An Ishmael of Syria

by Asaad Almohammad

  Mike placed his hand on my left shoulder, as the space was barely enough for one person to walk through. Not long ago, the mall management decided to make the walking space VIP parking. As we strolled, the cars had kept coming our way; we had to keep several paces apart from each other. After being interrupted for the umpteenth time we decided to stand by the central zone’s gate. Mike chipped in, “You were saying?”

  “Yeah. I went to the service centre this morning.” I paused for few seconds, folding my hands behind my back. I was in no doubt that Mike was confused. He asked, “Are you okay?”

  I smiled, trying to hide my despair, “Yes, I am! I was distracted by the cars. That’s all. So in the service centre they told me that the warranty doesn’t cover damage to the screen, especially in the case of bad usage.”

  “Oh, that’s lame!”

  “Yeah! Forget about that buddy. By the way, the other day I couldn’t help but hear that your in-laws are coming to Penang. Man, I have no god but I’m gonna pray for you.”

  “Ha ha, good one! I’ll tell Tania what you just said.”

  “Please don’t!”

  “It is funny, she’ll like it. Don’t worry!”

  **********

  I rode my bike back home. It was 9.30 p.m., Malaysian time. South Korea was an hour ahead of us. Jennifer was an early bird. Despite the next day being a holiday, I couldn’t help but finish my work early to spare her the waiting; I knew she wouldn’t go to sleep until I made that call. I took off and reached home in ten minutes, give or take. I lay on my bed, connected my phone to the internet and dialled her number.

  “Hello Jenny.”

  “Darling, darling, darling!”

  “Hey sweetie! How was your day?”

  “I came back home early. I finished work on time. I am happy! What a simple person!”

  “That’s good. That’s good sweetie. Have you had dinner?”

  “Of course! My mum made a Chinese meal. It was spicy. So I’m sure you can imagine my tummy is huge. I am sorry darling I know you don’t want me to get fat.”

  “Jenny, you are skinny. Besides, I’ve never asked of you to be a certain shape. I like you the way you are sweetie.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “How was your day?”

  “Just normal. Nothing special. I woke up, went the mall, got my coffee and started working. Nothing special actually. It was just a normal day. Same daily routine. What about you Jenny? Tell me more.”

  “My senior officer gave me around fifty bucks, as a lunar New Year gift. He drove me back home. I was so surprised.”

  “I saw the photo of the envelope that you messaged me.”

  “I gave it to my father. He was happy. As you know his business has not been going well.”

  “That was good of you sweetie.”

  “Talk to me. Tell me about your day.”

  “Sweetie! My day was just a normal day; nothing out of the ordinary happened. It was like yesterday and probably like tomorrow will be.”

  “It is okay?”

  “It is.”

  “Talk to me. I sense that there’s something wrong. There is something you are not telling me.”

  “Nothing is wrong Jenny.”

  “Your voice doesn’t sound like it.”

  “Sweetie…”

  “Please talk to me.”

  “Okay. I don’t tell you everything. I don’t want to. You broke up with me three times after I opened up to you. You won’t get it and you’ll end up blaming me about something else. Then, I have to apologise. Sweetie, I have a fucked up life. I have minimal control over anything that happens in my life. Last time I started to explain some of the minor difficulties, you gave up. You know with all the responsibilities on my shoulders, my family, the war, terrorism, sectarianism, and all the fucking shit I have been enduring… I am sorry but I am afraid that you won’t be able to comprehend it. I think it takes somebody to go through the same experience to understand and relate to how I feel. See, I know you are an optimist. I know you choose to be positive. I simply can’t. You got angry with me when I made the remark that as a Syrian, I am worth less as a human being. I am presumed guilty and when proven innocent, such findings are, often, neglected. You know what I mean. Embassy staffers look at me as if I am an ISIL operative. Less of a human, that’s how I coin it. You rejected my terminology. Here is the thing sweetie, I also reject it. Though, I have to explain myself clearly. I am affected by my work and study. Everything I write follows a scientific method. Accordingly, after locating any issue of concern, I research all the facts surrounding it. Extrapolating on that procedure, I make a list of hypotheses. My hypothesis is that we are all worthy, we are all equal. I refuse to surrender to the notion that the accident of birth makes a person more or less than anybody else. Following this so-called method, I have to test my hypothesis. That is to say, based on the analyses of the obtained data, I determine whether my thesis is supported. Now methodologically, I have to reject the hypothesis when past, present, and future analyses unveil contradictory findings. Sweetie, I am not a good researcher. That hypothesis has been rejected more times than I care to count. I guess I am insane! I have been doing the same thing over and over again and every single time expecting or wishing for a different outcome. See the fact of the matter is that I love you and I am willing to do whatever it takes to save our relationship. To save us! However, I can only try. Try my best and as hard as possible. I don’t know to what end. But I know it’s a battle I am fighting against too many odds. Sweetie, you know the outcomes of a few battles and I have to bring up that your immediate reaction to each was to break up with me.”

