Jabr had done his best to shed the debt, pouring every ounce of effort, every waking moment into the task, but it was too late. The financial disaster that had been slowly creeping up on him had finally engulfed him whole. How had he allowed himself to sink so deep into this abyss? It was as if he had been blindfolded, groping through a labyrinth with no exit. He had borrowed as much as any lender would allow, stacking up loans upon loans, each one a rung on the ladder he believed would elevate him to success. With the borrowed money, he had purchased what he thought were promising properties, convinced that their value would soon skyrocket. But these were not prime real estate—these were shabby little mud houses, remnants of a bygone era, dating back to the late nineteenth century. Their mud walls were cracked, their foundations unstable, and their worth plummeting. Yet, in his desperation, he had seen them as golden opportunities.
Now, the city managers had condemned most of these acquisitions. It was as if they were tearing apart the last shreds of his hope, brick by brick, wall by wall. The city had its own agenda, one that didn’t include him or his dreams. They were making way for progress, for new developments that would attract an influx of ex-patriots, a new wave of wealth that he was no longer a part of. The demolition of the old homes had begun, with bulldozers and wrecking balls reducing them to piles of rubble. Even his own home, the place where he had lived since birth, was not spared. It too was slated for destruction, a relic of the same era, standing on borrowed time.
Where would he find the money to preserve even the bare bones of their existence? The weight of that question pressed down on him like a physical burden, heavy and suffocating. The worry gnawed at him, an incessant, unrelenting force that eroded his will to fight back. He found himself reduced to a state of paralysis, sitting motionless, staring out the window as if the answers might materialize in the waters of the Persian Gulf. But the sea offered no solace. It too had changed, its once brilliant blue-green waves now dulled, perhaps by the stains left behind by oil-burning vessels. Even nature seemed to mock him with its decline.
The evening sun, as it dipped lower in the sky, cast a harsh light through the dusty air, illuminating particles that seemed to hang in the stifling atmosphere. Kuwait was never without its relentless sun and ever-present dust, a combination that now felt particularly oppressive. The idea of stepping outside into the July evening heat was unbearable, a prospect that only deepened his sense of entrapment.
It was all too much for him. For a fleeting moment, he had believed he could stave off the pressure from his creditors, that he could find a way out of the mess he was in. But reality had a way of snapping back with a vengeance. The creditors, relentless and unforgiving, would soon be at his door again, demanding what he could not give. And then there was his new wife, Jomana, who would soon return. She had been raised in a world of privilege, a world where everything came easily, albeit through questionable means. She was blissfully unaware of the financial void that loomed over them, oblivious to the fact that the life they had begun to build was on the brink of collapse. How could he tell her that everything was crumbling around them? How could he admit that he had failed?
Janiah returned from the souk, her arms laden with bags filled with fresh vegetables and fruit, most shipped down from Iraq. The smell of the fish, still wrapped in thick butcher paper, began to mingle with the air, a reminder that it needed to be put away quickly. But Jabr still couldn’t summon the strength to rise from the creaky wooden chair. He heard her bustling about, the familiar rustle of bags and the clatter of produce being set on the counter, but it was as if the sounds came from a distant place. The lizard on the windowsill remained his only point of focus, its small, green body moving with purpose while he remained paralyzed.
“Come and help this old woman,” Janiah called, her voice a blend of affection and frustration. “Your new wife will be back here soon, and we don’t want her to find everything in disarray.” Still, he sat, staring blankly at the lizard, and then out past it to the Gulf, the vastness of the water doing nothing to soothe his turmoil.
Why couldn’t he lift himself from the chair? His muscles felt leaden, his will drained. Janiah, sensing the depth of his despair, went directly to the heart of the matter, her tone shifting from coaxing to stern. “I’ve seen this before,” she said, her voice heavy with the weight of memory. “A man sitting in that same chair nearly fifty years ago—your grandfather. He was so deflated by his sadness that he couldn’t budge to meet the day. I remember how he sat there, just like you, staring out at nothing, unable to find the strength to move. To recover, he had to leave Kuwait behind, return to England to find himself again. But you…” She paused, her eyes narrowing as she looked at him with the wisdom of years. “You can’t do that. You have nothing there to go back to. Kuwait is your home, your responsibility. Get to it, young man.”
Her words cut through the air like a knife, sharp and clear. But still, he couldn’t rise. His body felt fused to the chair, as though the wood had grown around him, trapping him in his misery.
Janiah, ever practical and unafraid to take drastic measures, turned to face him fully. “Are you going to speak and tell old Janiah and your new wife what the problem is?” she demanded, her patience fraying. But he offered no response, his silence a wall that even she couldn’t breach. In a sudden flash of anger, she grabbed a fresh tomato from the bag and, with surprising strength and accuracy, hurled it at him. The tomato struck him square in the chest, bursting on impact and leaving a vivid red stain on his white dishdasha, the juice slowly spreading across the fabric like the mark of his own inaction.
