Hot Spot

by Jim Carroll

  Dhuwaihi nodded and made us tea.

  It was several weeks later that Hibah told us to invite Dhuwaihi to join us for a meal after Friday mosque. The old man was essentially without close family, and that meant there was no danger of any complicated interaction with other family members. He accepted.

  Dhuwaihi parked his car in the driveway. It was an old, dark blue Chevy Caprice, a vehicle with air conditioning that was known to manage the vicious Kuwaiti summers. The leather dashboard, split by years of high temperatures, had been replaced by a worn velvet covering. Once he arrived, we settled briefly in the sunlit room beside the pool, and Hibah called us for dinner. She and Divina had prepared lamb machboos, a dish with basmati rice and kibbeh (a mixture of bulgur, minced onions, and finely ground meat), preceded by the lentil soup, hummus and khubz (a round, leavened flatbread). Typical of Kuwaiti meals, the challenge was always to prepare more than the guest could ever eat. Dhuwaihi finished in the proper manner, leaving some on his plate. This sent the appropriate message: that there was more than enough. At the end of the meal, Binyamin crawled onto his lap and pulled Dhuwaihi’s beard, not once, but twice. We all laughed along with Binyamin.

  Accounts of our conversions filled the time. Dhuwaihi began. “I was an old man by the time I came to know Him. My family put me out. They thought me odd because I read all the time. And there were other reasons. I had to learn English in order to read the Old Testament. There were no Arabic translations of the Old Testament available in Kuwait at the time. Once I read it, I saw the story from beginning to end. And it is a story, not like the Quran. There was no way for me to avoid the conclusion that God was speaking to me. That was three years ago. I stopped smoking at that time because it was destroying the body Allah gave me, but it was too late. You’ve heard my cough. Like all our sins, even though they’re forgiven, they still follow you. Eventually I began to meet others who know Jesus, but I’ve continued to go to the mosque, at least for the time being.” It was a refreshing experience to exchange our beliefs freely. Even though my testimony seemed more superficial than the others, our words felt fresh and new. Dhuwaihi sat quietly, his chest rising and falling too fast, listening intently.

  Hibah wept as she shared her story in which our deceased mother was the star. Then she asked, “Dhuwaihi, where is all this headed? What will become of new Arab believers here and elsewhere? You’ve already indicated there are others.” Hibah had left her hair uncovered in Dhuwaihi’s presence.

  “Allah knows. In that we must be comforted.” His cough interrupted his remarks. “The change won’t stop, but it won’t be smooth or easy or without blood. I don’t know where it’s headed, but I do know you children are the key. Your mother taught you well.”

  Then, Dhuwaihi assumed a different tone and used his age as a pedestal. “Hibah, you’re a joy. You’re beautiful, wonderfully confident. But Yusef, you shock me. You’re not like a teenage boy. There’s something else I can’t identify. It’s beyond being handsome. Your demeanor is like that of a man of achievement.” He stopped for nearly a full minute. “But you’ve achieved nothing, and I’m afraid I see trouble in you. No, that’s not exactly right. But for certain – difficulty. Perhaps the answers to the questions we’re asking are in you. I know that sounds strange.”

  The afternoon was spent. The sun came directly from the window into our eyes and we turned away from the glare. Did Dhuwaihi intend this as a prophecy about me? He didn’t identify it as such, but the tone of the comment set it aside from the rest of the conversation. What did he mean by it? In some ways, his pronouncement reminded me of my mother and the way she saw right into me, but it went beyond that. How could solutions be found in me? I had no idea.

  Two weeks later, Dhuwaihi was missing from the mosque. He had not been absent for months, and we hoped the old man was not ill. As we got to our car, Abdullah Al-Bader came hurrying up to my father. “I have sad news. I can’t imagine why this has happened. You know Dhuwaihi, the old man. The bank is going to take his house! On top of that, his family doesn’t want him back. He’s a bit strange, but don’t you think his family should help him? He will have nowhere to live!”

  We drove home quickly. My father was distressed as were the rest of us. “How can this happen? Dhuwaihi’s not rich, but he’s been careful with his money. He chose a modest house for that reason.”

