I remembered my childhood in vivid flashes, sudden bursts of long-term memory goaded by the impetus of emotion. I saw an Arab woman crying on the street today. She was inconsolable. In her wave of sorrow, Khaled came back to me. I can’t remember exactly the first time I met him but I remembered the first time I was blasted by one of his strikes of a football (soccer to the outnumbered Americans). Khaled was a star. He was hyperbole in motion, the most talented footballer in the realm. It was a spine-tingling affair to be the unlucky soul who stood between him and the goal. He could strike a ball with such thudding velocity that the goal keeper would much rather dive away from one of his missiles then risk the guaranteed pain of impact. I remembered a time in the desert.
The American-British Academy stood on the top of a hill overlooking the gated opulence of Muscat’s elite. To get there one had to traverse up a thirty degree inclined road then maneuver through the manicured mansions of Oman’s oil barons. I was a Bedouin then, unfazed with triple digit weather. The school was still undergoing construction and the rows of scattered trailers around the compound proved an eyesore to this synthetic oasis. Nonetheless, it opened with much fanfare, much to the delight of the couple of thousands of expatriate children who were stuck with homeschooling. His Majesty himself, Sultan Qaboos, cut the red ribbon that wrapped around the whole perimeter of the compound on opening day. Educated in England’s Royal Military Academy, Oman’s despot was a religious liberal, eager to modernize, and had a special affinity for Western Culture. In an English accent, he greeted the pioneering students with fatherly pride, “Welcome my children, as I was once welcomed to be molded in your country, I welcome you to mine. Welcome to your American-British Academy…”
During one of the countless lunch-hour football games, I found myself in between Khaled and a surefire goal. We played on the basketball courts which from all accounts were never once used for basketball. Often the case, when the rampaging Khaled was surging towards goal, the last standing defender would just defer the inevitable. On this day I refused to defer to this behemoth. My heart pumping rapidly, he came upon me. He must’ve been surprised that I stood there in waiting, resigned to my fate. He ripped a shot from his cannon leg anticipating that I would jump out of the way—I did not. BOOM! I felt the ball ricochet off my stomach and also felt the jarring impact of the hard concrete as I fell. I was in football hell and I gasped for air in short staccato breaths. At least I saved a goal.
“What were you thinking?” Gareth, a rotund American who was playing goalkeeper, was the first to come over me. I wanted to say fuck you Gareth but I was having problems breathing, much less talking.
“Gareth move. Let me have a look…” It was my homeroom crush, the tomboyish Mancunian, Anne Turner. She knelt down and probed me, as if a fifth grader would know anything about mending anything broken. Anne was a football fanatic and could talk for hours about Manchester United, her favorite team. She had always wanted to join in on a game but no one would ever pick a girl. Still she cheered me on whenever I got to play, because it was just as rare for a Filipino to be picked (what with my native country’s long football playing tradition and all). But I was certain she was no medic.
“Anne. I can’t breathe.” I managed to say in one of my heaving gasps.
“You’re very brave Vince. Have I told you about my favorite player Brian McClair? He was very brave. One time a defender kicked him in his balls but he still managed to score a goal. Oh I love him…”
“…Anne”
“And another time he was kicked in the face and his eyelid was hanging from his eye and he played the whole game. Those are the kind of footballers I love. Brave…”
“Anne! Help me off the court.” I pleaded weakly, surprised that I could actually complete a sentence.
“Is he alright?” It was the football god himself, Khaled.
“Well he’s not bleeding. Maybe you need to save those big shots for a real game, huh hotshot?!”
Khaled looked embarrassed at being accosted by the feisty blonde with the thick English accent.
“I’m sorry. But I think that’s good that Vince here actually plays defense. I want him to try out for the team.”
“You think I’m good enough?” I implored perking up instantaneously.
“You’re alright Vince, you’re very fast. And you play defense! We need defenders; no one ever wants to play defense.”
“Can I play too?” Anne interjected to which Khaled smiled sarcastically.
“I’d love for you to be on the team but don’t they have a girl’s team?”
“That’s not a team…just a bunch of girls kicking the football like chickens with no heads.”
