I don’t remember flying through the air. I only remember plunging head first into a mud hole, the weight of my body hammering my head into the ground like the point of a stake. Pain slashed into my neck. Then, like the falling tower, my body arced all the way over and my back smashed on the ground. Bright flecks of light swam in my vision, but I did not lose consciousness.
I tried to get up, but could not move.
Allah, where are you!
From my bizarre position, I could see legs running toward me.
Allah, I have done mighty things for you! Do not abandon me now!
One set of legs turned into a face as a man in a blue T-shirt knelt beside me, using his body to shield my face from the sun.
“Everything is going to be all right,” the man said in a gentle southern accent, his blond hair backlit by the sun. “We’re going to take care of you.”
Through bleary eyes, I saw that the man’s eyes were the bright blue of an autumn sky. He smiled at me. Angry at my own helplessness, I wanted to hit him.
Then a crushing thought: the Moroccans! I have lost the Moroccans.
I would not have another chance to impress them. My neck was probably broken, but I was more concerned about losing the opportunity to add zealots to our network.
The man with the gentle voice continued to annoy me with his irritating smile. “My name is Brian,” he said.
Again, I tried to pull away, but pain pierced my neck like stabs from a dagger. I found I could not move my extremities at all. Fear roared in like a dragon, fear such as I had not known since the Golan Heights. Brian must have sensed my distress because he said, “Don’t try to move. Somebody’s already called an ambulance. We don’t want to move you because you might have a neck injury. Everything’s going to be all right. We’re going to take care of you.”
Silently, I vowed to break his neck if he said that again. Mud crept into the corner of my eye, stinging, blurring my vision. Instantly, the man stood, stripped off his T-shirt and knelt to clean my face with it. The dagger sawing into my neck now sprouted a second blade and attacked my brain. Blood thumped in my ears, and the drumbeat was excruciating, maddening. Slowly I realized I could no longer feel my arms and legs. What could I have done to make Allah so angry with me?
I am your great warrior! I have done mighty works for you!
Dimly, as I heard the high, faint thread of a siren somewhere far away, I began to whisper the sacred writings: “In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful, have we not expanded thee thy breast and removed from thy burden they which did gall thy back? And raised high the esteem in which Thou art held? So, verily, with every difficulty, there is relief.”
Allah! Where is my relief?
My memories of the next hour are like a packet of snapshots tossed one by one on a tabletop:
…An ambulance ride, some medication for pain
…Questions, questions: “Do you know your name? Do you know what day it is?
…Are you allergic to any medications? Do you have any metal plates in your body?
…The squeak of gurney wheels rolling into an emergency room
…Bright lights, strange faces, the smell of alcohol
My first clear memory is of a dark-haired physician with a widow’s peak and a face that appeared to be smiling even when he was not. “I’m Dr. David,” he said. “I’m an orthopedic surgeon. The ambulance attendants tell me you’re a Frenchman? Do you speak English?”
Looking up at him, I nodded.
Only yes or no answers. Don’t give too much information.
“You’ve got some pretty significant injuries here, but it doesn’t look like anything life-threatening,” Dr. David said. “Is there anyone we should notify? Any family? Friends?”
I could not give out the names or telephone numbers of my brothers. Many were in the country illegally. What if the hospital sent the police to the apartment mosque? The videotapes and literature alone were enough to tell our story.
I shook my head: No. There is no one to call.
“And I see here that you don’t carry health insurance,” the doctor said, tapping a clipboard. Then he looked up at me and smiled. “That’s okay. Everything’s going to be all right. We’re going to take care of you.”
Exactly what the irritating blue-eyed man had said at the scene of my accident. What was wrong with these idiots? Everything was not going to be all right. I could not move my legs or arms. The pain medication had only slightly dulled the searing pain in my neck. And now my head continued its violent throbbing, the pressure in my skull so intense it squeezed water out of my eyes.