  My father phoned Dhuwaihi. “We heard about the house. What happened?”

  “I don’t know what happened. I received a letter from the bank, demanding that I pay 50,000 dinars or they’ll take my home. I asked a lawyer from the city center to look at the letter, and he says it’s perfectly legal. The bank says my home is no longer worth enough to secure the value of the loan. According to an old law on the books, this new valuation of my house allows the bank to demand the money. No one’s ever heard of this law being used before.”

  Dhuwaihi was ruined. Since his family wouldn’t take him in, he would be without a place to live. It was unheard of for a Kuwaiti to be homeless. This couldn’t happen.

  My father thought he might be able to help. “What bank is it?”

  “The Al Ahli Bank.”

  My father, Hibah, and I drove over to see Dhuwaihi, partly to console him and partly to look at the letter. Dhuwaihi, the furrows in his face deeper than ever, handed it to my father. After a quick look, my father shook his head, looked down and uttered a phrase he never used, “Al-Sheitan Alaykom! (Satan be upon you!)” He passed the letter to Hibah and I looked at it over her shoulder. “Look at the signature,” he said. At the bottom was the name Esau Allison, with the words Chief Loan Officer under it. Hibah, already in law school, inspected the paperwork and was at a loss as to how to proceed.

  Was it because Dhuwaihi was a Christian? How had Esau even found out that he was a Christian? The only likely answer was through the Internet. The old man had indeed adopted this modern form of communication. From my own experience, I knew that Esau excelled in this area, and he clearly intended to use his skills and financial means to attack Christians.

  The old man’s home was preserved only by the joint action of several believers, so far unknown to us by name, who stepped in and paid the debt. The fact that these Christians assisted as they did indicated Dhuwaihi’s circle of believers was larger than we suspected. My father contributed 10,000 dinars. The good part was that Esau had no idea who helped Dhuwaihi; and in the end, Esau’s actions only bolstered the unity of the secret community.

  As a result, my own resolve strengthened. For me, Esau now embodied all the enemies of Christians. He was the bull’s eye of my target. How could a young person like me be the equal of a capable, middle-aged man? There would come a time for more action, if not just by me, but from all my family.

  My choice was to proceed with the gifts God gave me, relying on them as though they were mine to possess. I had already been informed of my charm, too much so, but Esau had been impervious to my charms; only his own counted for him. Since finances were to be the battleground, I decided to develop my skills in that area. I was sure they would get me to my goal, whatever that might be. Where would this take me? Surely, not just Kuwait. Esau was only the current representative of the enemy. Would his influence spread beyond Kuwait? I needed to prepare for that if they did.

  And what’s more, Gulf fortunes were rising higher elsewhere than those in little Kuwait. I remembered my old dream of being king of the Gulf.

  CHAPTER 4

  WHAT I THOUGHT OF THE GULF

  Hibah did not go along with me. “You can’t just leave us and go wandering off to college across the world. We have to fight Esau and his kind, and we need you here in Kuwait to do it. There’s nothing wrong with Kuwait University.” She was right; there wasn’t. Hibah flashed her black eyes at me, but it was only a glancing blow.

  “You don’t know where the clash with Esau will lead. This is a lot bigger than Kuwait. I’m going where I can find the best prospects.”

  She stormed out of the room, elbo
ws flailing like chicken wings. Then she turned, put her hands on her thin hips, and said tearfully, “Our mother’s gone, and Papa needs you here.”

  In the fall of 2008 as I prepared to apply for university, a bitter fight took shape between me and my father and Hibah. Papa tried to step in where my mother would have spoken out. “Yusef, we want you to stay with us here in Kuwait. I left when I finished high school, and I paid the price for years. Esau being in our lives today shows that we’re still paying the price. Hibah’s right. We need you here for all that’s coming.” Our home, for the time, was a battleground: me against them.

  But I was nearly eighteen, the age of “always right”; I knew my future lay outside Kuwait. The world was changing fast. Barack Obama had gained the democratic nomination for U.S. president. “Papa, little Kuwait has nothing in its favor beyond the oil still in the ground. I know the country has invested all over the world as a plan against the end of oil, but that doesn’t do the average Kuwaiti any good. Nobody ever talks about anything but the oil, but other things will overwhelm us if we don’t get involved.”

