Hot Spot
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SEE WHAT READERS SAY
“Jim Carroll, using historical fiction set in today’s current Middle Eastern context, tells a riveting story about the drive to succeed, prophetic dreams, friendship, arrests and even death threats as part of the life-revealing message of Christian hope. Reading HOT SPOT was for me, an experience that was both instructive and intensely interesting. I recommend this book for the person investigating Christianity and for those seeking to understand some of the ways the message of Christianity is effectively spreading around the world.”
– Rev. Michael Hearon
1st Presbyterian Church, Augusta, Georgia, Lead Pastor
“Rich detail and an engaging plot are a winning combination for HOT SPOT, Jim Carroll’s latest novel, highlighting the fascinating and often dangerous life of a Christian living in a Muslim country.”
– Laurie Myers
Author, The Shepherd’s Song, The Lord is Their Shepherd, and Be Strong in the Lord
“From his first-hand knowledge of the Middle East, Dr. Carroll delivers a fast-paced thriller full of surprises. A young man must make messy choices that injure his conscience and must make bold decisions that affect millions. And in it all is the sovereignty of God in history, cultures, and individuals. I can’t wait for the sequel.”
– Jerry A. Miller, Jr, MD
Author, The Burden of Being Champ: The Dropout, The Legend, and The Pediatrician
“Yet another novel from the pen of Dr. James Carroll, recounting the intricacies of life in the Middle East. Through this tale, you’ll learn about the dynamic relationships inside Kuwaiti families and the challenges of the young generation trying to balance Eastern tradition with Western values, all told from the lives of a tiny Christian minority in a nation ruled by the strictest Islamic laws. Carroll brings us a greater understanding of the Sunni/Shia tension that exists between Muslims today. Set against the backdrop of current historical and geo-political events, the reader is instantly drawn into a plot which highlights how the Lord brings his elect from among the Arabs. Once you pick up this book, you will not be able to put it down.”
– John Kaddis, MD
US physician, Raised in the Middle East
“HOT SPOT depicts the life of a Middle Eastern Christian man living in a Muslim world. I was surprised at how riveted I was reading about his battles within society as well as within himself when he believed he was not following the God of his Christian faith. Though Dr. Carroll makes clear this book is fictional, I believe this portrayal is quite true to life for the many Muslims who are coming to see Jesus as their true Savior, oftentimes through dreams, and thus facing the persecution and punishments for their beliefs. This was a great read, and an eye opener for those who might take their gift of faith for granted in our comfortable and nominally Christian Western world!”
– Doreen Hung Mar, MD
Mission to the World Medical Associate Missionary
HigherLife Development Services, Inc.
P.O. Box 623307
Oviedo, Florida 32762
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www.ahigherlife.com
© 2019 by Jim Carroll. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher or copyright holder, nor may any part of this book be transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without prior written permission from the publisher or copyright holder.
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Carroll, Jim
Hot Spot: A Turbulent Modern Story in an Ancient Land
ISBN # 978-1-7326377-9-5 (paperback)
ISBN # 978-1-7328859-0-5 (ebook)
Scripture quotations are from the ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®). ESV® Text Edition: 2016. Copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. The ESV® text has been reproduced in cooperation with and by permission of Good News Publishers. Unauthorized reproduction of this publication is prohibited. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized reproduction of this publication is prohibited. All rights reserved.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank my editor, Ellen King, for her thorough and thoughtful work on my novel. Without her help, the story would have lagged and lacked clarity. I appreciated her close communication with me during the process.
This is a work of fiction. Although most of the history and some of the people are factual, names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
LIST OF CHARACTERS
Yusef – primary character
Rabea – mother of Yusef
Yacoub – father of Yusef
Hibah – Yusef’s older sister
Binyamin – Yusef’s younger brother
Divina – the family’s faithful maid
Esau –Yusef’s half brother
Dhuwaihi – old man who became a Christian, friend of the family
John Freidecker – American Christian and longtime resident of Kuwait
Afsin – Yusef’s first convert in Iran, young son of his host family
Abbas and Shaheen – Iranian converts to Christianity
Mahmoud Rashidi – director of the Iranian Researches and Foreign Relations office – Yusef’s first ministry boss
Karim Khadim – head of the Ministry of Economic Affairs and Finance – Yusef’s big boss
Tahara – Al Jazeera female reporter admired by Yusef
SOME UNFAMILIAR WORDS
Abaya – black robe worn by conservative Arab women
Chador – a black robe covering the head and upper body, often worn in Iran
Dishdasha – Kuwaiti word for the typical men’s robe
Dīwāniya sessions – unique Kuwaiti custom consisting of men’s discussion groups
Fatwa – an Islamic ruling
Kafan – Islamic shroud for the dead
Kalb – Arabic for “dog”
Kafir – the Islamic term for an unbeliever (or disbeliever)
Keffiyeh – standard head covering for Kuwaiti men
Muezzin – the one who calls the faithful for Islamic prayer
Niqab – garment that covers the face
Oud – a lute-like instrument with 11 or 13 strings
Salat – prayer
Ṣalāt al-Janāzah – Islamic prayers for the dead
Sharia – Islamic law
Shawarma or shaurma – a street food consisting of flatbread, lettuce, tomatoes, and meat shaved from grilled meat
Thobe or thawb – other words used for the typical robe
Wudu – Islamic procedure for washing parts of the body in preparation for prayer
MAP OF THE MIDDLE EAST1
1 “Physical Map of the Middle East,” Www.cia.gov/library/publications/resources/the-world-factbook/attachments/docs/original/middle_east.pdf?1528326232, accessed November 20, 2018, www.cia.gov/library/publications/resources/the-world-factbook/attachments/docs/original/middle_east.pdf?1528326232.
