On the fifth day, just as the heat of the afternoon began to sink into the earth, the ship Denton Flowers arrived early, its smokestacks catching the sun. The wind had been kind to Mary’s ship, but unkind to Jomana and Jabr, pushing them further into a sea of doubt.
The two stood side by side on the beach, their hands brushing but not quite touching, as Mary stepped off the ship, her face set with determination. Before Jabr could say anything, she announced, “I’m here to help, and I’m not leaving until we sort this out.”
Jomana’s face softened with hope. “Mom… I contacted you before I really understood. We… we can’t use your money or your help.”
Jabr hung back, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “You’ve got to give us time to work through this ourselves,” he said, his voice low but firm.
Mary’s eyes flashed with frustration. “I can make this easy for you two. The amount of money you’re talking about is nothing!” Could this be true? Was Mary so rich? She waved her hand dismissively, her presence commanding, imposing. Janiah stepped onto the sand, her gaze steady. “You’ve had a long journey, Mary,” she said with quiet authority. “Come in, get settled. There’s no need for this in the heat.”
Her words were a Band-Aid, only temporary. Mary hesitated, then nodded, and the tension eased—but only a little. The arguments didn’t stop; they just moved indoors, their voices bouncing off the walls. Two more days passed in a blur of raised voices, clenched fists, and anxious glances. Jomana’s resolve wavered, caught between her mother’s insistence and Jabr’s quiet, unyielding stance. Jabr remained firm – her money was not welcome.
Then, on the second day, there were visitors—unwelcome ones. The two Saudis appeared again, this time with faces darker, their threats more explicit. They pushed their way into the kitchen, their voices rough, their demands loud. Janiah was there, her small frame standing firm between them and the rest of the house. She argued back, her voice low but fierce, like a warning growl.
Mary, hearing the commotion, stormed in. “What are you two doing her hounding my son-in-law?” she demanded, her eyes blazing. The Saudis hesitated, their surprise evident.
“Mary, what are you doing here?” one of them asked, thrown off by her presence.
Mary stood taller, stepping into their space, her voice cold. “He’s the husband of my daughter, and you keep your troubles away from him.” She moved closer, so close they could feel her breath. “If you want your money taken care of safely, you’d better back off now.” Her words were sharp as knives, and for a moment, the men looked unsure, like boys caught in a lie. Then, slowly, they stepped back and left.
Jabr stood there, stunned, his mouth slightly open. “What just happened?”
Mary turned to them, her face softer but still firm. “I know those two. They won’t trouble you anymore.” Her voice had an edge of steel, but underneath it, there was something else—something that felt like sadness.
She had bought them some peace, but only from the immediate threat. The debt still hung over them like a dark cloud. “I’m booked back to Cairo tomorrow,” she said quietly, her eyes not meeting theirs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. As for me… I can’t get out of this. I’m in too deep. Those two Saudis are no threat, but the people over them—they’re serious.”
Mary’s shoulders sagged, and for the first time, she looked small, vulnerable, a woman who had fought too many battles and had no strength left for this one. Jabr felt a twist in his chest—an emotion he couldn’t quite name. They had won a moment of reprieve, but the war was far from over.
Her departure was marked by Jomana’s soft tears and Jabr’s inscrutable gaze. Jomana held Mary in a tight embrace at the dock, lingering for more than a minute, as if trying to absorb some last comfort from her mother’s presence.
“Take care of yourself, Mama,” Jomana whispered, her voice trembling. “Thank you… thank you for everything.”
Mary brushed a tear from her daughter’s cheek. “You are my heart, habibti. I’d do anything for you.”
Jabr, standing a little apart, seemed lost in his own conflicting emotions. He stepped forward, taking both of Mary’s hands for only a moment. “Goodbye, Mary. Thanks for coming and scaring away those two very upsetting Saudis. I know Jomana was glad to see you.” His tone was formal, his expression guarded. “You know, we may not meet again.” He wished he could pull back those last words.
Mary met his gaze, searching for something deeper, but finding only a wall. She nodded and turned away, her footsteps echoing hollowly on the wooden planks. She stayed at the rail and waved, her face a composed mask as the vessel slipped out of the harbor, the ship’s horn bellowing twice as it headed south.