  Why would I even consider leaving my family in Kuwait and heading off on a grand search? I was fascinated with the future and what my role would be in it. As the center of my concerns, I crafted a view I thought was consistent with the ongoing conflicts I read about in the Gulf.

  Often, I argued and ruined another meal. “Look what’s happened just since I was born. Even after the Iraqis were thrown out of Kuwait in 1991, they tried to come back. I was only a toddler but I remember you talking about their attacks two years after the war, when they came across our border in little sorties, just to test what we would do. We didn’t do anything.” I stood and my father sat, his arms resting on the chair, on doilies placed there by my mom. “The Iraqis tested our will, and they found none. They tried the will of the U.S. to come again to our defense, and thank the Lord, the Americans fended off the invaders again. Doesn’t that tell you how weak we are? The Americans didn’t do it for us though. They did it for the oil.”

  My father looked down, unsmiling, but surely he knew it was true. Did it bring back memories for him of the 1990 Gulf War and his own flight from Kuwait to save himself? But I didn’t care for his feelings. I was cruel, showing no regrets for rekindling the memories of his desertion.

  My father had tried to insulate me from the petty political squabbles in Kuwait. “We’re above all that nonsense of the fights between the monarchy and parliament,” he would tell me. But it became apparent to me, even as a teenager, that our leaders were fighting over nothing of any real importance, and that the real issues were being addressed in other areas of the Persian Gulf, especially in Iran. The news and CNN confirmed my impressions. Unlike me, my schoolmates displayed little interest in the news. Why should they? We were children of privilege. Our future stretched before us like the steady flow of the oil that was the guarantee of our wealth. We could depend upon it. Oil or no, I reveled in the notion that I could see the events of a much larger area together and conceive a better scheme. My dreams played in my mind like a constant drumbeat.

  “I know exactly what I’m doing. Kuwait is not going to be the major player in the times to come,” I said to my family in yet another tense conversation. Such was my only reflection.

  Hibah did not agree. “You don’t know that, Yusef. Look at the progress women have made. We have been allowed to vote now for several years, and even run for parliament. How can you insinuate there is no possibility for success and no real future here in Kuwait? I think I may run for parliament myself as soon as I’m able.”

  “Hibah, women have never won any seats in parliament. Take Massouma Al-Mubarak. She’s been active in politics for a long time, and can’t win a seat.” I was on a roll. “She’s argued for women’s rights for years. She messed up her chances for any election when she collected signatures for a petition opposing gender segregation in education. The Emir threw a bone to women when he appointed her the first female cabinet officer, but it was all political trickery. Massouma knew it and so should you. That doesn’t mean Kuwait is at the forefront of anything.

  “Papa, remember when Jaber died and Sheik Saad was inserted in his place?” I countered quickly, not restraining myself from my thoughtless harangue. “You know how soon Saad was removed because of his obvious deficiencies. It was just a family plot. Sheikh Sabah became Emir and did all he could to keep his whole family in power. It’s always like that here.” The evening sun faded into the sand, an orange sunset resulting. “They did everything to assure the continuity of their own family. They guaranteed Kuwait wouldn’t change.” What I didn’t say was that I admired the Sabah’s aggressive consolidation of power.

  By this time, I was so enamored with my own understanding of the intricacies of Kuwaiti politics, that I could not help but continue my adolescent invective. “Everything in Kuwaiti politics centers on the Sabah family. The Sabahs manipulate the elections, and then when they’re accused, they blame someone else. How long can they maintain this level of control? No one said a peep when Kuwaitis were told to conserve electricity in order to support the financial income generated by the oil. Did the average Kuwaiti see any of the additional income produced by this maneuver? No.”

  “And look at Iran. It was only a year ago when they succeeded in enriching uranium at the Natanz facility. The UN’s deadline for Iran halting work on nuclear fuel passed with Iran continuing its progress anyway! The International Atomic Energy Agency just admitted Iran could develop a nuclear weapon within a few years. They are pulling way ahead of us.”

