” she utters, clearly enough for me to understand this time. Instantly, after the words battle their way out, Nayef appears behind her. We uncomfortably lock eyes for a moment, then the door slams shut. He’s going to kill her isn’t he? The surge of countless scenarios is overwhelming. Ali’s head pushing against my hand wakes me from the brief daze I fell into. I must have been suffocating him not even realizing it. He’s scared, confused, only knowing his mother lies half dead on the floor. Gently I turn him around leading him back to his brother still seated on the floor holding a frightened look on his face. He can feel the danger. The death lurking near. Why am I involved in this? Can I escape, erase this entire event from my memory? I can’t leave her. Leave her limp body spread across the floor. Leave the boys so vulnerable and innocent.

The familiar clicking sound of a door opening cuts through the thick air. Nayef appears carrying a cold, heartless expression etched across his face with a thobe splattered in blood. Stopping a few feet in front of me, he says nothing, a statue locking onto my gaze. Each passed second causes my defenses to heighten. I search his face for a clue, but am unable to collect anything, only that cold gaze of his. An uneasy feeling begins rising from deep within my gut. Something’s wrong. Without averting his eyes or making the slightest movement, words fall from his lips.

“Your mother’s an infidel. She’s … apostatized.”

The world goes mute. Stunned, confused, I attempt to hold some of the oxygen instantly forced from my chest, to hold my composure, but a strong dizziness sets in leaving me unable to concentrate on a single thought or even take a breath. What’s happening? Willing myself to fight against such an accusation, Nayef’s blurred face slowly begins coming back into focus. Is it true? Rana must have known about it. I need to know. I must know.

“How do you know this?” I demand, sifting through the countless possibilities.

His silence wanes on me, then in a deep, cold tone he breaks in, “Rana wasn’t expecting us to be here. When entering the room she was surprised, fumbling with some papers trying to conceal them. She knew she was caught. She hesitated when I asked her to turn them over, then refused. I knocked her to the floor, pillaging the papers from the purse she stuffed them in. After reading them, I soon realized it was Christian material. I asked her if she believed what was written; she said no. Then I asked how she got them. She told me a foreigner gave them to her. I sensed she was lying to me as her gaze retreated from mine to the floor. This is when I forced her to tell the truth. She held on for a while though, maybe would have given her life. It made sense when I heard the answer: your mother gave them to her.”

“This can’t be true.” Not my mother. I haven’t noticed anything strange or different with her. Maybe I really haven’t been paying that close of attention. My sister wouldn’t lie about this would she? The pressure weighs on me. I need to know if this is indeed the truth.

 “I called your father,” he says firmly. “There was no answer.”

I instantly think of his actions when he hears about this. My mother will surely endure a fate worse than Rana’s. Unless I get to her first.

“I need you to take me to my house.” I demand, with a fearless tone.

He studies me for a moment, then without hesitation, replies, “Let’s go.”

As I purposefully walk to the car a piece of my heart longs to help Rana. To make sure she’s alive, safe. However, I reason from her looks she will survive, will persevere while Nayef’s with me. Weaving through the crowded maze of streets, my mind racing, not a word spoken, we finally arrive at my house. I impatiently scan for my father’s black Chevy Tahoe. A sigh of relief softly eases one layer of tension shaking my body when I see an empty parkway.

Door open, my body rebels against getting out. Not until we make an agreement.

I turn to Nayef. “This is between us; the family doesn’t need to know anything,” I command.

“I give you my word,” he responds sincerely.

Quivering to the door in nervousness, I consider what questions to ask, find myself stalling, not wanting to confront her, greatly fearing the truth and in some way wishing it didn’t exist right now. What if she has rejected Allah? Converted? Death is her fate. I must convince her otherwise if this is true. And I must do it before my father arrives.