Sunday afternoon had arrived again, and with it came the familiar sense of dread. Jabr’s worries clung to him like a heavy cloak, too overwhelming to allow any thought of church. He would sit for a few moments, staring at the floor, before springing up to pace the room with a restless energy. The walls felt like they were closing in, each step echoing his doubts back at him.
Janiah, however, would never tolerate missing the worship service. To her, attending was as vital as breath itself. Only an apocalypse, a literal end of the world, would justify absence from the sanctuary. Even then, Jabr suspected, she would insist on staying and praying till the very end. Her conviction left no room for his excuses. With a sigh, he submitted to her gentle but firm urging, and they began the short walk to the church. As they neared the entrance, Jomana, sensing his unease, took his hand and gave a small, reassuring nod toward the church, her eyes soft and understanding. He squeezed back, trying to draw some strength from her touch.
The sanctuary was growing fuller each Sunday. The invasion of Westerners, with their confident strides and loud accents, seemed to be intensifying. Dandy, who had returned from America not long ago, was there with his wife Bassema and their two children, a sight that both comforted and unnerved Jabr. They had brought with them another batch of Texans—big, loud men in pressed shirts, women with strong perfumes that filled the air with an unfamiliar sweetness. Jabr felt a mixture of welcome and resistance. While he understood the church’s mission to embrace new attendees, he couldn’t help but feel that these newcomers represented a change that was accelerating faster than he could manage.
He felt a gnawing sensation in his stomach as his eyes roamed the crowded room. It was as if every person there, from the newcomers to the old faithful, was looking straight at him, seeing past his polite smiles and worn-out greetings to the secret sin he carried like a weight on his chest. The music began, but the familiar notes washed over him like distant waves, almost muted by the louder noise of his inner turmoil. The congregation recited the Nicene Creed, yet the words felt hollow, like an incantation he could not bring himself to believe fully in that moment.
When Pastor John rose for the sermon, his voice calm and steady, Jabr found himself sitting straighter, as if trying to appear attentive while his mind spun elsewhere. John began by reading from Psalms 103:1-5: “Praise the LORD, my soul; all my inmost being, praise his holy name. Praise the LORD, my soul, and forget not all his benefits—who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion, who satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.”
The verses gripped him, and everything else faded to a blur. He didn’t hear the rest of John’s sermon. The words from the Psalm repeated in his mind like a looped song. Forgiveness and healing—these concepts seemed distant, almost irrelevant compared to the immediate anxiety pressing on his chest. Redemption, though, caught his attention. Could his life really be redeemed from this pit he found himself in? Could he be crowned with love and compassion despite everything he’d done, everything he hadn’t done? But the phrase “satisfies your desires” was what struck him most deeply.
What desires, exactly, had God promised to satisfy? Was it the longing for a simple, honest life, or the ambition that drove him to chase after wealth, status, and recognition? His youth had not soared like an eagle’s; it had floundered in the mud of his own making. And why, after so many attempts, could he not bring himself peace or satisfaction? Was it because he had been trying to do it on his own terms, by his own hand, in his own way? Could it be that satisfaction wasn’t meant to be self-crafted, but a gift received?
The service was ending before Jabr realized it, the congregation rising to sing the final hymn. The melody swelled, filling the space with a sense of unity and closure, but Jabr was still lost in the questions swirling in his mind, his heart heavy with the weight of introspection. He tried to focus on the words, but they felt like distant echoes, drowned by the cacophony of his thoughts.
Afterward, there was an evening meal served on the grounds. The tables were crowded with plates of hummus, dates, and roast lamb and rice, and the chatter grew louder as people greeted one another. Jabr picked at his food, appetite gone, and kept his distance from the Texans. Their laughter and easy camaraderie only heightened his sense of alienation. He felt like an outsider in his own church, a stranger in a sea of familiar faces. Jomana, sensing his discomfort, grabbed his arm gently as they left, but she did not push him to speak. She began her own end of a conversation but dropped it after a few sentences, her lips pressed together.
As they walked back home, Jabr could feel the silent questions pressing against his mind. Could he find his way back to peace? Or was he destined to wander in this fog of uncertainty, searching for something he couldn’t yet imagine.
