by Jim Carroll
I went straight to the Headmaster’s office. The diminutive secretary tried to stop me but I brushed past her into the inner office, sat down, plopped my books on the floor, and waited.
Thirty minutes later Dr. Allison appeared, and I stood to confront him. I had nothing to lose, so I exploded. “Why did you do this? You know I didn’t cheat. You made up the whole thing. I know you and my father know each other. If it’s between you two, that’s fine. Just leave me out of it. It’s just not fair.” I couldn’t believe I said that to him, and the effort exhausted me.
At first he showed no emotion, but then his body stiffened and he pointed his finger directly in my face. I loathed his hairy hand. “Sit down, Yusef. I’ve won this round. Did you father tell you nothing? Typical. It’s time for you to hear the truth.”
I folded up in the chair like a deflated balloon while he stood. “When you get home — yes, I’ve phoned your father to come for you — you can ask your father to explain more, but he will lie. I am sure of it. I’m going to tell you the truth. We have the same father. Yes, you and I are brothers, half-brothers. Our father took advantage of my mother when he was her grad student. You might call it an affair. The affair ruined her marriage and left us without support. How we struggled after her husband left us.” His eyes were red and bulging, and he used his height and girth to advantage. “Our father sent my mother pittances to support me but never enough. Worst of all, he never acted as my father. I was his secret. Well, I’m no longer a secret, am I? A debt has accrued over the forty-four years of my life. That’s one part of this, and the other is this: you and your family are Christians; at least that’s what you claim. You left Islam. We did not.”
“I never left Islam. My mother and father raised me a Christian.”
“The result is the same. You were born a Muslim, as are we all, but your family left Islam. I recognized I was a Muslim after my mother explained how Christians treated us. She made her point when she changed my name to Esau, a name of which I’m proud.” Suddenly, I felt afraid. “You wonder why I’m in Kuwait? My mother’s dead now, but I’m here to correct the wrongs against my mother and me and against Islam. There you have it. That’s all you need to know, and I suggest you do not disclose our family connection with any of your classmates after you leave. If you do, it’ll be even worse for you. I don’t want to be related to my father, but I do want my revenge.”
My father arrived shortly after Esau’s speech. The eyes of my former classmates followed me out to the car as they changed classes. “Papa, is it true?” He didn’t answer my question. His lack of denial was a confirmation.
“I have to tell you it’s not going to end here. He’s after all the Al-Tamimis, and he knew how to get at me through you. He is not finished yet,” was my father’s only statement.
He was right. That was only the beginning. My father said Esau was in Kuwait to dog us as Christians, and the meetings with our small gathering of believers had to be abandoned. “He’ll lead the secret police to our meetings.”
For the next two months I remained at home in Ahmadi. What was worse? My father’s initial failure to reveal what must have occurred in his university days? Or the boredom and pain in not being where I excelled? I could only look out at the oil wells in the field near us, the ones that had made us rich. I used the time to read about the finances of Kuwait and the Gulf States, perhaps an odd hobby for a teenaged boy, but I loved the analysis required. I would rise above this setback.
Then, in the Kuwait Times an announcement appeared that Dr. Esau Allison had been named a vice-president of the Al Ahli Bank of Kuwait. “Papa, did you see this?” I asked, excited, “Surely now I can return to school.” I was sick of our white stone house out in the Ahmadi desert, surrounded by the oil wells. The rhythm of the pumping wells was tedious.
My father’s expression didn’t change. He knew. “Yes, I’ve already arranged it.” My exile was over! My father’s enduring connections had helped get me back into school.
“However,” he added thoughtfully, “in Esau’s new position things will only get worse for us, the Tamimis and all the new Kuwaiti Christians. If he gets deep into the banking system, and it appears he’s managed this, he can control many aspects of our lives. He hates us, and the only reason he’s here is to get revenge. With his computer abilities, he’ll try to find the identities of the secret Christians among us too. Even now, we can’t worship freely. He’s death to us.”
Would I, would we all, have to fight this Esau forever? One day I might have to defend my family against this man and all he stands for. I decided then and there, when the time came, I would be ready. But ready for what?
CHAPTER 3
THE CHURCH GROWS AND TROUBLES BEGIN
Though there were Kuwaiti Christians, we had no church. We tried to be invisible, yet faithful. Since my father had stopped the informal gatherings for fear of Esau, we were now so hidden we barely knew each other, but my father sought a formula to move forward, and I joined to the extent I was able.
If my mother had lived during our desultory, early efforts at worshipping Jesus, our family would have handled every part of it with greater skill and hardier faith. But she was dead and we muddled through those early days to the best of our ability. She would have helped us see the Lord’s hand in what occurred. My memories of her served me over the following years, but I was clumsy in faith, still not truly dedicated. Esau hung over us like a sword.
Since my mother passed away, my father had slowly gained in his walk with the Lord. At first he had begun leading us in prayer and reading the Word a bit during the week. I obliged.
