Read Online The Terrorist’s Son by Zak Ebrahim - Free Book Online Page B

are lucky I am here to correct your mistakes!”
    I’ve experimented with bullying myself. Back when I was eleven, there was a new kid in school. He was Asian and, with nothing but stereotypes to rely on, I assumed that all Asians knew martial arts. I thought it would be awesome and Ninja Turtley to do some karate stuff, so I goaded him all day long into fighting me. As it happened, this particular Asian kid did know martial arts: He pretended to punch me in the face and, when I ducked, he kicked me in the head. I fled school in tears, but was stopped by the crossing guard, who sent me to the nurse’s office, where I was given a frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwich to press against my eye.
    All in all, it was a humiliating experience. So it’s not until after Ahmed beats me for stealing that I try my hand at bullying again. I’m walking down the hallway at school and come upon a bunch of younger kids playing keep-away with a boy’s backpack. The boy is crying. I grab the backpack and slam-dunk it into a trash can. For a moment, the sensation is gratifying. There’s no denying that there’s a rush to being on the other side of the equation. But then I see a look on the poor, tormented kid’s face that I recognize so viscerally—it’s bewilderment as much as fear—that I pull the bag out ofthe garbage and hand it back to him. No one’s ever sat me down and taught me what empathy is or why it matters more than power or patriotism or religious faith. But I learn it right there in the hallway: I cannot do what’s been done to me.

9
December 1998
Alexandria, Egypt
    I’m fifteen the last time Ahmed lays a hand on me. We’ve moved to Egypt because it’s cheaper and because my stepfather has family who can help my mother with us kids. There are six of us living in a two-bedroom apartment in a massive concrete building in a neighborhood called Smouha. The place is dingy and in disrepair. It’s also freezing cold now that it’s the winter, because the concrete doesn’t retain heat. Still, there’s a mall nearby and a supermarket under construction. It’s not the worst place we’ve ever lived.
    One Saturday, a friend from the neighborhood and I are just messing around in the street, sword fighting with sticks, when Ahmed’s son and a bunch of other kids rush over because they think we’re really fighting. Some of the kids start throwing rocks at us. Not hard, really—they’re just playing. But they get more and more aggressive, so I shout, “Stop!” I’m the oldest one there, and the biggest. Everybody stops. Except for Ahmed’s son. He just has to throw one more rock—right at my face. It breaks my glasses and cuts my nose. Everybody panics and scatters.
    At home, my mother asks what happened.
    â€œBefore I tell you,” I say, “you have to swear that you won’t tell Ahmed.”
    I know that there’s no way he’ll believe me over his son, and that second prize will be a beating. My mother promises she won’t say a word. So I tell her everything, and she sends Ahmed’s son to his room as punishment. I’m ecstatic. It’s a tiny bit of justice after two and a half years of abuse. That night, while I’m in bed, I hear Ahmed come home from the masjid . I hear the tinkle of glass as he drops his keys into a bowl by his bedside. I hear the chiming of hangers as he hangs up his shirt and pants. I hear him do his nightly push-ups—complete with a series of unnecessarily loud grunts. And then I hear my mother do something that breaks my heart: she tells him everything.
    Ahmed calls me into their bedroom. He doesn’t say a word about what his son has done, though he must see that my glasses have been clumsily taped together and that there’s dried blood on the bridge of my nose. What he says is: “Why were you playing with sticks?”
    And that question just