On the ceiling, long, white fluorescent lights marched away like highway stripes leading toward some hated destination. Suddenly, they grew unbearably bright.
“My head,” I whispered, and I saw a nurse with teddy bears on her shirt coming toward me with a needle.
2
My eyes flickered open in a dim room, and for a moment I could not get my bearings. But as my head cleared, images of the accident, the ambulance, the emergency room came flooding back. I did not move, but slid my eyes slowly left, then right.
I am alone.
Looking toward the foot of the bed, I could see that most of my body was immobilized, my legs and hips strapped to some kind of boards. Even on the battlefields, I had never been this helpless. Even when Abu Zayed shot me, I got up and limped away.
Allah, why have you allowed me now to be at the mercy of infidels!
I heard the whisper of a door opening, footsteps, and a cheery voice: “Ah, good to see you’ve rejoined the land of the living!”
I turned my head slightly to the right and saw a white-coated man smiling down at me. “I’m Dr. James, head of physical therapy. How are you feeling this morning?”
I’m lying in a hospital unable to move. How do you think I’m feeling?
“A little pain,” I said.
“A little, huh? Well, I’d say that’s good news considering what you’ve been through.” He moved to the foot of my bed, retrieved the chart, and returned to stand by my head. “Mind if I raise your bed a bit so we can chat?”
I shook my head, and a moment later a buzzing set in as the top half of the bed rose to a slight angle.
“I just want to let you know what’s going on, what the prognosis is,” Dr. James said, his face full of calm assurance. “You have chipped posterior fractures of the C-5 and C-6 cervical spine. In English, that means you broke a couple of vertebrae in your neck. But not badly, nothing permanently debilitating.”
Dr. James reviewed my chart aloud: referred pain through the right arm and hand with numbness radiating out into the right thumb. Severe contusion of the right shoulder, limited movement of the right arm. Similar symptoms in the left arm. Lower extremity pain, respiratory difficulty, blurred vision in both eyes.
“None of these things are life-threatening, but I’ll tell you what, to look at you, looks like you’ve been through a war.” Dr. James ended with a chuckle. “Do you have any questions?”
“No.”
“Okay, then, not to worry,” he said with a smile. “Everything’s going to be all right. We’re going to take care of you.”
What?
Brian, Dr. David, now this man. They were all saying the exact same words. Like a chant, a spell, an evil mantra. I began to seriously wonder if the jin, the demons of Gahenna, were alive in these smiling infidels, conspiring against me.
Later that morning, Dr. David stopped in. “Are you sure there’s no one we can call?” he said.
“No. No one,” I said, pouring on the Parisian. “My family lives in France.”
On my fifth day in the ward, the door opened and in walked Brian, the blue-eyed man from the accident scene, arms full, smiling his infernal smile. “Hey, Kamal. How’re you feeling?”
He spoke as though we were old friends. I wanted to rip his throat out.
Wearing a brown blazer over a blue polo shirt, Brian crossed the room and unloade
d his cargo of cut flowers, mixed nuts, and homemade cookies in an orange-lidded Tupperware container.
The door opened again, Dr. David walked in, and a smile lit his face. “Well, good morning, Brian. What are you doing here?”
“Me? What are you doing here, John?” Then Brian gestured toward me. “This is the man I was telling you about, the one I helped at the accident.”
“You’re kidding,” Dr. David said, wrapping Brian in a back-slapping hug. “This is the man I told you about, the Frenchman.”
Oh, no, I thought. Born-again Christians. Only foo-foo Christian men hug each other like that.
The door opened again and in walked Dr. James. “Well, hey Brian, what in the world are you doing here?”
Brian jerked his head at Dr. David and laughed. “Mark!” he said, walking and embracing the doctor. “Dr. David and I just had the same conversation. Kamal, here, is the guy I was telling you about, the one from the wreck.”
Dr. James chuckled. “Wait a minute. I told you about him first, at my house the other night, remember?”
What is this, a competition?