  “I am sorry.”

  "Don’t apologise. I do understand. Listen! Given how devastating my circumstances can be, many emotions and modes have over time become too luxurious. Grief and depression are just too pricey. I firmly believe that the sum of our experiences manifests in an evolution of some sort. In my hometown there is a saying that translates to, ‘one’s ordeals make one’s skin thicker than that of a crocodile.’ This evolution has given me the strength to keep going forward. When shit comes my way, I step over it and keep going. Going forward. Maybe just going astray. Astray, but forward. That might be an evolutionary necessity, but it comes with some side effects. See, while getting over negative emotions takes an extremely short amount of time and effort, experiencing positive emotions is getting harder. You might think it is difficult to be me. Actually it’s not! As I said, my circumstances elicited this evolution. You know me, I am a social creature. Given my social needs I developed a technique. As you know, for the last three years I have been facing problems that would make the strongest people I know lose it. Except for some of those who have had it as bad as or worse than me. That said, there are small and minor issues I face; a bad experience at a restaurant; a friend being late; feeling homesick, and the like. However, notwithstanding that, the sum of the aforementioned experiences doesn’t take me over an emotional threshold, they can be used to sustain social interaction with people around me. The experiences serve a purpose. So when real shit happens, I hide behind those smaller incidences because they are the ones that people can handle. They allow me to maintain my friendships with people. Evidentially, it works. I am afraid to say that from time to time I use this technique with you. Though, I really hate doing it. You are my girlfriend and you of all people should get me. That’s it. That’s all.”

  “Has anything happened today?”

  “Have you heard any of what I’ve been trying to say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure? Can you tell me? Just to make sure there’s no misunderstanding.”

  “You told me, that unlike those you are acquainted with, you want to be truthful with me.”

  “That’s not all that I said. That’s just what I wish to do.’

  “Be strong darling!”

  “What?”

  “Darling,” Jennifer said laughingly.


  “It’s not funny. Anyways, I’ve said a lot. If I keep going, you’re going to misunderstand me. Then, you’ll get angry with me and then I’ll have to apologise.”

  “Darling,” again she laughed.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Be strong! Be strong darling!”

  “I am very strong. I am the strongest man I know. That’s not the point. Sweetie, you told me that you have been practising a song to sing me. Can you sing it?”

  “It’s not important. Now is not the time.”

  “Come on sweetie! You asked me and I answered. Besides, I didn’t say anything wrong. Did I? Why are you angry with me?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Sweetie I hope you know that… You know that I have been fighting so hard against all the odds separating us. I know that, insofar, I’ve failed too many times. I am willing to keep fighting. I just hope that you are too. I have my doubts but it’s one of these times when I wish to be wrong.”

  “You have doubts?”

  “Yes sweetie. Recently, I’ve been facing a lot of hardships. I guess more than you care to remember. I’m sorry to remind you but it’s practically impossible to forget those experiences. When shit started falling, you gave up on me. Twice in less than ten days. I understood why. Probably, I would’ve done the same if I were you.’

  “I love you darling.”

  “I love you too sweetie. Are you going to sleep any time soon?”