As the ship disappeared into the distance, Jabr felt an odd hollowness settle over him. He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or resentful. Mary had come to help, yes, but also brought a legacy of lies and subterfuge. And yet, she had shown a true intention to fix the mess, to save his skin—or rather, the skin of her daughter’s husband. In truth, he felt like a mere chess piece in her game, a secondary player to her devotion to Jomana.
The day seemed like it would pass quietly, but by afternoon, the familiar, menacing figures of Al-Bader and Al-Faraj, the principal owners of the debt, were back on the scene. Jabr’s stomach tightened. It was far from over.
Their harassment began anew. There were deliveries of brief, written messages. The first arrived that evening, folded neatly and slipped under the door. Jabr opened it with a frown, his heart racing. The note read: In the name of Allah, you must pay us, or you will receive payment from Him.
Jabr crumpled the paper in his hand, his jaw clenched. The second message arrived early the next morning, handed over by a sneering delivery boy. It stated the facts of the case and coldly reminded him of the amount: one and one-half million rupees. The note added, almost casually, that they were not yet charging interest. Some might consider interest to be against Islam, it read, the words dripping with mockery.
By the third day, the harassment escalated. Their employees began showing up at Jabr’s home several times a day, banging on the door, shouting through the windows, and making a scene in the street. Jabr tried to ignore them, but their presence was suffocating, their voices a constant reminder of his growing desperation.
Then came the verbal attacks against Janiah and Jomana. At the souk, as they shopped for vegetables, they were accosted by men who muttered insults under their breath, spat on the ground as they passed, and leered at them with thinly veiled threats. Jomana tried to keep her head high, but Janiah’s face was pale, her hands trembling as she clutched her Jomana’s arm.
“They won’t stop, will they?” Jomana whispered, her voice tight with fear and anger.
Jabr’s face darkened as he heard about the incident. His hands shook as he imagined their tormentors surrounding his family. “No, they won’t,” he muttered. “And they’ve only just begun.”
The next threat was more formal—a letter threatening court action. Jabr stared at the paper for a long moment, his mind racing. He knew that in Islam, the courts were supposed to show leniency to the debtor in cases of delinquency. The Quran spoke against demanding payment of debts if the debtor was in a difficult circumstance. If the debtor could not pay, a postponement to give more time was justified. And yet, he knew he couldn’t depend on this.
“Islam also speaks against excess in debt,” Jabr murmured to himself, his voice bitter. “And any excess is categorized as a major sin, and my debt… it is major indeed.”
He could not rely on Islamic law alone. The courts of Kuwait were unpredictable; they did not operate on the Western concept of precedent. Each jurist was free to make an independent decision, and he knew all too well that Al-Faraj and Al-Bader had many of them in their pocket. If the case went to court, he could easily end up in jail.
And then there was the threat of public humiliation. His family had a long and honorable tradition in Kuwait, built over generations. Al-Faraj and Al-Bader could ruin his reputation forever, reduce him to a man of shame, his family name tainted beyond repair. Shame is not permissible in the view of Islam.
Of all the possibilities, the court was the biggest threat. Jabr paced the room, his thoughts churning like a stormy sea. “Jomana,” he said finally, turning to her with a look of grim determination. “If they take me to court, you’ll have to take Janiah and, and if the baby is here by then, all of you back to Cairo. There won’t be any choice.”
Jomana and Janiah, standing close together, responded in unison, their voices firm and defiant. “We’re not leaving.”
Jabr stared at them, feeling a mixture of gratitude and despair. His chest tightened, and he fought to keep his composure. “You don’t understand,” he said quietly. “It might not be safe…”
“We’re not leaving you, Jabr,” Jomana repeated, stepping closer, her eyes fierce with resolve. “No matter what happens.”
Jabr felt a wave of emotion surge through him—fear, love, frustration, all tangled together. He nodded slowly, realizing that their fates were now irrevocably bound together, for better or worse.
The war was not over. In fact, it had only just begun.
