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Kuwaiti Seeker

By Jim Carroll

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The Conflict Joined
Suhayb brought out the curved knife from under his dishdasha.
His only words were, “You’re a thief, and I’ll relieve
you of your thieving hand. My Quran commands it.”
Where had Suhayb gotten the big, jeweled dagger? Fear soon
caught up with my admiration for the weapon. Why was the
Quran in the midst of our sibling conflict?
He straddled my chest. I was weak, and he was strong. Trapping
my left arm under his right knee, he then grasped my right
forearm with his left hand, and took the knife in his right hand.
Due to the sharpness of the knife the initial pain was less than I
expected, and for a moment I felt an odd relief. But then I saw
blood drip from my forearm onto the sand, where the blood grew
into a small pool before the sand swallowed it. The bright sunlight
glistened on our wet skin, and only the slippery sweat dripping
off of us prevented completion of the intended act. I slithered
under Suhayb with the lubricating sweat. My forearm slid from
his grasp for a moment, but he soon regained the advantage. The
dust rose and adhered to our skin. By this time the other children
in the schoolyard had gathered in a circle around us.
Their cry, “Suhayb is killing Yacoub,” summoned the schoolmaster,
Abu Salim.
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6  J I M CARROLL
By the time Abu Salim arrived, Suhayb had transected a small
artery, and the flow of blood pulsated rather than dripped. When
I saw Abu Salim’s frightened expression, I lost any residue of
bravery and sobbed. Abu Salim seized the knife and applied pressure
to the wound.
I looked up in envy at my red-maned brother, his pale skin,
and blue eyes. Where did he get the blue eyes? My own dark skin
and black curly hair did little to set me apart from my schoolmates
at the Kuwait English School.
Abu Salim and a teacher dragged us both to the school office
and forcibly set us down in chairs at opposite ends of the
room. Abu Salim opened the phone line; the only phone at the
school. “I must speak to Salman Al-Tamimi immediately. No, I
can’t wait.” At least five minutes passed as we sat staring at one
another. “Salman, come and get your sons. Suhayb just tried to
cut off Yacoub’s hand. Yacoub needs to see a doctor.”
My father arrived in thirty minutes and grabbed Suhayb and
me by the collars of our dishdashas. “What’ve you done? You’ve
disgraced our family.”
Abu Salim gave the knife to Salman, who took the weapon,
examined it, and put it in his pocket.
My father dragged us to the car and gave us no opportunity to
walk on our own. As the driver started the car, there was silence
for several minutes.
Suhayb was the first to speak. “He took the masbaha [Islamic
prayer beads] you gave me when I was six. I must have his hand
now for my own.” He was unrepentant.
In defense I said to my father, “Why didn’t you give me masbaha
when I was six?” I put my face in both hands and whimpered.
“I give gifts to whom I wish. Suhayb is the first son. You’re the
second.”
I never wanted to see the beads again. But continuing in my
mind’s eye was the picture of Suhayb counting the delicately
carved silver beads as he recited the ninety-nine names of Allah.
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KUWA I T I SEEKER  7
What really hurt was the fact his religious fervor exceeded my
own. Why was I small not only in stature but also in belief? And
how did the law of the Quran support such an attack? Was the
law not designed for my best?
We proceeded to the mission hospital down by the Gulf. The
young doctor prepared a glass syringe with local anesthetic, but
my father interceded. “He doesn’t need that. Just sew him up.”
So went my first encounter with Sharia law, and my blood had
counted for nothing.
* * *
We arrived home in Bneid Al Qar late in the afternoon, and
our mother, Fatima, met us at the door with a questioning expression.
She saw the bandage on my forearm. My father explained,
“He’s a thief. He should have lost his hand.” My mother was not
free to argue with Salman, and she kept silent as the details of the
day came out in pieces.
Suhayb recited his side of the story. “He took my father’s gift
to me.” There was no excuse. It was true.
I was sorry for my mother, who may have felt responsible for
me. She was partial to me in defense of Salman’s preference for
Suhayb, but I had failed her again.
The events of the day were only a continuation of an ongoing
battle between Suhayb and me. Had we forced our parents to
take sides?
The evening closed with a typical event. Fatima laughed at my
latest game. I donned a toy stuffed camel on my head in imitation
of Suhyab’s red mane and chased our laughing cousins around
the courtyard, growling in make-believe anger. “I’m a big, red
lion, and I’m going to eat you.”
The next day we had to return to school and face the questions.
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