by Tyree, Omar
“Because you will go back to work next week, and you will need to use it,” Basim responded supportively. “This place is only temporary for both of us.”
Understanding how supportive Basim had been, Ramia calmed down and took a seat at his tiny kitchen table.
“What makes you so sure they will call next week?” she asked doubtfully.
“Because I have faith in Allah.”
Ramia listened and refrained from engaging in a social religious argument with him. She no longer followed the Muslim faith. Outside of women’s rights, she didn’t know what to believe in anymore.
“We will see,” she told him.
“Yes, we will,” Basim concluded. “In the meantime, I only want to protect you.”
Basim was not an imposing man at all. Unless he had secretly trained in the martial arts, or owned a loaded gun—neither of which was the case—Ramia could not imagine him being able to protect her anyway. He was nowhere near as threatening as the Pakistani man she had bumped into at the corner.
“What if the man who tried to harm me was much bigger and stronger than you?” she asked him hypothetically, imagining the man at the corner.
“Then I will pray to the all Powerful Allah to give me the strength and skills to beat him.”
Ramia shook her head and could no longer take it. “Allah will not help you with everything. There are thousands of people in this neighborhood, and even in this building who pray to Allah, and nothing happens.”
“You take that back,” Basim warned her.
“I will not.”
“Then I will pray to Allah for your forgiveness.”
Basim was unwavering. Ramia could see now how he had been able to survive for so long on his own. In her mind, it was not Allah at all—it was Basim. He had faith in his own belief that he would succeed in anything no matter how long it took. So she finally gave into him.
“Okay, forgive me. Now let’s fix you something to eat.” She immediately went to his pantry with ideas of cooking her cousin a good meal. Basim Yaqoob Zahir was indeed a good man, and he deserved it. She really appreciated him. So she rubbed his back and smiled at him.
“I’m sorry, Basim. I can still act like a brat sometimes.”
Her cousin chuckled and remained silent. He loved her anyway. She was family.
“You are your own woman,” he told her. “And I respect that. Maybe you should even go to Britain or America after you become educated.”
Ramia smiled and chuckled. Britain and America seemed a long way from home. Nevertheless, she refused to back down from anything.
“Maybe I will,” she teased. Then she opened the refrigerator for eggs and meat to fix the meal. “I will also help you to move into a new place.”
He took a seat at his kitchen table and waved her idea off. “Just worry about your money for college. I will take care of my own. I’ll just make sure to send enough money back home to my mother and family.”
Ramia nodded. She remembered that her aunt in Jordan had been fighting different physical ailments off and on for years.
“I still have a little bit of money to help.”
Again, Basim waved her off. “Everything costs money here. You save it to buy some things for yourself.” Then he looked her over and grinned. “After all, you’re still a very pretty girl. You deserve to pamper yourself.”
“Stop it,” she told him. But it was true. Ramia could have easily become the pampered wife of a wealthy man, yet she would never allow herself to be kept, especially as a second or third wife. She treasured her independence.
Chapter 7
In the gray cement building that was directly across the street from Basim’s, an important meeting of the minds was ready to take shape between Saleem and a much wiser man. Saleem arrived at the fifth-floor apartment with his two followers and walked into an apartment in the building across the street from Basim’s. The apartment was much larger than anything Basim would pay for or could afford. Inside, several immigrant men sat in a circle on the floor. They were from various nations, and many of them had become construction workers like Saleem. These were men who believed that working in Dubai would greatly benefit them and their families back home. But now they knew better.
The practices of cheap labor, dishonor and negligence in Dubai had unnerved them all to the point of vengeance. These laborers felt exploited and demoralized. They had become perfect followers of the radical Mohd Ahmed Nasir, an Egyptian man in his sixties who held some serious intentions.
A group of Mohd’s loyal guard were in the apartment, standing armed and against the wall, while the laborers sat cross-legged on the floor complaining about dangerous working conditions and the poor pay. At the moment of Saleem’s arrival, there was disciplined silence inside the room. Out of respect for their worshipful elder, none of the new recruits dared to speak unless they were asked to do so. Mohd often made men wait in dead silence for long stretches at a time before he would even make eye contact with them, let alone allow them to hear his speech or his impressions of them. Such was his way of discipline, because men who spoke without being asked were not to be trusted.
Silence was a methodology of determining the anxieties and temperaments of those who claimed to desire leadership. An honorable student would not rush the teacher, and Mohd only desired to teach honorable men. So after nearly an hour of silence, reading the impatient stares and the stormy emotions of the men who sat inside of the candlelit room, Mohd stood from his seat inside of the circle and walked toward the window, where he stared down at the activities on the streets below them. Finally, he decided to speak.
“Even in righteous land, the selfish and individual pursuits of wealth allow poverty and want to eventually turn us all into victims of greed or criminals who succumb to our own desperate opportunities.”
His first words to them were well worth the wait, although some of the men could not follow his astute English and needed translations from those who could speak the various languages inside the room. So Mohd awaited their detailed translations before he would continue.