The shock of the warm tomato juice against his skin, the force of her action, it all startled him—but even that wasn’t enough. He blinked, finally breaking his gaze from the lizard, but his body remained rooted, his mind still lost in the depths of his despair.
“The money is gone. I can’t pay them. They’re coming for me. Come for us.”
“Who’s coming for you? What are you talking about?” Janiah’s voice was sharp, laced with concern and impatience.
He spilled out the sad news. “I borrowed a million and a half rupees from Abdullah Al-Bader and Abdulsalam Al-Faraj. I bought old houses. They seemed like great prospects. But now they’re worthless. I have no way to repay those two robbers. They knew the city was going to demolish the houses. They’re worthless. I can’t figure out why Al-Bader and Al-Farag would even lend me the money. They must know more than I know. Our own home will be ploughed under, too.”
“They can’t tear down this house. It was given to your family by Emir Mubarak, the Great Mubarak.” Janiah retorted, her voice trembling with both disbelief and defiance. “This house is more than just bricks and mortar, Jabr. It’s our heritage, our sanctuary.”
“That day and that gift is over, Janiah.” Jabr’s voice cracked under the weight of his despair. “The times have changed, and so have the people. Sentiment doesn’t pay off debts or stop bulldozers.”
The evening did not improve the dilemma or his sour, defeated mood. He wandered through the house, his thoughts circling back to the same grim conclusion. Everything he had worked for, every dream he had entertained of a better future, was now crumbling into dust. Janiah tried to console him with stories of his grandfather’s and his father’s resilience, but even her words couldn’t pierce the dark cloud that had settled over him.
He was not ready to traipse through the matter again. The night was restless. Every creak of the old house felt like an omen, every shadow a reminder of the impending disaster. Jabr lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of his failures pressing down on him. The house, once a symbol of his family’s legacy, now seemed like a tomb, holding all his shattered hopes within its walls.
He rose the next morning at seven only because he was summoned repeatedly by Janiah. “Jabr, get down here. We have guests. The sun has been up forever.” Her voice was insistent, but there was an edge to it that made him uneasy.
He put on his wrinkled dishdasha, the one with the tomato stain, and trundled down the stairs. No hope of a better day. The heaviness in his chest hadn’t lifted; if anything, it had deepened. But as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he froze.
There, standing in the kitchen, was his old friend Dandy, along with his wife Bassema and their two boys. Jabr’s misery momentarily lifted, as if a heavy cloud had parted to reveal a brief ray of sunlight. He stepped forward, hugging Dandy tightly, resting his head against the tall Texan’s broad shoulder. “It’s been way too long, my friend. I didn’t think I’d see you again. Where have you been? Why are you back?”
Dandy’s deep, familiar voice rumbled in reply, “We’ve been in Texas, at the University of Texas in Dallas. The Kuwait Oil Company sponsored me to study there—management courses and new drilling techniques. I’m back with a bunch of other Texans.”
Jabr’s heart fluttered at the mention of more Texans. The thought of another wave of foreigners washed over him like an unwelcome tide. The thought, this is too much, rolled into his mind.
But the joy of seeing Dandy again prevailed.
As Jabr looked at his friend, he noticed subtle changes. Dandy was still tall and handsome, but there was something new—an air of maturity, of authority, that Jabr had never seen before. Dandy seemed formidable, like a man who had found his place in the world and knew exactly where he was headed. Bassema, too, hadn’t lost her beauty. But she was no longer a Bedouin girl. In fact, she seemed to have grown even more graceful with time, her presence so striking that it stirred old feelings in Jabr. He quickly pushed them aside, ashamed of the inappropriate stirrings.
“I’m sorry for waking you so early,” Dandy continued, his voice warm yet confident. “But we’re in town to visit the souk, to get supplies for our new home. I remembered you were an early riser.”
“New home?” Jabr echoed, a mixture of curiosity and unease creeping into his voice.
“Yes, KOC has a house for us in Ahmadi. The place looks more like Texas than Kuwait. You must speak Texan there.” Dandy chuckled, his smile broad and easy, as if the world was his to conquer.
Meanwhile, Janiah was bustling about the kitchen, scrambling eggs and melting butter for the fresh flat bread she had just purchased at the bakery. She glanced over her shoulder and said, “You all join us. Breakfast is almost ready.”
They all sat around the table, and Janiah offered a blessing, her voice soft and steady. But Jabr could barely focus on the words. His mind was elsewhere, consumed by a gnawing sense of inadequacy. The warmth of seeing his old friend again was quickly overshadowed by the cold reality that Dandy had returned as a success, with more wealth, more security, more of everything than Jabr could even imagine. And here he was, still struggling, still trying to make ends meet in the country he had never left.
Bitter thoughts crossed his mind: What happened? What did I do wrong? The pang of jealousy cut deep, leaving him to question himself in a way he had never done before. Am I jealous of my old friend? The thought horrified him. What’s wrong with me?
His momentary happiness felt tainted, a joy laced with resentment, as he struggled to reconcile his past with the present reality.
