Nothing Is Predictable Read online

  “Run sweetheart, hurry, run! We will hide in the neighbor’s storeroom, he can’t find us there,” Mom whispered as we ran for our lives away from home hoping Dad would not find us. We entered the storeroom beside our neighbor’s old cottage. It was dark and moldy and infested with rats. From a distance, we could hear him following us and approaching.

  I cried silently with my eyes shut, fearful about what was going to happen. The monster was back.

  “Shhh, don’t cry, he won’t find us here, we’ll be okay darling, don’t worry,” Mom whispered as she held me tight to comfort me, yet I could see in her eyes she was not convinced.

  “Where are you? You think you can hide from me! I’ll show you who the man of the house is! You’re taking my daughter away from me, I’ll show you woman!” Dad shouted, his voice approaching closer and closer.

  He was so drunk he didn’t realize Mom was only running to safety. He thought she was taking me away from him. How on earth do you come to that conclusion? His footsteps stomped louder, as he walked toward the storeroom where we were hiding.

  “Where are you? How dare you run away!” his voice projected from outside the room.

  And then, BANG! The wooden door was flung open and it bounced off the wall. Rats scattered and hid in the gaps of the walls. Through my half-opened eye, I saw his body silhouetted outside.

  “Mom, he’s found us, the monster found us!” I whispered, terrified about the monster who was approaching us. Mom cocooned me to make sure I didn’t get hurt. He walked into the storeroom, throwing everything out of his way until he found us huddled in the corner crying.

  “How dare you leave the house and run away! Who do you think you’re married to?”

  He leant over and grabbed my mother’s hair and dragged her out of the storeroom.

  “Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I screamed. He kept mumbling angrily, “Come here, I’ll show you.”

  Show her what? What had she done? He was always so angry toward her, blaming her for his failures and uncontrollable rage. She was the sweetest and most innocent woman, and I have no idea how she persevered with twenty years of violence and abuse just to keep the family together.

  As he dragged my mother behind him, I held onto her and tried to pull her away from him, crying and begging him to listen to me.

  “Monster, please hit me! Hit me and don’t touch Mom, please Dad, if you are in there, look, it’s me, your princess, it’s Zahra, pleeaasse let her go. It’s Zahra, let her go!”

  For the first time in his life, he didn’t look at me or seemingly even recognize me. He just pushed me aside. He dragged her into the field near the storeroom we were hiding in, dropped her to the ground, and started kicking her repeatedly all over her body: in the stomach, in the head, anywhere his foot landed. She cried and screamed with pain and tried to shield herself from his violence. I jumped over her to shield her wounded body, but he picked me up and threw me away as easily as if I was a rag doll, so he could continue with his violent acts. He had no idea what he was doing or the extent of damage he was causing. He was an emotionless robot with no awareness of who he was or who we were. Mom eventually passed out. I kept on getting up to shield her with my useless tiny body. We needed help, we needed someone strong to pull him away from us. As I leapt again and threw myself on her to shield her body from further attacks, I landed on my back. Dad’s eyes connected with mine. Finally, he froze, looked deeply into my eyes with his doomed eyes, still wide with rage, and turned his face away. Then he looked over the dark field and walked away without looking back until he disappeared.

  That was the last time we saw him.

  Chapter 6

  Please God, please God, please God

  Lebanon 1980

  “Mom, Mom! Please wake up, Mom!” I was hysterical, and I didn’t know what to do. Mom’s eyes were closed, she had blood pouring down her face and her stomach was bruised and cut.

  “Mom! Please wake up, he’s gone, please wake up!” I was so traumatized by my father’s violence and the state of my mother that I couldn’t breathe. “Mom, Mom!” Then I felt heat flow through my body and I fainted.

  The next thing I remember was waking up at some neighbor’s house in a woman’s lap with a wet cloth on my head. Our neighbor was a nurse and she had attended to Mom’s wounds. Mom was crying with pain and embarrassment, sitting with one hand on her stomach and the other on her forehead. Her index finger was sticking out. I had never seen her so weak and fragile. She wouldn’t go to hospital, she was afraid that Dad would find us there and embarrass us in public. Her face was so swollen it was barely recognizable. I couldn’t believe he was capable of doing something like that.

  Mom is a very shy person, yet she has always been a rock for her children. At the time in Lebanon, divorce was not an option for women, as it would have been a disgrace to the family. Although she was preparing to escape to America, to save us from further inevitable mental and physical abuse, the plan was for our father to eventually follow us and seek medical help.

  Unfortunately, it was too late.

  Weeks went by with no sign of my father. My uncle asked us to stay at his house a couple of villages away, so Mom could recover from her wounds and I from a fever and the emotional trauma of that night. I would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming from nightmares of that horrific night, and afraid that he might be in the house. I was terrified it might all happen again.

  The nightmares

  Let me tell you about the nightmares I suffered. They would randomly happen, leaving me awake and frightened most nights. They were flashes of that last horrific night with my father. At times they took the form of a monster coming to me at night. My childish belief that Dad turned into a monster haunted me all the way into adulthood.