Then my father reached a point of decision and invited his old friend, John Friedecker, over for tea. Yes, the Brits had left their refreshment remnants among us too and we enjoyed teatime. Friedecker pulled into the driveway and through our automatic, bronze gate in his old yellow Pajero, muffler rumbling and burning oil smell accompanying. Sometimes he wore the typical gray Kuwaiti dishdasha, the proper color for this time of the year, and he did so on this occasion. His beard was full and white, and his Caucasian skin crinkled with its long exposure to the desert sun. He had lived in Kuwait for more than twenty years as a history professor at Kuwait University, and was well-acculturated. We speculated that in the past he had been a secret missionary, but without obvious or known fruit for so many years, that description was difficult to sustain. Even so, he was in touch with the church in Kuwait.
We settled in our living room with the glass sliding door opening into the garden. It was late October and the daytime temperature had dropped from 120 degrees to the high 70s. Still a teenager, I smiled, proud at the privilege of my participation in the adult conversation. Hibah was there too, scowling, staring at my unworthy presence, taking her standard sister pose. I clasped my fingers together and waited, trying to appear as mature as possible. Given my recent experience as a Christian who had been attacked, I sat up straight, shoulders back, ready to participate. Binyamin was there too, hopping from one lap to another. He evoked cheer everywhere he was.
“John, what are we to do? We don’t even know how to worship properly.” My father rose, pacing rather than sitting, hands on hips.
“I can’t tell you what to do. You’ll have to work it out for yourselves. There are others, former Muslims, here in Kuwait who’re in the same circumstance,” answered Friedecker, deadpan, not a sign of hope.
“Who are they? I want to get together with them.”
“It’s not time yet, Yacoub. It would be dangerous for us all.”
“We need to worship Jesus, but, under the present circumstances, we don’t know how. You have to tell us.” He finally took his seat.
“Do what’s in your heart. Decide what’s best for your family. Rabea carried on in this spiritual hinterland for years before you were converted. She taught the Scriptures to Hibah and Yusef.”
My father looked down and shook his head. “I don’t know where to start. I’m not even sure I know the cor
rect name for God. In America, Christians were offended when I said ‘Allah.’”
“That’s easy to deal with. Allah has been used by Middle Eastern Christians for centuries as the word for God. It’s close to the Hebrew Elohim, so it works. There are harder questions for you to handle. Should you go to the NECK (National Evangelical Church of Kuwait) down by the Gulf?” My mother had gone to the NECK once, and they had asked her not to return.
“Rabea said they didn’t really want new Kuwaiti Christians there. The government might shut them down for proselytizing.”
“Perhaps the NECK will not work for your family then. It might be dangerous for you and probably that church too. Is that church what Christianity looks like for you? You could go to the mosque to worship Jesus. There are those who were formerly Muslims but are now Christians who attend the mosque. We call them MBBs or Muslim background believers.” Another mystery. No clarity here for me.
“Who is ‘we’?”
“Never mind that.”
“I haven’t been to mosque regularly for years.” Papa went occasionally for show.
“Maybe you should see how it feels now. See if you could worship there.”
We were already frightened what Esau might do to us in his new position, and now we were going to go to the mosque. Any sense of confidence among us disappeared: Hibah paled and her nervous cough punctuated the afternoon. This collection of events baffled me.
But all at once, Hibah, reedy and thin like my mother, echoed what I thought my mother would have said, had she lived. In a moment, she shook off her fears, gathered herself to an erect posture, and held up her right hand as if in a benediction, an odd posture even for her. “There’s no need to be afraid. The Lord brought us this far, and He’ll get us the rest of the way. I don’t want to go to the mosque, but where else could we begin again?” She was the image of my mother, and her lack of startling beauty was overcome by her grace and methodical approach.
The next Friday we went to the mosque in Ahmadi. Its two light blue minarets mocked us as we approached. The usual large Friday crowd was in the process of entering. Hibah, my father, and I entered through the gender-specific doors.
It was an ongoing challenge for us to separate the components of Islamic worship practices into those we thought permissible for believers in Jesus and those that were clearly outside that realm. The ritual washing or cleansing was the first concern. Hibah told me she would forego the washing. I washed in the prescribed fashion, called wudu in Arabic, splashing the hands, mouth, nostrils, arms, head and feet with water. I must have looked awkward and uncertain. The water was not intended for hygienic cleanliness but for spiritual purity. I was in need of such cleansing, that was true, but I knew this did nothing to cleanse my true spiritual state. I hoped the women had not noticed Hibah’s neglect of the washing. For me, however, the water cooled and refreshed my skin.
None of us were troubled by the imam’s sermon dealing with the necessity for kind treatment of the Third World nationals who worked in Kuwait. His instruction was oriented solely to encourage our good behavior. Everyone knew it was for show, maybe for the newspaper reporters in the congregation.
