Zahira called at 4:00 a.m. in Doha. “Why are you calling so early?” I asked.
“Because he is still asleep,” she whispered.
“Oh,” I said.
“We had an argument last night,” she said. “About my studies.”
He and I had agreed always to conference about her academics before talking to her about them. I tried to lower my volume. “What about them?”
“He thinks I should not consider a career as a scientist.”
“What does he want you to do? Work in the store with him?”
“No. He wants me to change my classes next semester and apply to the Nursing Technical Secondary School for next year.”
“That is foolish. Nursing is valuable work, but your skill set should be applied to science.”
“That’s what I said, but he won’t listen to me!” Her voice divided and she started crying.
“Stop crying,” I said. “You are stronger than that.”
It took her almost a minute to stabilize. It was difficult for me to listen to over the telephone.
Finally she stopped and inhaled and asked, “Will you talk to him for me?”
She didn’t know he and I had had a fight. But I said, “Of course I will,” and told her I would call him tomorrow while he was at work, and that she should call me again tomorrow night at the same time to discuss it.
I tried to relax, but I couldn’t. Zahira and I had both worked too hard for her not to become something like a scientist. He may have contributed equally to her tuition, but it was not his decision to make.
The next morning I called my father after I arrived at the office. “What is it?” he asked after I greeted him.
“It’s pleasant to hear from you as well,” I said. “Zahira says you want her to think about a different profession.”
“I told her there was a nursing shortage in Qatar,” he said.
“She said you asked her to change her classes and apply to the nursing school.”
“If she is going to pursue it, she needs to begin now,” he said. “Nursing is a growth profession, the Women’s Hospital is an excellent facility, it does not require additional schooling, and she can stay in Doha very easily to find work.”
“Stay in Doha?” I asked. “Why is that important?”
“It’s not safe for a young female to work in a foreign country the way you are doing. You underestimate how many problems she could encounter.”
“I thought we agreed to discuss her academics together before making any major decisions,” I said.
He said, “Well, you’re not here now.”
“That is unrelated. You can easily call me or email me.”
“I don’t have email,” he said. “You’re the one who loves computers so much.”
I forced my voice to remain calm. “We’re both contributing to her tuition. If you prefer, you can pay all of it and then you will not have to consult with me at all. Or I can pay all of it, and then you will not have to be involved.”
He laughed. “You think money is the solution to everything? I can pay for her tuition next semester. I’m her father. She grew up in my home. You are her brother. Just because you earn more money now doesn’t mean you are in charge of her.”
“I know I’m not in charge of her,” I said. “I am letting her be in charge. I am only trying to keep her options open for her future.”
“She has no significant options that I am closing off,” he said. My upper and lower teeth compressed.
“She possibly has more options than I do, and she certainly has more options than you,” I said. “You have no right to restrict her. And I hope you do not let your own backward position destroy her life.” I disconnected. My hand holding the telephone was vibrating.
I did very little work the rest of the day. Zahira called me at night, and I asked if she had talked to our father.
“I studied in the library all night to avoid him,” she said. “What happened?”
“He said…”
“Tell me,” she said.
I was about to tell her that our father was illogical and had obsolete values, but increasing her anger with him wouldn’t result in any net gain. It’s an issue I often have to resolve, because although she did grow up in his home, I truly partnered with him in raising her, and I sometimes oppose his ideas, but I have always tried not to reveal our conflicts to Zahira and to make it as peaceful an environment as possible.
“Some of what he says is logical,” I said. “Being a scientist is a difficult profession and requires graduate school and does not pay well. There is always a need for nurses, especially in Doha now.”
“Are you serious?” she said.
“It is necessary to have a backup plan. You should take preparatory classes next semester, and maybe you will discover you prefer nursing. It is an integral job.” My voice sounded deeper and quieter and slower than normal. I had to say something else, so I added, “If you disagree with him, you must talk to him. I cannot do it for you. You are an adult now.”
“He doesn’t treat me as an adult!” she said. “That is exactly the problem!”
“I am sorry, Zahira,” I said.
She made an angry sound by exhaling loudly through her teeth and said, “I thought I had a good brother,” which was the worst thing she could have said to me, because while I am not boastful about much, I am proud of my skills as a brother. Then she did to me what I did to my father: She disconnected.
She didn’t call back. I felt doubly bad, for (1) not defending her against our father and (2) lying to her. When I returned home, I could talk to him again and try to convince him. I could resolve to pay for her entire tuition, but she would remain in his home, and he might still reject the idea, and in fact it would probably make him even more certain. It’s even more difficult to change someone’s mind on a subject they have strong beliefs about than it is to make someone interested in a subject they are careless of.
I was about to call her to tell her this, but I hypothesized that she was still upset and my predicted outcomes weren’t very optimistic, so I decided to wait for her to stabilize and let her initiate contact with me when she was ready.
In bed that night I kept replaying what my father said about me not being in charge. I always thought earning a high salary would delete the lion’s share of problems for our family. But some problems are problematic independent of finances, and he was in fact correct: Money was not the solution to everything.
I didn’t see Rebecca again until late on Friday night. We had dinner to break my fast, and I was even more inferior at conversation than normal because I was focused on Zahira and also on Kapitoil and whether it meant Schrub leveraged other people’s problems even if we weren’t the source of the problems.
In her room she asked if I knew the musician Bob Dylan.
“I do not know most musicians, except for the Beatles,” I said.
“Why’s that?” She started playing a CD. “Are they big in Qatar?”
“No,” I said. “I merely know them well.”
It was enjoyable even though his voice was not as luxurious as John Lennon’s, and we kissed while we listened. He played a song called “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.” The melody was beautiful, but some of the words didn’t make sense, especially the line in the chorus “My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums.”