  They kept repeating, terrifying me, making me relive the whole experience of that night. Many nights, I would sit up in the corner of my bed, cuddled with my blanket, looking at the door afraid of what might walk in. Other nights I would wake up sweating, my heart palpitating, feeling choked up and unable to breath. Some nights I would wake up screaming and disorientated of my whereabouts. I cannot tell you how many nights I suffered from nightmares, but I can tell you they happened regularly for almost three decades.

  * * *

  One morning in late August, the 28th to be exact, I was still at my uncle’s house. I woke up and stared at the bedroom door. It was a big, dark, wooden door with a heavy metal lock, and the room was at the front of the house close to the main entry. It was partially opened, and Izabelle walked in. She was wearing black and she was crying.

  By this stage, my fever had abated and I jumped out of bed, worried something bad had happened to Mother. I could see through the door my aunty and Izabelle, hugging each other and crying. I knew something terrible had happened.

  “Izabelle, where is Mom? Is Mom okay?” I asked as I walked out quietly, at the same time reluctant to hear the answer.

  “Hey sis, everything is fine,” she said, bending down and hugging me tight to comfort me.

  “Why are you crying? Your eyes don’t look right,” I said.

  “Nothing sweetie, you look better, your fever seems settled, you’re not hot anymore,” she said, placing her hand on my forehead. “Mom is at home. I have to go and see her, okay? Aunty will look after you,” Izabelle said, and then she rushed out of the house crying.

  What could it be? I wondered. My aunty took my hand gently and sat me down next to her. She was sobbing.

  “Sweetie, I need to tell you something, you have to be strong, you cannot cry, okay? I want you to get dressed. I’m taking you to your mother. You have to be strong for your mother, you cannot cry in front of her, and when you see her, I want you to hug her and say you’re sorry.”

  “Say sorry! Why? What did I do that I need to say sorry? Why don’t you want me to cry in front of her?”

  “No, you didn’t do anything wrong, I didn’t mean sorry in that way.”

  She couldn’t say it,
she couldn’t tell me. A million thoughts were going through my head. Had the monster returned? Had he hurt Mom again?

  Please God, please let Mom be okay, were the thoughts that ran through my head while I got dressed. Our house was only ten minutes’ drive away and when the car stopped in front of our building, I saw many people dressed in black. I knew immediately that someone had died. It is a Lebanese tradition, as it is with many traditions around the world, to wear black when someone dies.

  I opened the car door and rushed into our building. I ran up three levels as fast as I could manage, ugly thoughts running through my head.

  “Please God! Please God! Please God! Please God!” I gasped as I ran up the stairs. I just wanted to see Mother. I needed to see Mother, I needed to know she was okay.

  “Please God! Please God! Please God!”

  I ran into our unit and saw old women dressed in black, looking like witches, surrounding a bed with a closed coffin. They were sobbing and whispering to one another.

  Poor thing, that’s the young daughter.

  What a shame so young.

  How are they going to cope?

  “What’s happened? Please God! Please God! Please God!” I mumbled to myself.

  Then I saw her, my darling angel mother, sitting and looking down at the floor. As she looked up and saw me, she burst into tears and opened her arms to embrace me. My sisters were sitting beside her and when Izabelle saw me in the room, she was furious.

  “Why is she here! Who brought her here, Goddamn it? She’s going to be frightened to death from the coffin. Who the hell brought her here?”

  Mom whispered to Izabelle to calm her down and then sat me on her lap. “Sweetie, do you know what happened?”

  I shook my head silently no but had an inclination it was my father who was asleep in that coffin. Mom then took me into the bedroom to talk to me.

  “Sweetheart, your father died this morning.”

  My father had apparently died of a gunshot wound. Mom’s relatives had found him still breathing and fighting for his life near their house. They had carried him to their car and driven him to the hospital but unfortunately, he passed away at the hospital.

  I remembered my aunty telling me to be strong and not to cry in front of my mother and at that moment, I understood what she had meant when she asked me to say sorry. I froze with shock. I didn’t even ask how he had died, didn’t even ask what had happened. In a way, I felt relieved that the monster couldn’t harm us anymore. I didn’t cry. I hugged my mother tightly and said to her, “I’m sorry Mom, don’t worry, I’ll look after you. You don’t need him anyway, look what he did to you. We don’t need him, I’ll look after you, Mom, don’t worry, I promise, I’ll look after you,” I kept repeating.

  Mother smiled and shook her head, marveling at my mature reaction, but at the same time concerned about the lack of empathy I had to the news of my father’s death.

  Chapter 7

  The confession

  Lebanon 1980

  Days went by after the funeral, and our home was invaded by visiting relatives and family members. It annoyed me because I didn’t want to be surrounded by grieving relatives I didn’t even know.

  I began to notice there was confusion over the death of my father. Rumors were spreading around the village that he had been killed, but no one seemed to know the truth.

  My brother, grandparents, and most of Dad’s family were residing in America. They were devastated at the news and wanted to know the details of his demise. Mom couldn’t give answers to anyone; she didn’t even know herself.