  “Yes darling. In ten minutes.”

  “It’s getting late. Good night and sweet dreams.”

  “Good night darling.”

  **********

  I’d taken on Professor Nora as a client again. My job tasks were pretty simple. Write articles so she could fulfil her grants’ requirements. Recently we’d had some sort of disagreement regarding my payment. Out of her desperation, she had hired me again, shortly before her grant reached its deadline. In almost a month, I finished two articles. She thought they were not enough. It took an average student a semester to finish one. However, she wanted me to finish three. It was only for three hundred ringgits a month. To deliver the manuscripts, I’d worked no less than sixteen hours a day. An average research assistant working for a lecturer with a grant, got almost eleven thousand dollars for writing two papers, annually. The articles didn’t have to be exceptional. It didn’t even matter if they ended up published in a spam journal. Me on the other hand, I had to produce them at Scopus level, to say the least.

  Professor Nora thought that I needed to finish three articles per month. I tried to reason with her, but didn't have much luck. When I confronted her with the standard rate, I was belittled by her reply, “Buy the one with the cane.” It was an old fucked-up Arab saying. It is to do with buying the best slave. Trying to hide my fury, I clenched the edge of my nails against the palms of my hands so strongly that they cut through the flesh. Still, I couldn’t help but ask, “How is that related?”

  “It is not the point,” she raised her tone. “What is the point?” I calmly demanded, knowing that I had too much to lose. I couldn’t risk my PhD. I had to pay my dues. There was too much at stake.

  I stared at her eyes, hoping for enlightenment; my eyes did not blink. I waited silently for few moments, trying to push the slavery remark out of my mind. Even if it was unintentional, I was offended. I thought it over and over, but I couldn’t get what she was trying to say. I contemplated every aspect of our arrangement but still, that phrase did not make any sense. She wasn’t a native speaker of Arabic and she might’ve misused the saying. In any case, she had a mind of her own. I couldn’t see an excuse for what she said.

  Finally, she spelled it out. The entitled lazy-ass had the audacity to raise her tone, look at me furiously, lecturing, “I know why you took this job. You told me that your family is in immense need for the cash. I am aware of your country’s situation. Given your nationality, I am certain that I am doing you a favour. My husband told me about your many attempts to secure an opportunity elsewhere. Not in this country! How many times have you been rejected for visas? By the way that’s a rhetorical question and thus, you don’t have to answer it. You should’ve been more serious. I am a busy woman. I don’t deserve this. As you said once, ‘Do no good, nothing bad comes in your way.’ You need to push yourself harder. You need to do more…”

  I interrupted, “Professor, I cannot do more! I wish it was that simple. I’ve been spending no less than thirteen hours a day working. You see, I am trying my best here. Maybe it isn’t enough. You know why I need the money so bad. Just to avoid any misunderstanding, I just want you to know that I haven’t asked for any raise.”

  She yelled, “Esh esh, enough! You are getting me angry! I don’t need this!” I stayed seated, hoping she’d ask me to get out of her office. I was kind of hoping she would sack me. She moved her head slowly, avoiding any eye contact. I couldn’t help but be infuriated by her sickeningly sanctimonious smile. “I have a solution,” she said. I was all ears waiting to hear what she had to say.

  Without dignifying my existence with a look, she said, “I cannot pay you.” It is hard to surprise a very pessimistic person, like myself but I admit she managed to make my jaw drop. In shock, I felt compelled to say, “But we didn’t make any agreement regarding the number of articles per month. Last time, I had to submit two articles at the end of each month. You didn’t say a thing when I started working for you again. I just assumed…”

  She stopped me again, “Esh esh, I did not say that you can speak. This month, I am not going to pay you. Don’t let me down in the next two months and you will get paid. You’ve put me in a difficult situation. I promised the head of our department to give him three articles. His assistant is on maternity leave and he’s really busy. Scratch my back, I scratch yours! He is the head of department and every time I apply for a grant, I need his consent.”