  Recently, Al-Jazeera had been prominent as the recent Qatari addition to the news media, and I read its Internet pages with relish. In them, I saw opportunities unfolding, not here in Kuwait but across the Persian Gulf in Iran. They beckoned me. I told myself that since Esau was confined to Kuwait, I would be free to operate against his influence if I were in Iran. Looking back on this conversation, I realize that my vocabulary and knowledge of the international news sounded odd for a teenager, but I know now how childish and selfish my thoughts really were. I knew the jargon of politics, but little else, and I distorted the facts to support my views. What did I really know?

  By this time Hibah was quite upset, not only about my plan to leave, but also about my hammering away on our father. I pressed on. As I reflect on this now, I’m ashamed, but I had stubbornly continued then. “What happened the last time the Emir canned parliament? Do you remember? After the call for new elections, the radicals made gains, winning more than half the fifty seats. Hibah, were any women elected? No, of course not.” Hibah was cowed and tearful, a posture uncommon for her. “Now we’re left with a political situation that is rapidly turning into a conflict between the liberals and religious extremists. The only real victory for women was a ruling to allow women to obtain passports without consent of their husbands. How ridiculous does that sound? These small-time politicians are sapping our country’s strength and any competitive edge we could hope to achieve. Kuwait is weak and engaged only in its own self-interest.” My father didn’t counter. Perhaps he saw he was wasting his time in arguing with me. I was heartless to even keep it up. After all, I was going to do what I was going to do anyway and everyone knew it now.

  “Look at what’s going on in other Gulf States. They’re all moving faster and in a more modern direction then we are. Little Qatar is just an example. The Qataris are allowing a new Christian church to be built. Soon they’ll outstrip us in the freedoms we offer and in the potential wealth that dribbles down to their citizens.” Qatar had become one of the two biggest shareholders in the London Stock Exchange. The Gulf area was awash in change and my visualization of the events propped up my ego. As if I needed that.

  I viewed all these events as possible advantages to me. I anticipated a great future for myself, and consequently saw the importance of becoming politically engaged, but I planned to do this in a novel way. The answer would lie in the flow of money and the ability of
one, namely me, to act upon that tide. I wanted what I wanted.

  The real puzzle, however, was Iran where not only were there vast oil reserves but also untapped intellectual wealth and more diversity than ever recognized by most of the world. I read of these events from as many sources as I could get my hands on. Our Kuwaiti news sources remained shallow, self-focused, incomplete, and uninterested in Iran.

  I launched into more of my newfound knowledge about Iran. To me as a teenager, it was as if I was the first to make these discoveries. Now I was lecturing my father and sister. “With all that’s going on in Iran, their people still carry on with courage. They want their rights, much more than Kuwaitis.” Divina avoided eye contact with me as she served tea.

  Young Iranians continued to participate in anti-government protests. I thought the Iranian people were endowed with more courage than the Kuwaitis – another youthful, hopeful thought about a matter outside my experience.

  The election of Ahmadinejad as president of Iran in 2005 came on top of the clumsy management of the U.S. invasion in Iraq. The U.S. withdrew its support from Iraq after ridding the country of Saddam Hussein. Their departure left a power vacuum, increasing the influence of Iran and Shia Islam in the Gulf, so the Shia majority in Iraq and Iran were inspired.

  “You’ve seen the Iraqi Shia on TV celebrating in the streets. The shift in power in Iraq has enhanced the influence of Iran. The U.S. is afraid of a nuclear-tipped Iran. They’ve increased sanctions but it’s not helping. You’ll see, Iran is going to be a major power. I’m sure of it, and I want to be there.” I would get back at Esau through my own clever plan, one that did not center in Kuwait. No Esau in Iran.

  The back-and-forth rhetoric and political activity in Iran indicated to me a widespread multiplicity of views, much more extreme than in the other Gulf States. Iran was a hothouse of competing ideas and trends. In 2003 Shirin Ebadi, an Iranian attorney and founder of the Defenders of Human Rights Center, was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for her work as a judge favoring human rights. In 2008 Iranian police, presenting no warrant, raided and closed the office of her center. Officials said the center was acting as an illegal political organization. Later, she was forced to live in exile in Great Britain.