The man spoke as if he were an international dignitary, with a worldwide address to heads of nations. His delivery alone held the men captivated without even having to look at them.
In contrast to his armed and rugged guards, who wore dark, non-distinct clothes, Mohd was clean-shaven and noble in a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans. He looked at peace and was very casual. He was not short, nor tall. He was not thin, nor stout. And he had no particular features that would distinguish him from the thousands of light-brown men who populated the various nations of the Middle East. Even his low-cut salt-and-pepper hair was barely noticeable. However, when he spoke, the man became magnificent.
He turned and looked into their faces to ask them all a question. “How many of you here will die in Dubai, or in your homelands, as old and beaten men without ever reaching your full potential as fathers, husbands, brothers or sons? How many of you will die without having a chance to leave something of encouragement and hope for the families around the world?”
They were rhetorical questions with no need for an answer. So Mohd awaited the translations and continued with his deliberate address.
“We, in this room, are all brothers, not because we are Muslim, or Christian, or Jew, or Hindu, but because we are human. So even if we do not all follow Muhammad, or Jesus, Moses or Abraham, or even Buddha, we must learn to protect and guide each other as twenty-first century humans of poverty on this earth. How long are we willing to wait before we decide to rise up and protect ourselves and claim our own destiny?”
Again, he awaited the translations. And at that point, some of the men inside the room, who were lost in much of Mohd’s zeal, looked to their friends for an evaluation. Were they to believe in no religion at all? Mohd allowed them all to contemplate his meaning before he went on.
“That is why I choose to remain in the working-class slums of the Emirates, so that I may remind myself always of th
e conditions of the less fortunate and not be blinded by the promotions or illusions of progress. We must ask ourselves the question, ‘Progress for whom?’ Can we even imagine owning anything that we have already built and continue to build in this wealthy nation? You ask yourself that question?”
Mohd paused once more to allow the men time to translate. And in the middle of the group of twenty, Saleem, the defiant Pakistani, was rock solid in his focus, and he did not have a need to translate. He listened and marveled with full concentration, and he was glad that he had agreed to come.
Recognizing his intensity and interest, Mohd eyed Saleem individually from the group. He then spoke as if singling him out.
“There are those among us who desire nothing more than to be treated like the honorable men that we are. So I heard a week ago the news of another of our poor brothers who lost his life for the benefit of those who care nothing about him or his family. I told myself that vengeance will come, but only those who are willing to live and die in not only hope, but in the courageous decisions that we must make as men and as brothers to earn our respect as equals on this earth!”
No longer awaiting the translations inside the room, Mohd concluded, “And if that means that we are to become serious enough to take matters into our own hands and create the respect that we deserve as men on this earth, then so be it.”
Instinctively, the agreeable men inside the room began to nod with much enthusiasm, but they were still acutely aware that any exuberant celebrations would not be warranted, tolerated or desired within such small and unsecured quarters. Mohd’s speeches were to be internalized and contemplated, not exalted. He was not interested in their reverence, but in their focused actions for the future. He wanted men who would be less moved by him and what he had to say, and would be more moved by the contemplation of their own thoughts.
As he continued to survey the group of men who were eager to become his new recruits, Mohd had already decided on those amongst them who he would trust with his plans, and those that he would not. In the Pakistani soldier, Saleem, Mohd imagined a brave combatant of integrity and loyalty, who was strong and steady enough in his own will to lead a group of mercenaries who would be capable, willing and ready to announce their presence and mission to all of Dubai and to the international tourists of the world.
Chapter 8
After speaking to his wife, Abdul remained at the office after hours. It was approaching nine o’clock and it was dark out, but he was still there trying to decide on his next plan of execution. Although he had not met with the Emirati council members yet, he knew that he would have to explain himself to them soon. Not only would he need to explain himself to the Emirati, who he was sure had been discussing his latest error, he would also need to discuss the recent setback with his investing partner from Russia, who had flown in on an unexpected visit. So Abdul called him over to meet in private that night instead of during the busier daytime hours.
A buzz from his office phone signaled the arrival of his evening appointment.
“Abdul,” he answered.
“Yes, Mr. Daniel is here.”
“Send him up.”
As soon as Abdul hung up the line, he called out, “Al-lahhh!” with open palms from his desk. He had been a young shining star of city development. But now he needed strength and guidance in his time of despair. So he prayed to remain calm and in control of his emotions.
When the security detail knocked on his office door, Abdul pushed a buzzer to allow them in. Daniel Hovska was a short, thick-built man of thinning blond hair and crystal-blue eyes who was fast approaching fifty. He was an ambitious Russian who had partnered with Abdul on his latest property to share some of the risks and definitely some of the windfall. But over the past few months, the new construction work had not gone well.
Daniel waited until he sat alone with Abdul before speaking. And once the security had left them, he asked his Muslim partner, “Abdul, what is going on here?”
