by Omar Tyree
She was a wife of steel and iron will herself. Maybe she should have been a man.
Abdul shook his head and continued to resist her as his security men waited to escort his wife back to safety, but they dared not to touch Hamda without a direct command from Abdul. Even then they would be superbly gentle with her.
“This is not a good idea!” Abdul was now sorry that he had even taken his wife.
“Abdul, imagine the loyalty these men will have for you when they know your lovely wife can feel their loss and pain.”
She took his smooth, clean-shaven face into the palms of her hands and eyed him gently, like a mother to a child. But Abdul pushed her hands away, embarrassed.
In a whisper, he told his wife sternly, “We are not in privacy. Now please, go back to the car. We will discuss this later.”
Hamda finally began to see her husband’s point as the men all stared at them. It was Muslim custom for a wife to obey the wishes of her husband and to refrain from the affairs of men. Even the police officers were staring. So she nodded in submission and spoke to him in Arabic.
“En sha Allah,” she responded, and she returned to the car with his security.
Abdul took a deep breath, swallowed his pride and returned to his business.
“And you did not see him walk to the edge before he fell?” an investigating officer asked one of the immigrant workers. The officer wore a policeman’s uniform of an olive-green short-sleeve shirt, long matching pants, a black officer cap with red trim and black boots. He was a light-brown Arab man, clean-shaven and roughly thirty-five years old.
The darker brown worker in front of him shook his head and mumbled hastily with pretty good English, “No, it was sudden. It happened very fast.”
“And no one else was near him?” the officer asked.
Hakim, the Muslim overseer, stood nearby, listening in on the interrogations. He continued to speculate what he thought might have happened. But as he continued to eye the number of immigrant workers in question—Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Sri Lankans, Somalians, Ethiopians and Egyptians—he realized that few of them struck a chord. They were mostly unfamiliar faces.
Hakim shook his head and thought solemnly, We have too many men working here who I do not know. He then looked toward one of his hiring managers.
“Khalid,” he called.
A small, medium-brown man of Yemish descent walked over to respond to him.
“Who are these new men? I don’t recognize many of them at all.”
Khalid held up his hands and shrugged. “They have left other construction sites that have been shut down or delayed because of the economy. So, Abdul told me to hire these new men to finish our building faster.”
Once Hakim discovered that his boss had sanctioned more hiring, apparently without his advice or notice, he decided to back away from his reprimand.
However, he did question the manager. “Does Abdul not know how many problems these new men have caused us on the job? We are hiring far too many of them.”
Khalid looked at him in confusion and shrugged again in defeat. He asked, “And what would you have me to do: tell him that it’s a bad idea? Even though I thought so myself, he had this idea that the loss of other construction business would be our gain.”
Hakim listened and shook his head, feeling powerless.
“And now this is what we have—a bloody mess.”
In haste, Abdul walked into the fold with his security team and was visibly upset. “Okay, what happened?”
The UAE police, Hakim, and Khalid, all eyed each other to see who would speak first. It was the policemen’s job to report their findings.
“The man leaned over from one of the higher levels of the building and fell to his death. That is all that we have and all that the men have told us,” the investigating officer explained. There were five more officers on the scene with more on the way.
Building code officials arrived at the scene to comb over the safety provisions of the construction site. They showed up in their uniforms of hardhats, clean white shirts and official badges. Apparently, someone had made an urgent call for them to investigate the site, with perfect timing.
“Aren’t there more safety measures for the workers on the higher levels?” the officer asked Abdul right as the building code inspectors arrived.
Abdul was embarrassed and looked toward Hakim and Khalid, who immediately answered the officer’s safety question.
“Of course we have our safety provisions,” Hakim spoke up. “But sometimes all of the men don’t use them.”
It was not the best answer, and it was surely not what Abdul wanted to hear at the moment.
He shouted at both of his men, “You make them use more safety! That is your job!”
The minor managers remained out of Dodge and allowed their two leaders to take the heat, just as the building inspectors began to introduce themselves.
“Abdul Khalif Hassan? This is your building?” the lead inspector asked him. He was a tall Muslim man with fair skin, lighter than Abdul’s and the rest. His question was a mere courtesy. The inspectors already knew who Abdul was and that he owned the building. They had been around and had spoken to Abdul on plenty of his previous projects. However, where there had been a silent understanding of unsafe practices at construction sites before, the impact of a slower economy on incomplete, hurried and stalled developments around Dubai had forced the inspectors to be less lenient. Developers were becoming increasingly desperate and too willing to cut corners in efforts to complete their financed projects on time.
Realizing as much, Abdul addressed the officials accordingly. “We will make sure that this kind of tragedy never happens again.”
Nevertheless, the inspectors had to at least appear as if they were being more diligent on the job, especially in front of the UAE police officers. So they pressed him with questions while filling out reports.
“How many men work here?” the lead inspector asked. His team began to search through the area with their official notepads and pens in hand.