Going through the salat (a complex prayer) as we stood in rows was more intellectually challenging. I was stiff and unsure of myself, but I’m sure Hibah managed the subtleties with greater ease than my father or me. Facing Mecca did not have any particular significance for me so I joined in this action. I easily recited the first chapter of the Quran: “In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds. Most Gracious, Most Merciful, Master of the Day of Judgment. Thee alone we worship and Thee alone we ask for help. Show us the straight path. The path of those whom Thou hast favored; not the path of those who earn your anger nor of those who go astray,” directing these thoughts to God in my mind. The second passage: “Say: He is Allah, the One! Allah is He on Whom all depend. He does not beget, nor is He begotten. And there is none like unto Him,” also seemed benign enough to me, but Hibah reminded my father and me later that “He does not beget” was a direct negation of Jesus’ role as deity because it denied the statement of John 3:16 regarding Jesus as God’s “only son.” Saying, “Glory be to my Lord, the Almighty” and “Glory be to my Lord, the most High” were clear and certainly my own praise. The last portion of the prayer raising praise to Mohammed as a prophet was definitely out of bounds. My lips were silent. At the end, we turned our faces to the right and the left, conferring God’s peace on those around us, “Peace be upon you and the mercy of Allah.”
We emerged, exhausted and sweating from the brief service. Our attempts to remain true to Jesus and still not be obvious in the mosque were conflicting. Hibah’s face was drawn and unhappy. My father hung his head. Could we do this again? At best, it was unsatisfying. At worst, it invalidated what Jesus had done for us. On some level, I envied the other worshippers who were relaxed, talking easily among themselves, certain of their place, and happy at the rapid conclusion of the service. Would we continue the mosque charade? Surely there must be something better for us.
My father told John of our experience and feelings, and, as usual, he was unsympathetic. He had long experience with the compromises Christians in a Muslim country had to make to survive. There were few options.
We persisted in attendance for the next ten weeks. Our friends in the Ahmadi community were glad to see that we were coming to the more often. We tolerated the experience by retreating from the externals of the service and making worship an intimate transaction between the Lord and ourselves, silent and unbetrayed by our actions. Still, we knew in our hearts that worship should be a celebration of Christ’s life, an event to be experienced with other believers. We did not have this privilege, and knew that if we tried to pursue a real, community experience at this time, the secret police would soon know and intervene. We were not prepared for that.
Esau also attended the mosque for Friday prayers. When he saw us, he approached us straightaway, as if he planned to knock us over with a blow. We sidestepped him, but not before he uttered “liars” as he drew near. We simply got in our car. As we drove off, he stood gazing at us, hands extended and palms up, as if to say: Why are you here?
It was more than a month before I even looked around at the mosque to acquaint myself with others who attended. Dhuwaihi, who had been a participant in my father’s dīwāniya (a men’s discussion group) was always present. He was an old man, and his appearance betrayed his failing health – he was short of breath and coughed through the service.
I noticed that his actions at the Friday prayers were unusual. He skipped the ritual washing. During prayer he stopped the repetition in the portions that referred to the prophetic stature of Mohammed. I wondered if he was a kindred spirit, but he avoided us by retreating if we came near. Finally, during the next service my father maneuvered his way to pray next to him, and they spoke after the service. “May the peace of Allah be with you, Yacoub and Yusef.” He was stiff, unusually reserved, and there was no other exchange. This process continued for weeks, but eventually it became clear he was seeking us out during the service too. He watched our every move as we participated.
After another month, he stopped us in a private place among the large columns of the tan marble portico outside the mosque after the service. Each column was large enough to obscure three men talking together. “I’ve been watching you, and I’ve observed there are certain, well, let’s say deficiencies in your worship. Is this accidental or due to a lack of diligence?”
My father replied, “It’s no accident. I’ve observed you display the same tendencies. I’ve begun to think these behaviors are consistent with a certain alternate viewpoint.” They looked at one another, neither party wishing to go further.
Peering closely at us, Dhuwaihi finally spoke, “Yes, indeed they are. There are others with the same viewpoint too. Perhaps you both could come to my home for further talk. This afternoon?”
But we when we
arrived at Dhuwaihi’s modest home, there were no other cars or visitors. Our expectation of meeting other Kuwaiti Christians was wiped out. Dhuwaihi’s house was small by well-to-do Kuwaiti standards: one story with a low wall at the front entry area, no automatic gate, no attendant. He ushered us into his living room: The creaky furniture was dusty, cracked, and uncomfortable. Old photographs hung on the walls, hearkening from the days when Kuwait was just dust and sand. The home betrayed an old man who was lonely, or at least estranged from others.
My father asked, “Why are no others here?” I noticed he had a small black dog that followed him closely. Owning a dog was unusual for traditional Arabs.
Dhuwaihi answered, “It’s too dangerous for us to meet together as believers. We avoid any of us knowing the names of the others. You should know there is a new threat. His name is Esau Allison, and he’s an executive at the Al Ahli Bank.” My father nodded. “We think he’s collecting a list of Kuwaiti Christians. What he intends to do with that list once he has it, we don’t know. We think he’s intercepting Internet communications. He has connections with strict Wahhabi groups. You know about the Wahhabis.” I knew little, and made a mental note to learn more. “Esau’s on a mission,” Duwaihi finished.
My father and I glanced at each other briefly. “Thank you for warning us about him,” my father remarked. “I don’t know what we can do to counter him, but I do think we as Christians need to build one another up in our faith, in any way we can. I’ll give some thought to that at any rate.”