But he had to face the immediate threat—the loss of his house. Soon, there would be no more ancestral dwelling, no place to lodge his growing family. The walls that had sheltered generations, now felt like they were closing in on him, as if warning him of their impending demise. The house, with its creaking wooden floors, its old iron fixtures, its narrow corridors that held the laughter, whispers, and tears of his forebears, would soon be reduced to rubble.
Fadel knew the problem as well but held his tongue, sensing that his brother needed to find his own way through this storm. Jabr could feel Fadel’s silent observation, almost hear the unsaid words. It weighed on him, this unspeaking judgment—or was it sympathy?
Finally, Jabr sank into the worn-out chair and asked, his voice barely above a whisper, “What can I do, Fadel? How can I replace the old place? It’s not luxurious, but there’s plenty of room, and it’s home. Should I just wait for the Lord to provide?”
Fadel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes focused on a distant point as if reading some invisible text in the air. “You have no choice but to decide now. You get that small supplement from the mission board. And whatever more is needed, I can provide. You’ve got to settle on the least expensive possibility for now, at least until your debt is taken care of.”
Jabr’s face tightened, the muscles of his jaw clenching as he swallowed the bitterness in his throat. “How can I know it ever will be taken care of?”
Fadel shrugged, a small, almost indignant smile crossing his lips. “What’s the alternative to that? You can’t consider or live with any other option. You worry about unchangeable facts when you should just let God work.”
Jabr felt a rush of frustration, mixed with a strange admiration. How did Fadel have this confidence? Why didn’t he have it himself? His mind raced back to their childhood, to moments when Fadel had stood steady as a rock while he had faltered. He envied that certainty, wished he could borrow even a fragment of it.
“Fadel,” he said, with a sudden concern, “where will you stay? There might not be room in a smaller space.”
Fadel waved off the question with a light laugh. “Don’t worry about me. I can bunk on my ship. The cooking’s not as good as Janiah’s, but I’ll manage until we get this sorted out.”
“Sorted out?” Jabr echoed, almost to himself. What did that mean? The words hung in the air like a challenge, a riddle he didn’t know how to solve.
He forced himself to explore the newly built areas in the city, though his heart wasn’t in it. The best new homes, of course, were designed for the influx of moneyed Westerners, with their polished marble, wide balconies, and spacious gardens. But the third-world incomers needed places too, and most of these were small, two-bedroom apartments with thin walls, hastily constructed with small windows and double locks on the doors. There was no choice but the latter category, so he and Fadel began the search.
All the possibilities in this venue were pretty much the same. A walk-up flat on the third floor was the only option. As the two walked the halls of the building, the sounds of small children echoed as if there were no walls at all. The smells of curry and cumin were everywhere, the signature of the large number of Indian families. The choice was painful for him, but there was no choice.
“What would Janiah and Jomana say?” Jabr murmured aloud, almost fearing their reaction.
Fadel anticipated that concern. “Don’t worry. The women will be fine. I’ll be there with you when you show them the place.”
The next day, the four of them went to the newly rented home. Janiah and Jomana were all smiles, few words. Janiah’s eyes held a kind of knowing sparkle, while Jomana’s smile seemed tight around the edges. They had already been primed by Fadel, Jabr realized. Jomana’s only comment was simple, practical: “We’ll put the crib here in the corner.” So, the deal was made. Fadel nodded and smiled at Jabr, but Jabr only half-registered it, his mind elsewhere.
The next duty was the physical move, and the choices about which pieces of family history would have to be left behind. Janiah was the decision-maker here, and she was ruthless about the past. She had seen it all for the Oslander family, and there was no relic that needed to be preserved. Jabr sat back against the old kitchen table as Janiah gave orders to the two movers.
He had to ask, “What about what’s left? What will we do with the things we’re not taking?”
“We’ll let the bulldozer do the work for us. The past is over,” Janiah replied sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a knife.
The bulldozer arrived at seven the next morning, its exhaust bellowing out of the diesel engine. The driver and his helper were kind enough to give the family thirty minutes to get themselves together and out of the building. Fadel, Jabr, Janiah, and Jomana lined up across the street near the sea wall. For Jomana, it was an unpleasant inconvenience, but for the other three, there was more—a heavy silence, a sense of something greater ending.
Janiah’s eyes grew misty. Jabr saw the expression on her face. He tried to imagine what was going through her mind– memories they rarely spoke of, the arrival of his grandparents, his father, Pliny, who was born there, the fights between Fadel and him. Surely her thoughts were more vivid, more intimate than his. She had been a young woman then, just starting her service with the family, and it had been fifty years, most of her life intertwined with theirs. Even at that time, she must have known they couldn’t survive here—the grandparents, bewildered by the strange culture and endless sand. But their son, Pliny—their father—he was another matter. Although British and white, he was like an Arab from birth. And Janiah’s daughter Khadijah, the Bedouin woman who had beguiled Pliny. They had been the parents of the two young men standing next to her now, their hands on their hips, alternating with brushing the dust from their eyes.
Jabr and Fadel kept glancing at a gravestone not far away in the courtyard of the mission. Khadijah lay beneath it, properly honored as a hero of the mission, perhaps the most remarkable person they had ever known.
Soon, it was over. The dust settled, and the odor of the diesel exhaust dispersed in the breeze off the sea. The four evacuees looked at one another. Yes, it really was over. How could something that had meant so much be completely disappeared? It was worth so much to them, but of so little value to others.
Was there a page somewhere that needed to be turned? Jabr sensed the event was directed at him. What was he to draw from the catastrophe of the destruction of their home, the physical place he most depended upon? Was it a catastrophe at all? Maybe just a cleansing of his mind. Surely not his soul, but…
He stared at the ruins, feeling both lost and strangely free, his thoughts adrift on the sea
breeze.
