I have been in custody for about three hours, sitting in the interrogation room. The size and the lighting of the room are about the same as I’ve always seen in the movies. But this one is different. The walls are all orange brick, with no giant mirrored glass. There is only a rusty metal door.
My gaze is on my hands, stained with dried blood. I’m wearing big, dirty, oversized pants over my Nike shorts, because they don’t like naked skin here, in this part of the Middle East.
My flight to North America takes off in half an hour. They’re boarding the passengers now—hopefully including my young American wife. I don’t remember losing contact with her for even a second in the five years we’ve been together, until this moment. I wish I had my phone to check.
If I were the same person I had been my whole life, up until this morning, I would say I’m completely sure she’s boarding the plane—because I know my wife completely. I would say not only I know my wife but I also know everything better than anyone else all over the world, with the confidence of a lion, without a trace of doubt, exactly like every North American in his twenties would say.
But I am not the same person anymore. A man died just a couple of hours ago in the most brutal way, butchered with my knife (which I bought at the bazaar on my second day there), that I was holding in my hand, standing over him bleeding from between his legs to death when police arrived.
I haven’t said a word since I’ve been in custody. I’m in shock and unsure about everything. A couple of officers were chatting and laughing behind the rusty door, like it’s a normal day.
Then the door opens. One of them comes in with an unfinished smile on his lips, still carrying the echo of the last joke. But once he shuts the door and turns toward me, he becomes an intimidating figure with a long beard, papers in his hand.
He carefully places the papers in front of me and asks me to write down everything. Thanks to my late mother’s efforts, I can speak this language fluently and almost understand these forms. They were mostly dates and personal information to fill in, plus a couple of blank pages for the report.
I immediately start filling out the forms in English. The officer does not say anything, convinced he is getting what he wanted—and that he could translate it later.
I ask him the time to put in the form. “Four p.m.”, he says.
The exact moment I am supposed to be sitting beside my beloved wife as our plane lifts off toward North America, where we belong.
I was her hero, even though she is a smart, strong, and completely independent woman.
Since childhood, she had won many local awards, across different sports. She was a cheerleader in high school.
She did photo modeling for a few months before we met. But one thing she took more seriously than anything else was jujutsu. She had finally earned her Grade 1, and she was planning to open a small jiu-jitsu training school.
I can wrap up the report in a couple of lines. But I choose to write a long, detailed account—to make sure my wife is already in the sky, once I had handed in my report, even if there were delays. Here is my report:
Today was our last day in the Middle East. My American wife and I had received nonstop visits—more often than a mosque—during these two weeks of vacation. The whole family was excited to see their American relatives.
My mom was from here. She immigrated and married my American dad. In appearance, I take after him completely. No one can tell I have a Middle Eastern background unless I say it—especially since my mother was the lightest-skinned one around here, as far as I could see.
Her siblings were never as successful as she was. However she got sick and passed away when I was a teenager. She wanted to return and die beside her family. She probably didn’t have a perfect relationship with my dad. Neither of them is alive anymore to be judged anyway.
This trip was very important to me. I was visiting my mother’s family after a very long time. I was a little kid the last time my mom took me here. Emotions were high. Everything is about family here. An uncle is like a second dad, and an aunt like a second mom. Unlike America, the center of attention here is the oldest members of the family. After my grandmother, my fat and hairy uncle is the oldest member of the family. He is old, a little funny, very poor, and also handicapped. The best case for a close-knit family to be taken care of.
They really loved him. He was the teddy-bear brother, to be loved and taken care of. But to me, he wasn’t the same funny uncle that I visited with my mom. He was a hairy, fat, lazy loser whose only achievement was producing numerous useless children like himself.
I had no emotions toward him, and he had none toward me. Things changed. We were two men opposing each other, while at the same time trying to act friendly during this visit, at least in front of the family.
I noticed him checking out my American wife in her yoga pants a couple of times. He wasn’t shy about letting me pay for his drinks. He seemed eager to reclaim attention once the Americans left. I questioned God a couple of times, even. Why my mom and not him?
Every night during the last two weeks, people gathered at my poor aunt’s home, sitting down and getting full service. No wonder he was handicapped. He was eating like a pig. And doing nothing. I would die in no time if I lived like that, let alone handicapped. But no one talked about his bad habits. I can't understand what kind of love that is to feed your loved one to death.
Finally, I talked about it. “Hey, you don’t have to eat a full bucket of rice. It’s not healthy. Look at grandma. She's much older than you, but way healthier than you.”
He held the spoon of Ghormeh Sabzi right in front of his mouth and turned his red, angry eyes toward me, as if I had broken a rule and spoken the unthinkable. “Sit down in your place and don’t talk bigger than your mouth.” He put the spoon in his mouth and chewed with anger, his red, vulture eyes never leaving me, waiting for a reaction.