  Villagers began rumors that my mother’s family living in the village had shot him, the ones who had carried him to the hospital to save his life. That seemed an idiotic suggestion. Others claimed that he had been abusive toward some woman in the village and her husband had shot him. Some said he was pushed off a cliff. It was a bunch of ridiculous accusations by inconsiderate, ignorant people who had nothing better to do than fill their days with nonsensical blather.

  Mom decided to leave it to God to reveal the truth somehow. She ignored every accusation and rumor, hoping that the truth would eventually emerge. She strongly believed that would happen until one night, she had a dream where a saint came to her and poked her three times on the shoulder saying, “Terry, Terry, Terry.” Apparently after that last horrific night, Dad had gone into town and sought out Terry, his beloved friend who was like a son to him, to escort him to the village.

  Terry was a close friend of the family, particularly of my sister Izabelle because they were of similar age. He had always looked out for my father, in fact, he had repeatedly saved him from potentially dangerous situations that had occurred because of Dad’s foolish belligerence. Terry was a soldier in the army and he was genuinely protective of my family. I remembered him visiting us many times, eating and drinking with us, just like another member of the family.

  Weeks went by until one day, Terry knocked at our door. Mother and I were sitting in the TV room and when he walked in, we noticed he looked agitated and fatigued. He was unshaven. He gave my mother a huge hug and asked her for a private word.

  Mom knew that one day, Terry would come and solve the mystery about her dream. She felt it must be true at least in part and had waited for God to reveal that truth. They walked in to another room and closed the door. I followed quietly and peeked through the keyhole to see and hear what he had to say. I saw him kneel and hold out a gun to her.

  “Please forgive me for what I am about to tell you,” Terry said remorsefully, looking at the floor. My mother stood silently above him, with a look of despair on her face.

  “You and your husband are like my own parents. You know I would never have done anything to harm him. You know how violent he could be when he was drunk. It would have been my funeral instead of his if I hadn’t done what I had to do.”

  Mother was crying, her hand over her mouth.

  “We were walking in the village and were close by your relative’s house, where that big rock is, when he pulled his gun and said he wanted to show me that he could compete with me in shooting. I tried to calm him down, but he grabbed me from behind and put a gun to my head. He said that in a click of the trigger he could end my life. I don’t know what came over him. He was crazier and more violent that night than I had ever seen him. I was scared for my life. I grabbed his hand to move the gun away from my head and as I forced his hand away, he fired the gun and shot himself in the back of the head, behind his ear. I’m so sorry, please forgive me, I’m so sorry I couldn’t control what happened, believe me. But if I hadn’t reacted, it would have been my funeral instead of his and my mother crying over me.” He was sobbing in agony over the tragedy.

  Mother took the gun off him, put her hand on his head, and said, “May God forgive him for what he put us all through, my son. I am sorry you had to go through that, I forgive you and totally understand what he was like. He almost killed me that last night. Thank you for owning up to it, I needed to have closure about what happened.”

  “Thank you, I am so sorry I couldn’t protect him. When he fell to the ground I was terrified and ran and hid in the bushes when I heard people running toward us. Your relatives heard the gunshot and they came and carried him away. I didn’t want them to think I’d shot him. I am so sorry.”

  “I understand, I understand.” Mother helped him stand up and hugged him, and they both cried.

  As he pulled away, he said to her, “Because I’m in the army I could be punished for this if you or your immediate family decide to take action against me. I will tell my commander what happened but if anyone else tries to take revenge, I will deny everything. Only out of respect for you and your son and daughters will I allow further action. You have the right, but no one else does.”

  “No need, Terry. I believe there has been enough bloodshed. We are living in uncertain times with the war and if your commander finds out about this, the army will court-martial you. There is no need for you to go throu
gh that. I know what my husband was like, you were only trying to save your life and besides, he pulled the trigger, not you. That is no fault of yours. It is best you don’t say anything to anyone else. I respect you for telling me the truth and appreciate you have owned up to what happened. I can finally ignore all the gossip and accusations. I finally have peace and closure. Thank you for telling me, son.”

  As they walked toward the door, I ran back and pretended to watch TV. Terry knelt in front of me and hugged me tightly. He was still crying. Then he kissed me on the head and walked out. I sat there, pretending to be oblivious to Terry’s confession. I never told Mom I knew.

  Chapter 8

  Leaving Lebanon

  Lebanon 1981

  By 1981, Mom’s paperwork was approved and we were ready to leave Lebanon.

  It was timely that we were leaving because by then, the war in Lebanon was escalating between the Christians and Muslims. Crossing the border from the Christian precinct to the Muslim precinct to get to the airport would be a dangerous mission. We had to travel by helicopter from the port of Jounieh because the roads were blocked, and then by car for about twenty minutes to reach the international airport.

  Izabelle had got married at the age of nineteen, six months after Father died. Because she was ‘in love’, she did not want to return with us to America. She could not come to say goodbye, and it was only Evangeline, who had driven down from the country with little James, who was there to farewell us.