PREFACE
The Middle East is mired in its own history, both ancient and modern. I can tell no story of this land without placing the events in the context of the history from which they sprang. You could skip those parts of this story, but I advise against it.
CHAPTER 1
DEAD TOO SOON
I never thought of myself as a Muslim. My mother taught us that the Lord was full of grace and forgiveness because Jesus had taken the punishment we deserved, but we were known as Christians only at home and among a few other believers, a very small group. We appeared in the Kuwait public arena as Muslims who did not practice their faith. We were closeted C
hristians. When the Prophet Mohammed was discussed, we refrained from critical comments. During Ramadan, we didn’t eat or drink in public. Once a schoolmate caught me in a corner choking down a sandwich at recess during Ramadan. “What are you doing? You can’t eat during the day.” But I could and did. Carefully.
We were wealthy, and traveled in expensive cars: a black Lexus, a big white Mercedes, and a monster Suburban when we needed more seating. If more cars were needed, we bought them. The bronze gate that opened into our watered garden with its aerated fountain greeted our guests. Our Pakistani gatekeeper welcomed them. There was no doubt about it. We were rich, just as rich as our Muslim neighbors.
Our home glowed with the presence of my mother, who illuminated each room with her dignity. Her entry into any room of the house was punctuated by her greeting, “May the Lord’s blessings be with you!” She infused this into us from our earliest days. Meals were a time of quiet rejoicing: “See what the Lord has brought us today. Hibah and Yusef, stop elbowing each other. Respect the gifts of Jesus.” My father needed to say little. Early on in my life, my mother recognized my weaknesses, especially my pride. “Yusef, remember you’re the youngest. Don’t keep pestering your sister.” My bedtime was directed by my mother, and she settled me in each evening with her prayers. “Lord, bless this little one and keep him safe from Your enemies, as well as himself.”
My other childhood recollections with my mother still under our roof are cloudy and somewhat warped by my stubborn refusal to accept her beliefs as my own. As she saw clearly, my opinion of myself was elevated above the level of reality.
I recall hearing my parents talking about me as I listened from the hall behind the green curtain as a small child. I didn’t understand it then, but it still remains frozen in my mind. “Yacoub,” my mother was saying, “I know Yusef’s only five, but he’s focused too much on himself. Everybody praises him and he believes every word of it! He is taking advantage of you and you don’t see it because you’re so proud of him. He parrots Scripture, and while I don’t expect him to understand them fully, he is not storing their meaning in his heart. I know the Word of God will not fail him, but he isn’t submitting to God” As a child I didn’t understand what she was saying, but the words hurt.
My mother was the kindest, most patient person I’ve ever known. When father foolishly fawned over me, she remained silent. She was tolerant and forgiving toward both of us, but she didn’t agree with my father’s opinions. My mother saw the truth about me. When my father cited my remarkable memorization of Scripture, she quoted the first half of Romans 10:10, “For with the heart one believes,” not so much to voice her worry, but to speak forth her hope for me. My mother prayed for my future, even though I did not understand the need for it then.
I always had my father completely in hand. My assertive carriage; dark, curly hair; good looks attested to by all around; and endearing personality all served me well. I was often told as much directly. Auntie Zahara said, “He’s more beautiful than any of our daughters.” Even as a small child, my abilities at soccer also made me the center of attention: Look, he just made another goal!
To compound the problem, I had another special ability. I could foresee future events and the actions of others. It was not constant and I could not call on it at will, but it was there. Perhaps this skill had to do with my morning dreams, much like the ones my father experienced.
I recall the morning of my fifth birthday. At breakfast I announced, “Papa, I dreamed last night that I will be king of the all the Gulf.” He laughed and told me to stop bragging, but it was not a serious rebuke. Everyone knew I was his favorite. Oftentimes, my father treated my sister unfairly. She did not get the same attention I did or the same recognition. When I made this announcement, she sat silently looking at me, her arms folded across her chest. She knew that Father would get angry if she countered me. Instead she conferred with my mother later on.
