Ahmadi was different. The air itself felt foreign—cleaner, quieter, but also strangely distant. On one side, their neighbors were British, on the other, Texans. The Texans, with their larger-than-life attitudes, dominated the area. Each evening, the heavy scent of barbecue smoke filled the air, wrapping around their home like an unwelcome guest.
On the first morning of his new job, Jabr was greeted by an expected visitor. The sheikh of the Murra tribe stood at his door, his face weathered and solemn, but his eyes calm. Jabr knew the tribe from much local experience and had heard of the sheikh from Janiah. Now here was the man himself, his presence a reminder of the land’s deep roots.
They exchanged kisses on both cheeks, a formal yet familiar gesture. The sheikh wasted no time.
“I have come about the graveyard of my ancestors that your man destroyed,” the sheikh said, his tone steady, not accusing. “Have you thus challenged their souls? Is there any way to repair this sin, any redress?”
Jabr felt the weight of those words, though the sheikh spoke without anger. He had anticipated this. Grantham, his boss, hovered briefly in the doorway before retreating, leaving Jabr to handle it.
Jabr nodded respectfully. “I cannot replace their graves. The dead remain as they were, in the hands of Allah.” He paused, gathering his thoughts, then continued, quoting from the Quran as if the words themselves might offer some measure of comfort. “‘Allah will never delay a soul when its time has come.’ Allah will not forsake those who perished in Him.”
The sheikh’s eyes softened slightly at the familiar scripture, but he pressed on. “But what can you do? How do we know now where to bury our dead so that another unbeliever does not come to destroy?”
Jabr considered his answer carefully. “I will designate a plot of ground that is held only for your graveyard,” he said. “I will give you a paper so stating.”
The sheikh straightened. “I want no British paper with scrawls on it that I cannot decipher. Your word will suffice.”
Jabr met his gaze. “I give my word. Go in peace.”
The sheikh nodded, a faint smile touching his lips as he turned and walked away.
Grantham peeked in again, this time smiling and nodding, satisfied with how Jabr had handled the situation. It was a small victory, but a victory, nonetheless.
Later that afternoon, when Jabr returned home, Jomana greeted him with a thoughtful look.
“It’s like a different country out here,” she said softly, glancing out the window at the vast, open landscape. “So isolated.”
Her words hung in the air, prophetic in a way neither of them could fully understand yet.