The morning ended with Dandy’s invitation to visit his new home in Ahmadi. Jabr’s heart sank at the thought. He tried to read Dandy. There was something that wasn’t right. The last thing he wanted was to see Dandy’s newfound success flaunted before him. Yet, before he could muster a polite excuse, Janiah intervened with a firmness that left no room for debate. “Yes, we’d love to see it. What about Wednesday afternoon?” Janiah made the definitive proposal. Her voice carried the weight of authority, the kind that Jabr had learned never to contest. The visit was set, and Jabr could only swallow his reluctance.
Wednesday morning arrived like an unwelcome guest. Jabr dressed in a sense of foreboding, carefully donning his new white sirwal and dishdasha as if the clothing itself could shield him from the discomfort that lay ahead. The fabric felt stiff, unyielding—much like his emotions. He prepared himself mentally, rehearsing neutral expressions and polite responses, but the heaviness in his chest remained. Noon came too soon, and before he knew it, he and Janiah were climbing into their Willys-Overland, the vehicle that had served him faithfully for three years. It was one of the few things in his life that gave him a sense of accomplishment.
They drove south along the Gulf coast, the familiar landscape doing little to soothe Jabr’s unease. He knew these roads well, had traveled them many times, but today the journey felt different, weighted by the impending encounter. As they passed the area where the oil loading pier stood jutting out into the sea, Jabr allowed himself a moment of pride. That structure was his doing, a testament to his own hard work and dedication. But the satisfaction was fleeting, quickly overshadowed by the thoughts of what awaited him in Ahmadi.
The town was still in its infancy, a dusty, sandy construction site being carved out of the desert. The skeletal silhouettes of oil well derricks loomed nearby, marking the landscape with their stark, industrial presence. The homes, scattered yet orderly, stood in contrast to the chaotic sprawl of Kuwait City. Ahmadi was a town with a plan, a vision for the future, and it unsettled Jabr to think of what that future might hold for him—or how it might leave him behind.
Dandy’s house was easy to find, a one-story rectangular structure that looked like it had been plucked from the pages of an American magazine. The three palm trees freshly planted to the right side were a token attempt at creating a sense of permanence in the shifting sands. The house itself was pristine, new in a way that felt almost sterile, as if it had yet to be lived in, yet to absorb the messiness of real life. Jabr couldn’t help but compare it to his own home, which bore the marks of years of wear and the memories of lives fully lived.
As they pulled up, Dandy’s two children were playing on a swing set in the yard, their laughter cutting through the heavy silence in the car. Bassema came out to greet them, her smile warm and welcoming. She was every bit as beautiful as Jabr remembered from pre-Texas days, her presence stirring old, complicated feelings that he had long tried to suppress. Bassema had first come to their home as a young woman, lost and broken after being cast out by her own family. Janiah had taken her in, nursed her back to health, and helped her find her way again. Jabr had watched her grow, had seen the light return to her eyes, and had even entertained the idea of asking for her hand. But he had hesitated, and Dandy had not. Now, seeing her here, in this perfect new home, Jabr couldn’t help but wonder what might have been.
The visit was painfully quiet, filled with the kind of politeness that only masked deeper tensions. Jabr and Dandy exchanged only a few words, each man sorely aware of the unspoken feelings that hung between them. The tea was warm, the cookies sweet, but they tasted like ash in Jabr’s mouth. His mind was elsewhere, fixated on the life Dandy had built—on the home, the family, the success that should have been his. He could see it all so clearly now, the bitterness that had been festering within him, the jealousy that had taken root and refused to let go. He hated himself for feeling this way, but he couldn’t stop. It was too much to bear, this quiet, suffocating reminder of everything he had lost—or never even had the courage to pursue.
The drive home was no better. The silence between him and Janiah was thick, filled with unspoken words that Jabr knew she would eventually ask. Sure enough, as they neared the city, Janiah turned to him, her eyes sharp and probing. “Jabr, you were not good there,” she said, her voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “Everyone could see your feelings. They were all over your face.” Her words were not unkind, but they were firm, leaving no room for denial.
Jabr stared straight ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. He knew she was right. He had failed to hide his emotions, had let his jealousy and resentment seep through the cracks in his carefully constructed facade. And now, he was left with the uncomfortable truth that he could not even pretend to be happy for his friend. He was a man torn between what was and what could have been, and the weight of that realization pressed down on him, making the journey home feel longer and more arduous than ever. He could only think positively about Jomana, whom the Lord had provided.
The following morning dawned bleak and heavy. Janiah, unwavering in her routine, summoned him to breakfast with increasing urgency, her voice growing louder with each call. Jabr, well-aware of his inability to evade her, finally dragged himself out of bed. The aroma of her coffee, a fleeting comfort, did little to dispel the sense of dread that had settled over him. He took a half-hearted bite of the breakfast she’d prepared, but his appetite had long since vanished. After only a few minutes, he retreated to his room, where he attempted to find solace in the worn pages of his Bible. Yet even the sacred words failed to penetrate the fog of his despair, and he drifted to sleep.