The next morning forcibly cut through the fog of Jabr’s sleepless night. A sharp rap on the wooden door sent a jolt through his chest, dragging him from the murk of his thoughts. He pulled the door open to find a young man standing before him, dressed in a crisp white dishdasha and a neatly folded keffiyeh, the traditional headscarf held in place with a black agal. While many young Kuwaiti men had embraced Western attire, the formality of the young man’s dress suggested he might be a state employee or a clerk—someone who dealt in authority, rules, and paperwork.
Jabr’s eyes fell to the man’s hands, where two sets of documents were tightly gripped. The clerk’s eyes shifted nervously, darting from the papers to Jabr’s face. “Jabr Oslander?” he asked, his voice thin and formal, as if he were reading from a script he had practiced many times before.
“Yes, that’s me,” Jabr replied, his voice flat, his eyes fixed on the papers.
“Mr. Oslander, by the order of the Kuwait administrative court, I must deliver to you in person these two court orders.” The clerk’s tone was precise, measured, and coldly official. “Both these judicial orders proceed from the commercial court of the first instance.” He paused, waiting for a reaction. Jabr nodded slightly, offering none. He knew the drill. He’d been through similar procedures before and understood the system too well to need any further explanation.
The clerk cleared his throat and held out the first set of papers, those in his left hand. “For this court order,” he began, “you are not required to attend the court, and there is no alternative for appeal. You are ordered to vacate this old house within two weeks. On the date of about July 28, 1946, the demolition of the house will commence. Any belongings left in the structure will be taken or destroyed.” The words rolled out mechanically, rehearsed, devoid of empathy. The clerk’s gaze stayed fixed somewhere over Jabr’s shoulder, as if he couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. Jabr noticed the faint tremor in the young man’s outstretched hand.
Jabr’s lips curled into a faint, resigned smile. “I understand. I know you’re just doing your job,” he said softly. “But tell me, this house was given to my family by Mubarak the Great. Does the court order abrogate his gift to us?”
The young man blinked, thrown off balance by the unexpected question. His face flushed slightly. He began to stammer, the flow of his memorized lines disrupted. “I… I’ll have to go back to the court and check,” he mumbled.
Jabr waved a hand dismissively, still smiling that vague, melancholy smile. “Never mind. I’ve seen the bulldozers down the street. I know no one’s going to stop this. We’ll try to find another place to live.” His voice was calm, but inside, a storm was raging—a mix of anger, sorrow, and a touch of fear.
The clerk took a deeper breath, almost as if relieved to be moving on. He handed over the second set of papers. “This court order does require your appearance in court exactly three weeks from now, the date of August 4, 1946.” he continued, his voice a little steadier. “You are to answer to the charge of non-payment of your debt.” He quickly took a step back, as though anticipating an outburst. “The claimants are Abdulsalam Al-Faraj and Abdulla Al-Bader. The judge presiding over your case will be Abdulla Hamadi.”
Jabr’s stomach tightened at the mention of the judge’s name. He knew of Abdulla Hamadi, an Egyptian employed by the Kuwaiti court system. Rumors had swirled around his name for years—whispers of bribes, clandestine dealings, and illegal money transfers. He had heard that Hamadi was not above bending the rules if the price was right. How had Al-Faraj and Al-Bader managed to secure Hamadi’s presence for this case? Was this a mere coincidence, or was there more to this summons than met the eye? So far, the two had not done anything by chance, so Jabr was sure the choice of judge was malevolent.
Jabr thanked the clerk with a polite nod and shut the door quietly, the wood creaking as it met the frame. He heard the rapid footsteps of the young man retreating up the street, eager to distance himself from this burdensome task. Inside, Jabr leaned back against the door, feeling its cool, rough surface against his back, grounding him. His mind raced, grappling with the implications of what he had just learned.
Two weeks to leave his home. Three weeks to face the court. The clock was ticking, and the walls seemed to be closing in around him. He could almost hear the echoes of his father’s voice in the empty spaces of the house—stories of resilience, of standing firm against impossible odds. Yet, those were different times. Different battles. How was he supposed to fight this one?
The room seemed smaller than before; the air heavier. Jabr clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay composed. He knew he had to think, to plan, to find a way to protect what little he had left. But with Al-Faraj, Al-Bader, and a potentially corrupt judge aligned against him, the path ahead seemed murkier than ever.