Merciful Allah! Abdul thought to himself. He didn’t know the answer—and didn’t want to know. The truth was that they were doing whatever they could to finish the building sooner rather than later.
Sensing trouble, Khalid spoke up, “We have several shifts of men, so we don’t overwork them.”
“How many men and how many shifts?” the inspector asked.
Khalid did not want to reveal it. He already knew they had hired too many men. But in his books, he had falsified the information; hundreds of men were being paid secretly.
“I will show you the books,” he answered.
The lead inspector nodded to another member of his team to follow Khalid to the main trailer office. “Alim, you go check.” He then nodded back to Abdul. “We are sorry for the tragic loss today.”
Abdul wondered how they had found out so fast, but he would not ask the inspector in front of the officers. Instead, he nodded back. “All prayers be to Allah.” He figured he would have a chance to speak to the inspector alone later, as they always did.
*****
In sync with the modern world of media exposure, a camera crew of Dubai news and events reporters showed up in trucks, loaded with equipment. They were a part of the new, young regime of camera journalists, capturing the people, places and things of the United Arab Emirates. They usually covered only the positive news and rarely strayed into more tragic or political stories, unless it was sanctioned by the Emirates. But right as the emergency ambulance zoomed away from the commotion with the Indian man’s dead body inside—headed toward the closest hospital—the young camera crew moved into action at the scene.
Obviously, another phone tip had been made that day.
Through the dark-tinted windows of the Rolls Royce, Hamda noticed the eager camera crew excitedly pulling their equipment from the back of their trucks, and she immediately thought of the impact a bad media story would have on her husband’s buildi
ng.
Oh no! she thought.
She looked back toward the construction site, where her husband had disappeared into the interior of the debris and the office trailers, and she decided to divert the camera crew’s attention with a spontaneous interview.
She climbed out of the car, forcing the remaining security team to surround her, diverting the attention of the camera crew, just as she had hoped and expected.
A young Arabian woman wearing uncovered blue jeans and a black designer T-shirt, recognized her instantly. She had noticed the white Rolls Royce and Hamda’s opulence before in the shopping areas of Dubai.
“Guys, that’s Hamda Sharifa Hassan,” she alerted the rest of the crew.
They stopped and looked dumbfounded as Hamda approached them.
“Please, return to the car,” one of the security men begged her. He was terrified that Abdul would fire them all because of his wife’s defiance. But Hamda ignored him and motioned for the camera crew.
“Would you like an interview?” she asked them.
“No, no interviews. Please!” the security men pleaded. They even revealed their guns to scare the young camera crew off.
Nevertheless, Hamda insisted, “No, they’re harmless; just kids. Put those away.” Actually, a few members of the camera crew were older than Hamda.
As the security men reluctantly lowered their weapons, the brave young reporter in jeans and a T-shirt led the interview. “Yes. En sha Allah,” she spoke out of respect. “We would love to interview you. Would you tell us what happened here?” she asked with a microphone and cameras rolling.
The security men all looked toward the construction site, where their superior had accompanied Abdul. They had no idea how to stop his strong-willed wife from speaking, so they sent one of the men to run and inform their superior. Hamda paid it no mind and went on with the interview. She was thrilled by every opportunity to speak out and reveal her astute education in worldly affairs. She was a proud communications graduate from the University of Dubai, and she planned on using her degree.
“There has been an unfortunate accident today involving one of the workers,” she said. “And I would like to send a blessing of my prayers to Allah for the loved ones, wife and family of the deceased.”
The young reporter stood there, astonished for a minute before she remembered to ask her next question. She couldn’t believe they had the opportunity to interview one of the most respected young wives of the Emirati.
Hamda Sharifa Hassan was already revered and celebrated amongst the young Muslim women who idolized her. She was a majestic wife with a strong sense of fashion and confidence who was politically aware and outspoken. An updated interview would make her more celebrated for her bravery and eloquence—the young reporter was sure of it. The interview would go viral and inspire hundreds of Muslim and Arabian women to acquire the education, poise and confidence that they needed to speak out on the affairs of Dubai and all of the United Arab Emirates.
“Will this be another hotel or—”
“Yes. My husband hopes to employ thousands of new workers with all of his hotels and developments. It is the work of Allah to provide opportunity for all. So as we pray for the safety of the men who work here, we also pray for the employment of the many people who will benefit from tourism and the new income of Dubai.”
Before the young reporter could ask her another question, Abdul and the head of his security team came rushing back to stop them.
“What is going on here?” he asked. He looked toward the camera equipment. “This is private property, so anything that you film is now my property.”
In a flash, his armed security men seized the cameras and ejected the tapes to keep for themselves.
“Hey!” the young reporter protested. But there was no fight as the police watched closely. The construction site was indeed private property. As far as the UAE police were concerned, the camera crew was trespassing and had no reason to be there.
“Move along before we arrest you. This is a private matter and not of your concern,” the police warned them.
As the crew moved on without their tape, of course there was frustration, but the thrill of interviewing Hamda Sharifa Hassan for even a minute had been worth it.