By dinner time, the whole matter of my self-centeredness had reached an embarrassing climax. Our longtime Philippine maid, Divina, delivered the lentil soup, light green and thick, to begin the meal. All were silent, having recognized the issue at hand, as yet unspoken. Then Divina brought out the quail, imported from Egypt, and my mouth watered at the sight of their brown, crusty skin. But my kingly claims transcended even this wonderful meal before us. My mother spoke up, plowing in to it in the only time we could discuss this as a family. In an instant, all her hopes and fears erupted. “Yacoub, Yusef’s doing it again. He told this dream of his being king of the Gulf. These ideas aren’t healthy for him, and he does not admit to making it all up either. He may really believe these dreams he has are real!” My father said nothing. I didn’t want the quail any longer.
My mother taught me the Scriptures early in my life focusing on the book of Psalms, and I stored it away like it was a recording on tape. I answered biblical questions with an understanding greater than my years, and people told me how intelligent and advanced I was. I was proud of my achievements, but Mother shook her head at my pretending to store the material in my heart. How did she see through me so clearly? “Yusef, today you will memorize Psalm 47.” Always, it was a psalm. She prayed aloud, “Please, Lord, use Your Word to immunize this child against his own strong will. Save him from himself. I know You’ve given him gifts for Your purpose. I pray his gifts won’t cancel out Your Word. You know what’s best, Lord; protect and keep him. I’m afraid of what the future holds for my little boy, but we will trust in You.” There was no such fear in me. My father deferred to my mother in matters of faith. When she spoke thus, he said nothing.
Looking back, I see how diminished I was by her death when I was thirteen. Her name, Rabea, meant “springtime” in Arabic, and she was that and more for my father and our whole family.
Our joy came first. She was pregnant! My parents had wanted another child for some time, and as she was nearing fifty, they had long put the hope aside. They thought it was too late for a child, but God intervened.
My mother immediately had to spend more time in bed, and I quickly regretted the unborn baby’s intrusion into the center of my realm. She developed high blood pressure, and the doctor found it difficult to treat. Pill bottles multiplied by her bedside table: pink tablets, blue capsules. She would normally avoid this kind of thing at all costs. The doctor eventually put her on full bed rest. Then, an ultrasound revealed that the placenta was not properly attached. The doctor showed us the grainy picture of a baby boy on the ultrasound. “What you see here is that the placenta is nearly on top of the cervix. When delivery comes, there could be a lot of bleeding.” I peered over my father’s shoulder, seeing only meaningless black and gray images, but their low voices and solemn faces made me afraid. At the beginning of the eighth month I heard my mother groaning in the bathroom. What did this mean? Hibah’s face lost its color, and she wouldn’t answer my questions.
My mother said, “These are only the normal cramps every woman gets before labor.” But I had not seen her ever complain of pain, and I knew something was wrong. She minimized the situation, “I’m sure it’s nothing, just what’s expected with pregnancy in an old woman.” She tried to cover the pain, but her straight-lipped expression and worried eyes betrayed her concern. Could my mother be afraid? Why was she so troubled?
She talked by phone with her mother in Saudi. They had not spoken for years, and her mother was nearly eighty. I listened as they talked. “It’s good, Mama, to speak with you finally.” Then she began to cry. “I’m sorry for stealing your gold.” When my mother had married my father, she had taken gold from her mother. She had wanted to punish her for allowing the marriage to my father when she was not yet out of childhood.
From what I could hear of the conversation, her mother was gentle and forgiving about the theft. “Mother, I know now you didn’t want the marriage, and I don’t blame you for it anymore. I’ve grown into it. Yacoub is a good man. I’m so sorry for the time we lost together.” The phone call between the two wo
men was long. When my mother said goodbye, she didn’t promise another conversation.
Then, in late November at three in the morning, loud voices flared from my parents’ room. I peered through the half-open door. My mother was in bed shaking from head to foot, her face red with the strain, forehead veins distended. Divina said, “She’s having a convulsion.” Mama’s head was thrown back and her arms and legs extended and shook rhythmically. Her head was forcefully turned to the left. I had never seen anything like this before, not even in movies, and I was afraid. After an endless two-to-three minutes the shaking stopped, but she remained unconscious.
“We’ve got to get her to the hospital.” Divina helped my father carry my mother and place her in the second seat of our Suburban, to go to Al-Sabah Maternity Hospital down by the sea. Hibah and I begged to go, and Divina relented, pushing us in the third seat of the big white vehicle. The two of us were out of our element, trembling with fear.
My mother had another convulsion on the way to the hospital. We heard her head pounding against the seat back. Hibah cried while I turned and hid my face in the gray leather. The scene consumed my thirteen-year-old bravery. I had no courage left by the time we reached the hospital.
My father had never met the Sikh doctor on call that night, but there was no alternative but to trust him. “Get her back to delivery – now.” The nurses listened with wide eyes to his commands. Had they not seen him so excited before? The adults pushed us aside while leads were attached to Mama’s chest and lower abdomen over the baby. The doctor explained that the convulsions were caused by her high blood pressure. He used the word “eclampsia”: an unfamiliar word that silenced us with its fearful, medical sound. The next thing we heard was, “We must deliver this baby right away.” Blood began to stain the lower part of Mama’s sheet. At the doctor’s order, two white-clad nurses with starched caps pushed her gurney into the delivery room.