The Journey to Find Kamal's Voice

I was born in the year 1991, a year of change and great anticipation. The Soviet Union had collapsed, the country I called my home was no more and the world was changing at such a speed that many thought it was going to end sooner than later. It was a time of political, economic and religious turmoil. Communism and religion fought for the hearts and souls of the masses, and there was no clear winner. The “End of the World” was supposed to happen during the 90s, the decade of my birth.

But the world did not end, although it was close. The so-called End of the World happened in the year 2001, when the United States of America invaded Iraq under false pretexts, thus plunging the world into a new era of chaos and uncertainty. The European Union fractured, and political parties on the right and left across the globe capitalized on this moment of uncertainty. It was a time of great turmoil. A time in which individuals were forced to choose sides.

I was a young boy at the time, oblivious to the changes that were occurring around me. I went to school, played with my friends, and spent time with my family. My father was a member of the Communist Party, a man who had dedicated his entire life to the ideals of equality and justice. He was born in the 1960s, and when the USSR collapsed he was forced to look for work as a private investigator. He worked hard, and was able to provide for his family, but he also became disillusioned with the system around him. He had become a communist because he believed in the virtues of Communism, but he left the Communist Party when he realized that the ideals of communism could no longer co-exist with the reality of the Soviet Union.

His disillusionment did not stop him from working for the government. He worked for the Ministry of Interior, and was tasked with investigating acts of corruption, particularly within the Ministry itself. His work was exemplary, and one day he was offered a chance to work for the FSB, the Russian Security Service. He took the job, but his disillusionment did not cease. He investigated the FSB and discovered rampant corruption within its ranks. He reported his findings to the Ministry of Interior, and was promptly fired by the FSB.

The Ministry of Interior did not want him to continue investigating the FSB, but they had a problem: the evidence he had collected was too damning to ignore. They had to take action, but they didn’t know how to do it. As they deliberated over how to proceed, they realized that they had to act fast. The very next day, a car bomb killed my father. There was no investigation, no inquiry. It was a car bomb, end of story.

My mother was devastated. She blamed the government for her husband’s death, for she knew that the FSB was responsible for the bombing. She raised me alone, and she was always afraid that the same thing would happen to me. But she never said anything, because she knew that she couldn’t change anything. She never spoke about my father, neither to me nor to anyone else. She lived for us, and she lived in fear.

When the war broke out, my mother fled to the Middle East with me, my sister, and my grandmother. My mother wanted to find refuge in a country where she could practice her religion freely, and she found it in Saudi Arabia. We settled in Riyadh, and my mother taught me everything she knew about Islam. She told me stories of the Prophet Muhammad and his Companions, and I tried to emulate them as best I could. She taught me how to read and write Arabic, and she educated me on the tenets of Islam.

There was one subject that she never taught me, however. She refused to speak about my father, and she never explained why. The only thing she ever told me about him was that I should always remember this one lesson:

“Speak up, child.”

I never understood why she told me this. I knew she was a woman who valued her voice, but we lived in an age where many were silenced. I was aware that she had lost her voice, but it seemed ridiculous to me that she would try to tell me not to lose mine, especially when talking was a crime punishable by death.

My mother passed away when I was seventeen years old. She fell ill, and her illness worsened. She died before she could even see me graduate from high school. After her death, my grandmother and my sister and I moved to Bahrain. We lived in the city of Manama, and I made a living doing odd jobs. I worked as a laborer, a security guard, and a cashier at a local supermarket. I received no pay for any of these jobs, and I lived hand to mouth. But I was happy, because I was able to support my family.

When I was twenty-three years old, I decided to travel to Saudi Arabia and visit my grandmother. I had heard rumors about the prospects of a new tech hub in the city of Jeddah, and I wanted to go there to see if I could get a job. I was low on money, and I knew that my grandmother would be able to feed me while I was there.

I arrived in the city of Jeddah just after noon, and I decided to sleep in the airport that night. I didn’t feel safe walking the streets at night, and I decided to wait until morning to find food. I found a bench, and I lay down. I closed my eyes, and stared into darkness.

Suddenly, there was a commotion. A man was yelling loudly, and I opened my eyes to see what was happening. Two men were dragging another man toward the exit of the airport. They threw him onto the street, and started beating him. I couldn’t understand what was happening, and I stood up to see what was causing the commotion.

The man who was being dragged to the exit was shouting,

“I am innocent! I have done nothing wrong! Let me go!”

One of the men struck him in the face, and he fell to the ground. The other man kicked him in the stomach, and he screamed in pain. I ran toward the exit and shouted,

“Stop! What are you doing?”

The two men looked at me, and they said,

“You don’t want to get involved.”

I ignored them, and I continued toward them. One of the men grabbed my arm, and he tried to pull me away. I shook him off, and I ran up to the other man. I put my hand on his shoulder, and I turned him around. I looked at him, and I asked,

“What is happening?”

He raised his hand, and he slapped me. He was strong, and I fell to the ground. I looked up to him, and I asked again,

“What is happening?”

He took a step toward me, and he kicked me in the stomach. I gasped for air, and I lay on the ground in pain. He laughed, and he said,

“You shouldn’t have asked.”

Then he kicked me again. I tried to cover my head with my arms, but he continued kicking me. After a few minutes, the other man said,

“That’s enough.”

The man stopped kicking me, and he walked away. I fell unconscious, and I was carried to the hospital by a passerby.