*****
Abdul, looking agitated, climbed back inside of the car with his wife. “Hamda, what is wrong with you? Why would you do that interview? I told you to remain inside the car.”
“I saw these kids ready to film the property and the commotion, where they could have made up their own incorrect story, so I offered them an interview of the truth.”
“For what? They don’t need to know anything. You know how many news reports we could have while building a new hotel? Thousands! But no one cares until it is done. Then we do our stories of grand openings. But you don’t do stories like this. There is nothing good that we could gain. We can settle up with this man’s family in private with a Diyat of blood money. And his Indian family will be satisfied with that.”
Abdul shook his head and continued, “Unbelievable! You are too pressed to use your education for the wrong reasons. When there is no reason to speak, you do.”
Hamda snapped, “Well, what do I use my education for then, only to speak to our children?! You won’t allow me to teach. You won’t allow me to do interviews. You barely allow me to speak at events. And you do not allow me to develop my own business ideas. And yet, you always tell me how intelligent I am.”
“You are intelligent,” Abdul insisted. “But there is a time and place for everything, and this is not it.”
Merciful Allah! he thought. She makes me feel more like a father than a husband. Maybe I should have married a less ambitious woman who would not be bothered to speak so much. Now I have no choice but to treat her with more reservation.
“Take her home with the security,” he told his driver. “Then come back for me later.”
He leaned over the seat to kiss his wife on the lips only for her to turn away and deny him.
“I did it only to help you,” she told him.
Abdul softened. “Thank you. Now you can go home and help me again. My nerves will be much calmer here, knowing that you are safe at home with our son.”
“Knowing that I am silent,” Hamda snapped back at him.
Abdul sighed and shook his head. She has far too much Western woman in her, he thought. And although he had been attracted to her strong will initially, it was now becoming a problem.
“I will see you later at home,” he told his wife of three years. He climbed out of the Rolls Royce with no response from her. He then watched as his driver sped away in the dust with half of his security team; then he returned to his business at the construction site.
Chapter 4
Another delta jumbo jet from the USA entered into the airspace of the United Arab Emirates. Inside the roomy aircraft, Gary Stevens sat in window seat 26A, headed to Dubai International Airport. He had reclined his chair all the way back while falling asleep listening to his Beats headphones. The fifteen-hour flight from Atlanta had been exhausting, and he was only awakened by the loud bells of landing preparations as the passengers stirred and became excited.
“We’re lannndinnggg,” the blond-haired boy sitting beside him hummed. He was eight years old and traveling with his parents and older sister, who sat in the middle seats across the aisle to their right.
Gary pulled his chair back up and stretched out his chiseled arms in a dark-blue T-shirt. He then massaged his weary eyeballs with his fingertips and grumbled, “Yup, we’re here all right.” He took off his headphones, prepared to put them away inside of his carry bag.
“What hotel are you in?” the boy asked him. His big brown eyes contrasted with his bright-blond hair.
Gary was hesitant to answer. “I don’t know yet.”
The boy looked confused. “You don’t know yet? You didn’t make your reservations?”
Obviously, he had traveled enough to know the process.
“Then you’ll buy a hotel?”
Gary continued to grin. “Ah, I don’t know if I’ll buy a hotel. I’ll rent a room, maybe.”
“Yeah, that’s what I meant—a room.”
“Richard, would you leave him alone,” his older sister barked at him across the aisle. She was a teenager with two-toned blond and brown hair and the same deep-dark-brown eyes as her brother’s. “He’ll talk your ears off if you haven’t noticed.”
“Yeah, I see,” Gary said, grinning. “So where are you guys all staying?”
“At the International Suites.”
Gary nodded. “Good choice. You can never go wrong at the International Suites.”
The girl’s mother and father woke up beside her and glanced at Gary.
“How are you doing?” her mother asked.
“I’m good,” Gary said. “I just needed a little getaway.”
“Don’t we all,” her father grumbled.
*****
Gary walked out of the airplane bridge in the city of Dubai. He was taller than most and lighter complected and would stand out in this country filled with more diminutive, darker men. He was sharp looking, with his hard-body, full head of hair and taut skin. Even his two-day old beard looked good. Gary often went without a shave for a few days. He found that the scruff kept him out of trouble, serving as a warning sign of toughness. It said, Don’t mess with me.
Nevertheless, the happy-go-lucky American boy and his family were hardly intimidated. Gary’s eyes showed nothing but peace and friendliness.
“Byeee,” the blond-haired boy hummed in his direction while being pulled away to claim his luggage.
Gary smiled and waved again, needing to claim his own luggage. The first thing he noticed about the airport of Dubai was the huge shopping advertisements behind bright lights and glass.
It looks just like America, he told himself, only it’s in Arabic.
But once he claimed his luggage and followed the crowd to the long immigration lines, armed guards with assault weapons and guard dogs were everywhere. It had been a similar scene in Colombia. Only the Middle Eastern guards looked friendlier.