Contrary to my expectations, nobody defended what I said. My two aunts and all the kids in the room stayed quiet, out of respect for the only two men there.
Immediately after he swallowed, before lifting the next spoon, he said “after two weeks of eating and drinking here for free, still counting my bites? Is that your food I’m eating?”
Then I lost it. “You should thank me for teaching you how to eat. I worked my whole life, and I don’t need free food from anyone. What the hell have you done with your life—other than eating from my parents while they were alive, then from my grandmother and my aunts, and producing useless consumer piglets just like yourself? You are the family’s shame. If you didn’t exist, this family would be better now.”
I crossed the line. The room went dead silent. Everybody got upset, especially my aunt, who had been doing everything happily for everyone. My handicapped uncle put the heavy plate down on the table and, while trying to reach his walking sticks, yelled, “Take your whore and get lost. You are the shame of the family, with your wife’s naked pictures all over”, pointing his stick at my wife’s short skirt and then a phone on the table “I would have shown you, if women and children were not here.”
I burst into loud laughter out of anger and said, “What are you trying to do, punch me? Hahahahaaa.”
Then pointing at my wife “This girl has bigger balls than you. Don’t humiliate yourself more than that.”
My wife looked from one of us to the other, not understanding a word and getting anxious.
When my aunt tried to calm her down, I stopped her, “Don’t worry about her. She is American. She is not like you” while pointing and comparing the women in the room to something less than human.
I broke the kindest aunt’s heart. Not only her beloved brother, I also insulted everyone. She kept quiet after that.
We continued like a two-man betting on a racehorse. Then I thought to let my wife restrain him, like I saw her doing in the jiu-jitsu sessions, and after we kissed each other lips in front of everyone, and leave to the airport like American heroes. In order to completely humiliate them, and in my own opinion to defend my wife’s honor in the American way.
I told him “You're no match for me and I’ll let my wife give you a lesson”. I swore on my pride that no one would interfere. I stepped away from between them and escalated the situation by urging my wife forward. She held her jiu-jitsu guard instinctively, totally confused and shocked, still trying to understand what was happening.
He let go of his sticks and grabbed her, with his big hands. The size difference was terrifying.
What followed happened too fast and went too far. I won’t put it on the page.
I remember his eyes on me. I remember understanding, too late, that this was no longer a fight. It was violence. And it was my fault that she was there.
Then he let her go and pulled himself up onto the sofa, sweating and panting, struggling to compose himself. My wife stayed face down on the floor, sobbing, while everyone gathered around and watched.
I knelt beside her and whispered, “Let’s go, love.”
I didn’t clearly hear her answer.
“What?”
“Give me the goddamn knife.”
I handed it to her without thinking. She jerked up without warning. I jumped back—too close. Then she stood and faced the room, eyes bloodshot. Everyone panicked and ran. They nearly jammed the gate trying to get out. My handicapped uncle tried to follow, still struggling to pull himself together.
Without his walking sticks, left behind on the floor, he grabbed at the furniture, forcing his way through the tight space. He lost his balance and collapsed between the furniture and the wall. He then crawled toward the door, pulling himself forward with his arms. His pants slipped off his big belly to his knees, making it even harder to move.
My wife walked toward him and stood above his naked legs for a second, and then shoved the knife between his legs. The uncle jerked as though he had been electrocuted with 240 volts. And stretched his body as straight as a broom handle. He wasn't even able to scream. He only pushed his legs together as tight as he could, instantly. His face and eyes turned red. Sweat and tears poured from his eyes, his nose, his mouth and skin, as if his whole body were crying.
I was frozen in place, wishing it was all a bad nightmare. Then she turned toward me, handed the bloody knife back to me without a word, grabbed her backpack, and walked out the door.
Not long after—though I can’t tell how much time passed while I was in shock—my aunt came back in, followed by the others. She didn’t see my uncle behind the furniture at first and rushed toward me, checking to see if I had been hurt.
I asked where my wife was.
“She took a cab and left without talking to us,” they said. Only then did they start asking where my uncle was. One of my cousins screamed when they found him bleeding on the floor behind the furniture. They called the emergency services.
I put the pen on the paper and push it toward the investigator. He flips through a couple of pages immediately and takes it with him.
I spend the night in custody, waiting to see what happens. In the morning, I am back in the same room.
After a long wait, the same officer comes in and says, “You’re free to go. We were contacted from the U.S., asking for documents to support the report your wife submitted as soon as she arrived.”
What happened was considered rape under U.S. law. It was a long process for me to return to the U.S., and even longer for my ex to rebuild a normal life after committing a murder.
In the end, she was treated like a hero. She shared her story. She became famous and successful. She lives close to her big family, who love her.
I lost all my family in the Middle East—and everything I had in the U.S., including the woman who had been my wife, who once saw me as her hero.
Now tell me.
Who is the victim?