Retribution

I’m back.
It’s been seven years, and it feels eerie; it’s unsettling how petrol can ignite progress. My brother once said, ‘God gave them petrol because they lack common sense.’ He hit the mark; God can’t help but be fair and objective, regardless of how enlightened and educated we are, he can’t throw all his apples in one basket. Who’d stick around to praise him then?

This place is far from being the Emirates. And, I’ve got to admit, it helps that this place has nothing pinned on me, no baggage, no trauma, just the same people, with different faces, all with the innate belief that I am good, regardless of my religion, up until they find intent to fuck me over; then we’re back to when it all started, 2015.

I’m still not over it, as much as I’ve forced myself to say otherwise, all for the sake of growing up and moving on.

I felt robbed, all while hearing praises to God for making it happen when it happened; none of that made things any easier. He could’ve just stopped the whole thing, but we can’t just question that. I could’ve had the same life, like everyone who moves to the UAE to make bank. I just believed, I was more deserving; I was there first, from the start, when it was a desert and upright people, with plenty of goodness to go around, devoid of American-made hubris.

Instead, I was shipped back to Beirut, like a purchased item you’d like to return.

They thought themselves to be King Louis XIV.

Pathetic.

They thought they were the protagonists in their own narrative. Foolishly enough, God was playing them too, he’s the torchbearer in every story, everywhere. He wouldn’t let humans outshine him; wouldn’t be very godly of him.

Things looked very different from where I was standing; it took the whole thing four months to wrap itself around my head; my life couldn’t bother itself with waiting around for me, it just kept going. And even then, it took me more than a year to accept my fate. I didn’t get it, I was living a life I was not interested in living; God couldn’t bring himself to ask me what I thought of the matter? He just threw me in with the rest of the sheep he spent an eternity shepherding.

That’s just me, though. My whole family was going through their own whirlwind of problems after my exile washed up on their shores. Everyone was keeping a smile on their faces for my sake, holding up each end with kind words and kinder gestures. I remember, my mom tried playing all her cards, but everyone was too cowardice to help, but I digress. I remember we got the definitive no while having lunch at P.F Chang’s. Dad was there. I’m glad he was; mom didn’t have to go through all this alone. I was just sitting there, enjoying my humongous meal for two for one, and my parents were whispering and taking in the news. And I felt it. I knew it was bad, but I was distracted with all the food that my future mattered so little to me at that moment.

I also never got to see my sister before I left. Those god-loving, god-fearing people gave me 48 hours to pack my shit and leave. All my shit.

They wanted my brother’s head, too, as if mine wasn’t enough.

God tried to get me out of there and burn any bridge from and to. He was obviously betting on locally-bred folly to get the job done; he’d never dirty his hands with sin. That hiccup with Satan wouldn’t be allowed to happen again.

I don’t think he thought I was worth the trouble of going to war with. I mean, I’ve got to hand it to him, he put it on the white robes and ninjas, and they played their preordained roles to absolute perfection. He had my family and myself all fooled, making us believe that it was for my own good; that gibberish writes itself. I’d rather not get into it.

I’ve written too many iterations of this story. All about depression and I how I broke free from its shackles. And while they were all true to that word, they tended to describe depression rather than tackle the damn thing. It’s quite ironic, though. Im talking about these pieces of mine as if they’re alien, rather than my feelings-turned-bedtime-stories.

Even if i do end up doing this story justice, I think I’ll still be depressed.

It hasn’t been easy. I’m not glad I’m back, but I’m optimistic.

I promised myself I wouldn’t come back to the Gulf after they kicked me out; that said, I didn’t get the complexity of life back then, or how naive and intimidating my misery was.

I’m back, and God had nothing to do with it.