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Authors: Zak Ebrahim
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follows me in his car. Thereâs practically no money for food, but he takes his own children out for pizza and brings nothing back for us. One weekend, my brother and I wind up in the emergency room because weâre malnourished. The doctorâs so furious that heâs about to call Child Protective Services when my motherâsick from malnutrition herselfâbegs him to put down the phone. The episode doesnât bother Ahmed. He thinks Iâm disgusting because Iâm chubby. He spends an entire two-week period calling me cow in Arabic.
Ahmed punishes my brother and me for every infraction, whether real or imagined. He uses his fists, his belt, a hanger. Because heâs a boxer and goes to the gym obsessively, his punishments are often full-on beatdowns, and I can tell heâs testing differentcombinations of punches. Ahmedâs favorite maneuver, though, is a weird sort of fake-out: First, he rushes at me from across the room, his face full of rage. Then, when Iâve covered my face with my hands, he jumps in the air and stomps on my unguarded foot.
My mother looks out the window when she canât stand to watch anymore. Ahmedâs been so abusive to her that she can hardly think straight. Heâs convinced her that weâve become morally corrupt since my father went to prison, and that only he can redeem us. Once, when she tries to intervene on my behalf, he hits her in the head with a vase.
Ahmed is not a murderer like my father, but within the walls of our apartmentâamong people he claims to loveâhe is every inch a terrorist.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
When I turn fourteen, I start stealing money from him. First, itâs just pocket change. Then itâs five- and ten-dollar bills that I find under the mattress while making the bed. Usually, I take the money because thereâs no food in the house, and thereâs a Dunkinâ Donuts on the way to school. Sometimes, I just want to buy a CD by The Roots like everybody else. It amazes me that Ahmed has no idea Iâm stealing from him. Gradually, I get bolder and bolder.
Ahmed, it turns out, knows damn well that Iâm stealing. Heâs just choosing the right moment to pounce.
One morning, I pocket a twenty-dollar bill from under the mattress and buy a cool laser pen. That night Ahmed finally confronts me in my bedroom.
I confess. I apologize. I reach into the top drawer of my dresser where Iâve been hiding the money. Ahmed has a habit of rooting through our belongings, so Iâve been unscrewing the bottom of my deodorant and hiding the bills inside.
Ahmed steps closer to me. My room is so tiny that thereâs barely enough space for the two of us. His proximity is terrifying. But he hasnât laid a hand on me yet. In fact, when he sees me unscrew the deodorant and remove the money, he nods as if heâs impressed.
âSneaky,â he says.
He doesnât look angry as much as overjoyed , which seems strangeâuntil I realize why.
That night, Ahmed takes me into the master bedroom and beats and interrogates me about the thefts from midnight until well into the next day. He asks me how stupid I think he is. He asks me if Iâve forgotten whose house Iâm living inâif I really imagine, in my puny cow brain, that thereâs anything that goes on that heâs not aware of before it even happens . He tells me to take off my shirt, and do one hundred push-ups. As I struggle through them, he kicks me in the stomach and ribs. Later, he whacks my palm with a hanger so many times that, for weeks, Iâll have cuts and scabs in the precise shape of the hangerâs hookâit will look like a question mark on my hand.
All the while, my mother lies on the sofa in the living room, sobbing. She comes to the bedroom door only once and, before she can even beg Ahmed to stop, he shouts at her, âNosair would be disgusted by the way you raise his children! You
Ahmed punishes my brother and me for every infraction, whether real or imagined. He uses his fists, his belt, a hanger. Because heâs a boxer and goes to the gym obsessively, his punishments are often full-on beatdowns, and I can tell heâs testing differentcombinations of punches. Ahmedâs favorite maneuver, though, is a weird sort of fake-out: First, he rushes at me from across the room, his face full of rage. Then, when Iâve covered my face with my hands, he jumps in the air and stomps on my unguarded foot.
My mother looks out the window when she canât stand to watch anymore. Ahmedâs been so abusive to her that she can hardly think straight. Heâs convinced her that weâve become morally corrupt since my father went to prison, and that only he can redeem us. Once, when she tries to intervene on my behalf, he hits her in the head with a vase.
Ahmed is not a murderer like my father, but within the walls of our apartmentâamong people he claims to loveâhe is every inch a terrorist.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
When I turn fourteen, I start stealing money from him. First, itâs just pocket change. Then itâs five- and ten-dollar bills that I find under the mattress while making the bed. Usually, I take the money because thereâs no food in the house, and thereâs a Dunkinâ Donuts on the way to school. Sometimes, I just want to buy a CD by The Roots like everybody else. It amazes me that Ahmed has no idea Iâm stealing from him. Gradually, I get bolder and bolder.
Ahmed, it turns out, knows damn well that Iâm stealing. Heâs just choosing the right moment to pounce.
One morning, I pocket a twenty-dollar bill from under the mattress and buy a cool laser pen. That night Ahmed finally confronts me in my bedroom.
I confess. I apologize. I reach into the top drawer of my dresser where Iâve been hiding the money. Ahmed has a habit of rooting through our belongings, so Iâve been unscrewing the bottom of my deodorant and hiding the bills inside.
Ahmed steps closer to me. My room is so tiny that thereâs barely enough space for the two of us. His proximity is terrifying. But he hasnât laid a hand on me yet. In fact, when he sees me unscrew the deodorant and remove the money, he nods as if heâs impressed.
âSneaky,â he says.
He doesnât look angry as much as overjoyed , which seems strangeâuntil I realize why.
That night, Ahmed takes me into the master bedroom and beats and interrogates me about the thefts from midnight until well into the next day. He asks me how stupid I think he is. He asks me if Iâve forgotten whose house Iâm living inâif I really imagine, in my puny cow brain, that thereâs anything that goes on that heâs not aware of before it even happens . He tells me to take off my shirt, and do one hundred push-ups. As I struggle through them, he kicks me in the stomach and ribs. Later, he whacks my palm with a hanger so many times that, for weeks, Iâll have cuts and scabs in the precise shape of the hangerâs hookâit will look like a question mark on my hand.
All the while, my mother lies on the sofa in the living room, sobbing. She comes to the bedroom door only once and, before she can even beg Ahmed to stop, he shouts at her, âNosair would be disgusted by the way you raise his children! You
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