Brian and the two doctors chatted quietly a while longer, completely ignoring me. Now my radar was on full alert. All three of these men had been telling each other about me? Why? What did they know? Who else was at Dr. James’ house during this conversation? Police?
Suddenly, the conversation stopped and all three men approached my bedside. Dr. David spoke first. “Listen, Kamal, here’s the problem. Your medical bills are already very high. Between the ambulance run, the emergency room, and the medication, plus five days laid up in this room, you’re already in the high five-figure range. Problem is, you don’t have any health insurance, and if you stay here much longer, the folks down in billing are going to be after you for the rest of your natural-born life.”
I thought of home, Lebanon. There, if you did not pay your medical bills, they sent you to a free hospital known for its butchery. I did not want to go to a place like that. And if the Americans came after me for money, if they got the authorities involved—lawyers, courts—what would they find? A bank account that grew fat then thin then fat again with large cash deposits, while I worked only odd jobs? Would the network be discovered? My American residency revoked?
What about the sheikh? I could call Sheikh Fahim. My bills would be nothing to him.
These thoughts flashed through my mind in seconds as Dr. David continued: “At this point, the reality is you’re in the mending stage. There’s nothing wrong with you that time won’t heal. But you don’t need to be lying here in the hospital racking up more bills day by day. On the other hand, you don’t have anyone—any friends or family—who can take you home to recover. And in your condition, you certainly can’t take care of yourself.”
He was right about that. No one in my network would be able to stay with me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for what could be months.
Now Dr. David paused and glanced at the other two men, who both nodded their encouragement. “So here’s what we’re thinking,” Dr. David said. “My wife, Theresa, is a registered nurse, but she’s a stay-at-home mom right now. She and I would like to open our home to you. We have a comfortable room you could have to yourself.”
Instantly, I was suspicious. I felt my eyes narrow to slits.
Dr. David saw my expression, but plunged on. “Theresa could take care of you during the day. I could do regular ortho exams right there at the house, free of charge, even drive you back here for your follow-ups. None of this would cost you a dime.”
Now Smiling Brian piped up. “And the three of us also know some folks who just might be able to help you out with your medical bills.
Why? Why would they do this?
When Dr. James spoke next, it was as if he had read my mind. “Kamal, there’s no catch here. No catch at all. We just want to show you the love of God.”
3
John and Theresa David lived in the middle of a pine forest. A long driveway led through a stand of fir and spruce to a grand brick house with high windows of leaded glass and fancy double doors with brass ornaments.
I had considered the Davids’ offer and my alternatives. The medical bills would not be a problem; I was certain Sheikh Fahim would take care of them. But that would require getting alone with a telephone and explaining a long distance call to Saudi Arabia. This would also mean revealing my connection to that country. And even if the sheikh were to send the funds, I could not get out of bed to make the deposit, which would mean one of the brothers would have to do it. And I was not about to reveal Sheikh Fahim as my golden goose.
Looking back, I realize that my own ignorance of American healthcare and finance finally pushed me to the Davids’ house. I did not know Americans often take months or even years to pay off their medical bills and that hospitals cannot do much about it. I also did not know that hospitals are required to render care even if a person cannot pay. I thought if I did not cough up seventy or eighty thousand dollars immediately, the bill collectors would pounce on my head, bringing the authorities with them.
But even beyond the money, I realized with a sudden pang how alone I really was. Dr. David was right: I had no one to take care of me. I thought of my mother, my sisters, how they would fuss over me if they could see me broken this way. My heart squeezed tight in my chest. The truth was, I had many “brothers” in jihad, but no friends. To make a friend would mean letting someone get close, and I had learned long before that close friends die. They also provide a way for the authorities to trace you.
And so, I accepted the Davids’ offer.
If these Christians want to be fools, let them, I thought, lying in the hospital room the night Dr. David had offered his hospitality. I will take advantage of their generosity. Then, when I can walk again, I will disappear into the night.