Although Abdul was a considerably younger businessman with less experience, Daniel had allowed him to take the lead on their deal in the United Arab Emirates. He had no choice in the matter—it was either Abdul’s way or no way. The Emirates government had been strategically strict on any and all foreign investments. They did not want their tourism playground in Dubai to get away from them with outsider control. But lately, Daniel had been very concerned about his lack of say-so, enough to pop up at short notice to assess the recent troubling developments at the newest construction site.
Abdul maintained his poise across the desk, while Daniel sat in the office chair in front of him, filled with apprehension.
“There is nothing to be concerned about. Our construction will still be completed ahead of schedule,” Abdul assured his partner with confidence.
“Well, if this faster pace is not safe for workers, then maybe we don’t need to rush ahead of time. I would much rather we keep a normal schedule with men who we know and trust, than have so many new men that we don’t. That is why we are having so many new problems,” Daniel commented.
Obviously, he had done his research, and his assessment was in agreement with Hakim and Khalid, who both worked the construction site daily.
Nevertheless, Abdul repeated nonchalantly, “Accidents will happen.”
“Well then, maybe we should find more ways for them not to happen,” Daniel suggested boldly.
Abdul considered his agitation and remained calm. He realized that if he did not push to complete his various construction properties ahead of schedule, he would become worried himself about how the volatile economy might affect the business climate and their ability to finish. Completed buildings were much easier supported by incoming revenue. But while the buildings were still in development, Abdul projected that they would run out of capital beforehand, and he had far too much pride to ask his uncle for another bailout of a business loan, nor was he willing to offer up a larger stake of the ownership with Daniel. But now his Russian business investor was becoming more distressed about their partnership.
“So, you are not concerned with how a slower pace may affect the original schedule of business, even if we were to fall behind?” Abdul asked.
Daniel thought before he spoke. He then answered the question philosophically. “Sometimes, the slower building is built to last much longer. And although I, like anyone else, would desire to be finished on time or even early like you, if it is not to be, and it must take a while longer to complete, then so be it.”
Once Abdul was fully aware of Daniel’s disposition on completion, he decided to cater to the man’s ego. So he nodded, as if finally able to see the situation with better judgment.
“My friend, you do understand that my decisions are always made with your generosity and business support in mind. I was only attempting to please you as my partner, first and foremost, by making certain that no bad economy would stop us in our goals.”
Daniel held up a massive right hand of caution and began to shake his head with wisdom. He understood patronization when he heard it. “Abdul, I understand that. I do. And I respect you immensely for it. But you would please me more by delivering a building in due time that does not cause your president and countrymen so much irritation and strain, not to mention the workers. Because I do plan to do more business here. And I would not want to wear out my welcome because of bad business experiences.”
Abdul nodded again and smiled, loosening up behind his desk. “I’m glad we were able to have this conversation and understanding. It has taken a great amount of weight off of my shoulders.”
“I can imagine,” Daniel told him. “But at the same time, that does not mean that we slow construction down to a turtle’s pace.”
“Of course not,” Abdul responded. “But enough talk about business. Have you seen Irina since you arrived here yesterday?”
Abdul had introduced his partner to a beautiful woman from the independent nation of Ukraine, who had previously worked in his international
accounts office. She now worked in a banking office.
Daniel smiled wide and answered the question before even speaking. Abdul had already realized the Ukrainian beauty had cast a lustful spell on his partner—a bewitching spell that was hard to break.
“She was ah, waiting to go out with me for this evening. But she knew that I needed to meet and speak with you first,” Daniel responded.
Irina Kievla was nearly half his age and was quite smitten by his class and wealth. But the divorced father of four was not yet ready to commit to a new marriage with her.
“Well, now you’ve met with me, and we have come to a new understanding,” Abdul said. “So I guess now you can go out and enjoy yourself with Irina. I’m sure that she continues to enjoy your company.”
The Russian laughed. “Indeed, she does.” Then he stood from the office chair to make his exit. “And how have you been with your wife?” he asked Abdul while standing.
Abdul took a deep breath of honest reservation. “I think that she has had far too much influence from Western culture.”
He was certain that Daniel had heard the many opinions about his outspoken wife around Dubai and the UAE, so it made no sense to dodge the question. It was what it was.
Daniel countered, “But what is so wrong with a woman having her own thoughts? Irina speaks out with me all of the time about everything.”
“Yes, but would you allow her to speak out in public on the concerns of your business, while the entire Russian nation watches and listens?”
Daniel shrugged. “If she were able to speak with as much intelligence and confidence as your wife, Hamda, I would. But Irina is not quite there yet, nor does she desire to speak out on business at this time. She just wants to keep me busy showing her a good time.”
Abdul laughed. “Well, enjoy another great dinner tonight from the lookout of the Burj Al Arab.”
“I just might do that,” Daniel said.
Abdul stood and enjoyed another laugh with him as his Russian partner headed back toward the office door. Abdul showed him out.