“Yallah…tell you what Anne, how about I pick you and Pele here for tomorrow’s lunch hour match.” Anne grew more animated and relayed to Khaled more useless trivia about Manchester United and her favorite footballer Brian McClair. He was impressed. Little did he know, in another life, Anne was Brian McClair.
“Uh guys…can you help me off the court please?” I groaned still in pain. They both laughed, the kind of laugh that made you want to laugh as well. Khaled helped me up while Anne hovered about offering more words of encouragement.
True to his word, Khaled prodded my homeroom teacher Mr. Moser, the football coach, to make me a member of our school’s powerful football team. Mr. Moser was a gruff ex-British marine who had a habit of paralleling his classroom lessons with football, more specifically Liverpool football. The fact that he taught geography ingrained in me the immeasurable knowledge of the topography of the various football venues Liverpool had played on. He also ran the team as if he was still in the marines. “Well lad, you’re on the team. But don’t expect to play until you’ve paid your dues. And never- ever-ever be late! Five o’clock sharp at the pitch every day!”
Ours was a team the United Nations would be proud of. The only aspect predominantly American or British about the American-British Academy was the curriculum. The school was a hodge-podge of nationals from as far off as exotic Fiji to as close as neighboring Saudi Arabia and the team was a reflection. We ran the gauntlet that football season, tearing through the opposition with ruthless precision. I scored my first goal against our rival, L’Ecole Francais, relieving Khaled after the second half when we had built up a ridiculous six to zero lead. The game ended being a respectable seven to four margin. The season ended with smashing success as we overcame the Omani junior national team on penalty kicks.
In the summer of ‘89, Anne Turner had a farewell party at her home in the Ruwi section of Muscat. Ruwi was Muscat’s old city and the ancient clay buildings strewn about conjured up images when Sinbad the Sailor roamed its streets. Her parents were headed back to Manchester after five-year tenures at the local oil plant. It was to be a farewell for all.
“I’m leaving too.” Khaled said, “I’m going back to Iraq.” Khaled’s father had gotten a high-ranking position with the government. His parents were coming home after ten years abroad.
I had my own disclosure. Due to an incident with a shopkeeper and two pocketfuls of candy I had conveniently forgot paying for, I was being shipped off to American relatives to some place called Virginia. My paranoid parents were concerned about a relatively archaic Muslim law…something to the effect of fingers being chopped off. I looked at Anne and Khaled unsure if I would ever see them again. The three of us were from drastically different worlds, yet somehow in Muscat we were so the same.
”This is sad, I’m leaving too.”
We sat in deafening silence amidst the international collection of professional expats congregated in Anne’s living room. We sat sipping on our ice-cold Kool-Aid not knowing exactly what to say. It became more uncomfortable when Anne started to tear up.
“Promise me we’re all going to keep in touch.” She said sniffing.
“Inshallah…I know we’ll cross paths again. You guys can always visit me in Baghdad. It’s a beautiful city.” Khaled’s calming voice resonated among us, “Let’s not be sad. How about we kick the football around out back?”
On a Brooklyn street, the air filled with a mother’s grief. I entered my local corner store haunted with what I had seen. I asked Hassan, the Yemeni store owner, why the Arab woman outside was crying uncontrollably. The normally affable Hassan looked solemn, as if holding back belligerence.
“They’re animals, these Americans…they’re animals.”
“What’s going on? What happened?”
“Her son, her son…” He said stuttering, “He was shot by an American soldier.”
“Who? Where? Why?”
“He’s a lawyer in Baghdad. He refused to halt when an American soldier told him to halt, and the bastard shot him in the back…He was a good man, his name was Khaled. May he rest in peace. Alhumdudillah…”
her, in my mind I was already crying for her. Being American should not preclude one from having a conscience. A
feeling of shame came over me. I remembered Khaled from the desert. Inshallah Khaled…we shall cross paths again.
I gritted my teeth in disgust. Inshallah Khaled…I hope you are safe...inshallah. Yes we do, we all cut and bleed but it
should be for the right reasons. Why does it have to happen like this?
