Bad Fathers (eBook)

Chapter One

Ever since I was young, I dreamt of becoming the hero of my story.

It’s important for boys to be courageous. However, being gutsy is easier for some than others. Perhaps it springs from the influence of an exemplary figure. Or from a certain environment or circumstance they grew up in. If they’re lucky, they can choose their path in life at an early age. I was just eleven when I began to think about the type of person I wanted to be. I understood there were right and wrong ways to go, even then.

My earliest memory of being in Kuwait is as an eight-year-old, standing in the cool shade beneath the willow trees by our elementary school. I waited with my cousins for my uncle’s driver, Habib, to pick us up, but he was unusually late, so we played a game of tag. Minutes later, my shoe fell off, and my older cousin, Yousef, snatched it up off the ground.

I ran up to him. ‘Give it back.’

Yousef laughed and threw it over my head. I turned and watched it fly through the air towards my other cousin, Muhammad, who waved the shoe in my direction. ‘Here, come and get it, Ibrahim,’ he taunted. So, I went to grab my shoe, but he threw it to Yousef, who tossed it back to Muhammad. They passed it between them, laughing at me as I jumped up and down and tried desperately to grab it.

‘Give it back!’ I screamed, unable to go along with the joke any longer.

Still, they teased me and threw it higher.

Just then, Habib appeared, and Yousef tossed my shoe into a rain puddle and ran, giggling, with Muhammad to the car.

I fished my shoe out of the water. Straightening, I saw Father’s car rounding the corner. I knew he had come for me because I was very late.

He stopped his car behind my uncle’s, and our eyes met. When I got into the car, I must have looked distraught because he asked me, ‘Shviek [What’s wrong]? Why are you so upset?’

I told him what my cousins had done. Father leapt from his seat and stormed over to my uncle’s car before they could leave. He opened the back door and, leaning inside, began to beat my cousins. I watched Father with awe and admiration; he was standing up for me.

He didn’t say a word on the way home. It was so unlike him to take action in that manner. I didn’t know what to think; I wasn’t sure if he was angry with me, my cousins, or all of us. I sat quietly in the car and wished the journey was over, like most journeys with Father. 

My second memory is from when I was nine years old and playing with my older sister, Layla, and younger brother, Jacob. As usual, we were tearing around the house. Jacob and I always chased each other, played together, and, when Jacob was a little older, we fought.

While we were rushing around, I said something nasty to Layla; I believe I called her a ‘fat cow.’ She retaliated and called me by my nickname. Everyone in Kuwait used to have one, an old custom. I hated hearing mine: it was ‘Pee-the-bed’ because sometimes I would wet the bed.

Furious, I ran after her, caught her, grabbed her by the shoulders and then pushed her against the wall. I had intended to tell her off, but I was struck by the tears spilling from her eyes. Layla’s terrified expression surprised me. In that moment, I became conscious of the gap that had grown between our physical strengths over the years, and I released my grip.

My third memory of Kuwait came two years later. One afternoon, a neighbourhood friend told me that Jacob had shot a stray cat who had wandered into our home. He’d shot it with my BB gun. The cat had writhed in pain, and my brother wanted to shoot it again, but my friend stopped him.

After my friend left, I began to wonder about the ghost stories I had heard about cats who came back at night to take revenge on their assailants while they slept. It was said that they would stand on the offender’s chest, put their claws around the person’s neck and viciously howl in their face.

Panicked, I closed our bedroom door, which was on the ground floor, and locked the metal and frosted glass windows. I didn’t tell Jacob about it for fear of sounding feeble.

Sure enough, in the middle of the night, a deafening wailing noise woke me. Continuous and ferocious screams came from the window ledge above my head.

Moving only my eyes, I clocked the silhouette of the cat in the blurred window glass that separated us. It was very close to me and sounded irate.

This was when I realised all the ghost stories were true. It seemed the creature wanted to come inside to take revenge.

