Abraham, from this point called “the friend of God”, freed the two slaves, Ishmael and Hagar, and asked them to fuck off. Not to strip him from having a heart, I should say that he gave them some bread and water. If it wasn’t for God, called from this point onward, Abraham’s invisible friend, who had given Hagar the strength to carry on that voyage across the forsaken desert, both would’ve departed the living.
As a woman of honour and virtue, Sarah had her reasons. In her own defence, the slave’s son was predisposed to sexual immorality and even violence. On the bases of deductive reasoning and developmental psychology, she feared for her son’s wellbeing. Sarah was an admirable woman who put her child first. She didn’t want a slave, who also happened to be her husband’s son, to claim or share his whipped father’s inheritance.
The Jewish traditions have been divided on whether Ishmael was the ancestor of the Arabs. Some agree with the Islamic narrative, asserting that Arabs descended from Ishmael. There was also a division between Jews and Christians on one hand and Muslims on the other over which boy was nearly sacrificed. Abraham’s invisible friend asked him to show faith by executing his son ISIL style; maybe without a mask though. The bible said that Abraham’s invisible friend ordered him to sacrifice his “only son Isaac, whom you love.” One can assume that Abraham either didn’t love his other son or Abraham’s invisible friend didn’t acknowledge the slave son’s existence. Sarah couldn’t agree more with Abraham’s invisible friend that a slave was not deserving of love or acknowledgement of existence. Muslims claim that Abraham was about to cut his son’s throat when Ishmael was thirteen, thus, Isaac was not born yet; therefore, almost slaughtering Isaac was impossible. Whoever that son might’ve been, I often ask myself, “What the fuck!”
Contemplating the way the story was delivered through the scripture, I couldn’t help but remember a number of ISIL executions. In both, sickening agonising acts of savagery were portrayed as touching and beautiful. Just like the speech an executioner of the terrorist organisation had given before stoning that Syrian woman to death. And just like his softly spoken words, describing the poor woman’s life in heaven; in idiocy there had been the beautification of the most heinous crimes.
Other than being the name of that unfortunate child, Ishmael also means “a pariah”. During my time in college back in Ar-Raqqa, I made peace with being an Ishmael to my own. But even as an Ishmael I hoped that one day I would fit in. I deluded myself into believing that if I tried hard enough, elsewhere I would blend in. I thought I may have been only an Ishmael of Syria. Defeated in my struggles to relinquish that derogatory label, I have found myself at a constant loss. When our collective agony has made all of my kind outcasts, I have found no company. I realise, I am an Ishmael of Syria. Undesired at home; doomed by the rest.
I could’ve answered Nyhad. I could’ve just told him my story but I didn’t. I didn’t explain myself over our first conversation in six years. Last I heard from him was him was eight months ago. Him preaching, “Hopes and ambitions bring us nothing but depression.”
In a war-torn country Nyhad was hopeful. In safety, he lost it. And even though he had reached that realisation on his own, I couldn’t help but resent myself and feel guilty.
Acknowledgements
I believe that many of us have sipped or are maybe still sipping that bitter dose of helplessness. I know I have! It has been a long and lonely journey. Writing this story has given me comfort – I felt as though I was recounting my tales to someone who understood. When all was said and done, I was not alone in times of crisis. When I have been knocked down so badly that I doubted I would be able to stand again, David Hodges, Ng Kok Meng, Jiyoung Yoo, and Hessam Nejati lifted me up to defy the impossible.
This book wouldn’t have seen the light of day if not for the support and help of friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers. I deeply appreciate your contributions, suggestions, and getting the word out. Katherine Suri, Mark and Hilde Burby, David Hodges, Marina Apgar, Ng Kok Meng, Iain Mclellan, Emelia Rallapalli, Mike Suri, and Lacy Nash – I am so very grateful for your generous contributions.
My first readers and critics: Sandra Perkins, Vidya Chariya Sinnadurai, and Katherine Suri. Your invaluable insights, comments and encouragement have helped to shape this novel. I cannot thank you enough.
Many thanks to my editor, Miranda Summers-Pritchard, who ensured that the heart of the story came through clearly. Any remaining inconsistencies are mine.
I appreciate all the time and effort that Judy put in to creating multiple cover choices. And thanks to Lorans Alabood for using his Photoshop talents to weave the images into the front and back covers.
To my future readers: I am glad to share my story with you.
About the Author
Born in the 80s, Asaad Almohammad was raised in Ar-Raqqa, Syria. A member of the International Society of Political Psychology and a research fellow, he has spent years coordinating and working on research projects across the Middle East and North Africa. To date he has addressed a number of psychological aspects of civil unrest, post-conflict reconciliation, and de-radicalisation. In his spare time Asaad closely follows political affairs, especially humanitarian crises and electoral campaigns. He is especially interested in immigration issues. An Ishmael of Syria is his first novel.
Asaad can be found and followed at:
Website: http://asaadalmohammad.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/IshmaelofSyria/
Twitter: @asaadh84
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