  “Honestly,” she continued. I zoned out. I just couldn’t listen to her anymore. I kept pretending to hear her out. After some time, I noticed that her mouth had stopped moving. She stared at me for few minutes before I said, “Very well! Six articles in the coming two months. I will get paid after delivering them.”

  Loudly and impatiently, she ranted, “You people are troublemakers. That’s not the deal. You will get paid after the articles get accepted and published.”

  I thought, I was supposed to wait three months, more or less, for a manuscript to be reviewed before having to get any editorial decision. Once accepted, a manuscript might take up to a year to be published. It was only then that it hit me, Not only had I crossed my ethical code but I had signed up to a slavery contract. As it dawned on me, I failed to figure a way out of the heavy chains I’d placed around my neck.

  A sense of self-loathing started to overwhelm me. My people are risking everything in the pursuit of dignity and freedom, I weighed on that fact. I was left with no doubt that I dishonoured the memory of those who had risked their lives so that people like me could have the very basic rights of freedom and dignity.

  Facing Professor Nora, I was anxiously trying to figure something out; a solution to break the chains. “Professor Nora, I have a better solution,” I spoke softly. Studying her, I was without any doubt that she had no interest in anything I would say, but I needed to make things clear to her. I argued, “Professor, I admit it is entirely my fault. I should’ve worked harder. I should’ve worked more. I cannot deny that you’ve made many compelling arguments. Therefore, I should discipline myself so as to avoid future mistakes. In two months, I promise to deliver six manuscripts. I will be on time. As you know, my proposal defence is approaching. As such, I won’t be able to do more. In the interest of reconciliation and out of your kindness, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. Last but not least, you don’t have to pay me a thing. “Fair enough,” she murmured.

  Chapter 11

  Learned Helplessness

  At home, the slow water ran and spilt through the blooded knuckles of my shivering hands.
My bathroom door was open; I could see my whole body on the mirror opposite. I stared at my naked reflection and remembered Jennifer telling me that I was “built like a brick shithouse”, and the first time she touched my chest, she told me that I was “rough like an animal”. Even at five foot nine, I’ve been called brawny. Sami thinks it’s because of my warm, tan complexion. With that skin tone, I can get lost in the midst of Latin Americans, Mediterranean, and Pakistanis. I showered, the water slowly running from my hair to my feet, as I readying myself to go to work. But all I could think about was Jennifer: her slender, soft body; her innocent, pretty face; her fruity voice.

  We were the total opposite of each other as though we were from different planets; a pessimist falls for an optimist. Richard Flanagan, in A Narrow Road to the Deep North wrote that “A happy man has no past, while an unhappy man has nothing else.” Jennifer rejected the notion; she was a firm believer that everybody deserves an equal shot at happiness. For in experience, the delusions of faith are unveiled. I am sure that at some point in my fucked-up life, the floating emotion of happiness has made some appearances. However, tragedies have left more lasting scars with an intimacy that has crystallised into a lifelong bond. After all, Flanagan spoke the language of a guy whose core endeavour was to have fewer troubles than a girl who lived for nothing but the pursuit of happiness.

  The code of one of the Syrian armed forces implied punishments were collective while rewards were personal; I lived by a different code. For me ordeals were matters of classification and thus, kept on a need-to-know basis. Pleasurable and happy events were shared. So it followed that, since, when shared, emotions became amplified for me, and contagious to others, it made sense to imprison bad experiences in my heart.

  **********

  I knew that I wouldn’t be able to do a thing. I looked at some articles and ended up checking Jennifer’s profile on Facebook. I hadn’t planned for our relationship to start; I’d avoided all of her signals. I’d played as dumb as dumb comes! If it wasn’t for Caroline, I wouldn’t have even met her. She and I were close during her time on the island. As the daughter of a priest, she had some strong opinions. Nevertheless, I enjoyed our little theological debates. For some reason, she fixated on her perception of me being a Muslim. Even after I told her that I had been an atheist for life, she argued with me, on the basis of her presuppositions of a tanned Middle Easterner. Our affairs were purely platonic and whenever she got herself a man, I lost touch with her. I never knew why!