I was frozen with fear, lying on my back in the dark, the blanket pulled over my head. My limbs and neck were rigid, with my arms extended at my sides; I couldn't move. Beads of cold sweat ran down my face as I thought of the injustice. This was all Jacob’s fault.

My torment continued for around fifteen minutes before the cat’s screeching became more sporadic and I built up the courage to move.

Slowly, I got up and went over to Jacob’s bed, against the other wall, away from the windows.

I shook his shoulders. ‘Wake up, Jacob, wake up.’

I wanted him to share the suffering with me, but I couldn’t rouse him.

This torture continued for four fearful nights, though gradually it became less intense and lasted for a shorter time. Not once did Jacob wake up to witness it.

Like all children, my brothers, sisters and I were largely moulded by our parents’ upbringing and circumstances. However, I was more outgoing and self-motivated than my siblings. I enjoyed spending time with my friends and with the ‘Marbles Club,’ even though I thought it was dumb. In our neighbourhood, boys and girls did not play together, as mixing was discouraged by parents. Plus, boys would be embarrassed to take part in the girls’ games of hopscotch and skipping.

I became a master at spinning tops. The game, which had its own glossary of terms, was popular and competitive among boys at that time. A lot of skill was involved, especially when it came to creating the perfect spin, which happened when the top hits the ground like a bullet and spins fast on one spot without the slightest wobble, as though it were pinned to the baked sand. Whenever I achieved the perfect spin, it put me on a high.

One trick was to lasso a length of cord around the top while it was still spinning on the ground and smoothly raise it without losing too much momentum. The next trick was to land the moving top in the palm of your hand. I was among the few boys who could make the top travel all the way up and down their inner forearm.

A favourite game was called The Circle. Players threw their spinning tops, and the first one to topple would be placed in the middle of a two-metre circle drawn in the sand. The aim of the game was for the other boys to hit the static top and drive it out of the circle while keeping their own tops spinning, although this was easier said than done as the challenge was to throw from varying angles. Whoever knocked the falling top outside the circle was crowned the winner.

Then there was the game Fal-loosh, which was far trickier to master than The Circle. Again, six or so boys would throw their spinning tops across the hard sand, and the first one to fall had to stay down. The other players would then retrieve their tops and respin, the aim being to smash the fallen top and knock out its short nail. Whoever succeeded won the top and its spike, which he’d then repair and reuse. The best part of this game was watching with anticipation as the nail slowly detached from the wooden top under the continual hammering. Fal-loosh was particularly energetic, with boys taking spin after spin to up their chances of splitting the top. Winning would always fill me with immense satisfaction.

During one spinning season, which always fell in the springtime, I joined forces with another boy, Rakan, who was also adept at this sport. Between us, we won twelve tops, and I agreed he could keep our winnings.

If I wasn’t playing games with my neighbourhood friends in the small empty sand lot in the next block over from our house, I would be with my two best buddies, Musa and Faris, talking about our day at school or sharing the latest news about our favourite football team, Al Qadisiyah. Musa, Faris and I were the same age. Like me, and most boys at that time, they were thin; both were shorter than me. I was the most athletic member of our trio. Musa had fairer skin than us and light brown hair. One of his older brothers was even fairer, with reddish hair. Faris was the clever one; he was extremely academic and excelled at school. He also had a pointy nose and was more serious than Musa and I. Faris’s only uncle, Khaled, was a painter.

Once, I showed him one of my drawings depicting a basket of fruits. I loved to capture the way bunches of grapes cascaded over the other fruits. He gave me some good advice and said he’d be happy to see more of my artwork.

There was a strange dynamic between the three of us. We were inseparable; if one of us was missing, our team just felt incomplete. As the years progressed, Musa and I became closer, and although the three of us don’t see each other as often nowadays, we remain good friends.

At home, I read all kinds of comic books. Tarzan and Superman were my favourites. Another magazine I loved was called Samir, about a fictional Arab schoolboy’s adventures.

And I drew. I made pencil...