That had been two days before. Now, Dr. David guided my wheelchair up his front walk, flipped an expert reverse, then gently rolled me up the front steps, one at a time. Inside his spacious home, he introduced me to his wife, Theresa, a strawberry blond dynamo who immediately began to chatter as if she had known me since nursery school.
“Kamal, I have been looking so forward to having you here,” she said, laying her hand on my arm. “You are absolutely welcome to anything in our home. And I am going to be right here to help you with anything you need.”
The first thing I need, infidel woman, is for you to stop touching me, I thought. Then: stop talking.
But outside, I offered a pained smile. If I was going to go through with this, I had to pretend to be grateful—at least long enough to make my escape.
Dr. David wheeled me into a downstairs bedroom large enough to please a Saudi prince, and with four tall windows looking into the pine forest. A four-poster bed dressed in lacy white quilts dominated the center of the room. There were enough foo-foo pillows on it to please a queen.
Theresa saw me staring. “There’s a feather bed on top of the regular mattress. And the pillows are down-filled. Very comfortable. But if you would prefer foam pillows, I can get you some of those, no trouble. No trouble at all. Whatever you need, just say the word.”
I began to suspect that if this woman took a breath, she could talk for thirty minutes before taking another. I was now certain I had somehow angered Allah and he had sent this woman to torment me.
At that moment, Allah sent more torment: Three young children, two boys and a girl, swept into the room like tiny tornadoes.
“Kamal, these are our kids,” Theresa said. “Elizabeth, Jacob, and Caleb.”
Elizabeth, about six years old, was a carbon copy of her mother, strawberry blond with bright blue eyes. Jacob, about eight, had the same blue eyes and white-blond hair, while his brother Caleb, about two years older, had his father’s dark coloring.
“Hi, Uncle Kamal!” Elizabeth squeaked.
Uncle Kamal? Allah, help me!
Together, the doctor and his nurse-wife helped me into the bed. I sank into t
he feathery top and decided instantly that it was the softest, most comfortable spot I had ever laid in my life. Inexplicably, a sense of peace and security settled over me, followed immediately by a wave of guilt.
No! I would not be seduced and defiled by these people. Their kindness was a means to an end. Nothing more.
“Kids, you keep Uncle Kamal company while we run and get him some dinner,” Dr. David said. Then he and Theresa disappeared through the bedroom door. Like troopers mounting an island invasion, the three children hopped up on the bed, bouncing on their knees, Elizabeth and Caleb on my left side and Jacob on my right.
“Uncle Kamal! Uncle Kamal!” they sang in unison.
Can you not see I am injured?
I did not want the Davids to hear me being unkind to their children, but this I could not tolerate. “I am not your uncle!” I whisper-shouted, stealing glances at the bedroom door.
The children ignored me, bouncing softly, chanting, “Uncle Kamal! Uncle Kamal!”
“Stop calling me that! Get off the bed, you monkeys!”
“Look at all his Band-Aids,” Elizabeth said to Caleb, wide-eyed. “I never saw that many Band-Aids before.”
“I know,” Jacob said. “Let’s pray for him!”
And with that, all three children reached for me.
I froze, stiff as a fallen tree. Glancing down, I saw their six tiny hands, pale as snowflakes, lying against my broken body. And all three children bowed their heads, closed their eyes, and began to pray that Uncle Kamal would be healed.
I was livid. Like a volcano on the verge. But I could not move from under the hands of these tiny infidels praying to their Christian god.
“Stop it!” I whispered. “Stop it!”
But they did not stop. I looked at Elizabeth’s face and saw a tiny smile. She seemed in rapture, floating off to her alien heaven to make an inquiry on my behalf. Jacob and Caleb had their eyes screwed shut, and their lips moved earnestly, fervently. And without warning, a word filtered through my anger like springwater through cracks in a stone wall: purity.
The Blood of Lambs: A Former Terrorist's Memoir of Death and Redemption Page 26