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“What would you have me do? Revolt against my family?”
“I did.”
“It’s different.”
“Why?”
“Your culture values individuality. My people are tribal. Clans are important. The collective must always prevail."
“I am your collective," Lucy threw at him. "We are your collective. Our daughter, you, and I, we are family. We are your clan,” she said, gesturing to the life-size photographic portrait of the three of them, spotlighted on the feature wall behind his desk. “You once told me that honesty and loyalty were your treasures above all else. You told me that trust had to be earned. You’ve got a weird way of showing it, Anwar. Does it only go one way?"
"I have given you my heart.”
“I want more."
"More?" he said incredulously.
"I want you to give me your word. I want you to tell everyone what Hamad has done.”
She slept alone that night, too restless and angry to pretend it didn’t matter. A montage of memories played through her mind. She thought of the times she’d been scapegoated and blamed for her sibling’s greed when her mother died. Guilt-shamed with demands of toxic platitudes of gratitude. ‘You should be happy that mom left you anything at all.’ She was grateful; of course, she was. But the truth was she had received a third of what they inherited. Her sister had coerced and manipulated her mother to change her will as she lay on her deathbed. God only knows what lies she fabricated to get her mother to agree.
They lied, concealed, and stole from her and then had the audacity to tell her that she should be grateful. Lucy still blamed herself. She had been blind, Always placating, always conceding, always pleasing, and putting herself last.
'You could have fought back. You should have taken them to court. You would’ve won,’ her friends had censored.Would, could, and should—the three ugly brothers, hurling recrimination and shame.
Could have what? Could have spoken up? Should I have challenged their behavior? Would there have been a better ending? Hadn’t Anwar said the same thing? "You should be grateful Hamad has agreed not to take legal action. You would do well to count your blessings.”
Did Anwar really believe she should be thankful that Hamad wasn’t prosecuting her now via some archaic Arabic justice process to atone for his mistakes?
“You should just let it go,” Anwar had said.
Let it go.
She hated that the most. Turn a blind eye to injustices and look the other way. No, she'd done it before, and where it had got her? It was time she fought back and stood up for herself. If not for her, for her daughter.
“I’m sick of being the scapegoat for other people’s crimes,” she told Anwar the following morning over breakfast.
Anwar grinned. "You do not look like a goat."
"It's not funny, Anwar.”
"Ok. What is this scapegoat that has hurt you so much?"
"Everyone loads their shit on the goat's back so they can unburden themselves of their lack. Lack of honesty. Lack of loyalty. Lack of kindness, love, compassion..." the words came tumbling out in a river of anger and pain.
"Why a goat? A donkey or camel can carry more. They are stronger,” he said, reaching out for her hand playfully. “You are stronger.”
She pulled away from him. Too hurt and too furious that he was not taking her seriously. “People who scapegoat you don’t want you to be strong. They want to weaken and sacrifice you.”
Anwar gestured to the servants to pour Lucy a strong cup of traditional Arabic coffee and passed her a plate of dates. “To sweeten the morning!” he murmured.
But Lucy was in no mood to be placated. “In the Bible, a goat was sent into the wilderness after the priest symbolically laid the people’s sins upon it. The goat’s throat was slit.”
“Lucy, I have given you my word. Nothing will happen to you.”
“But it has happened.”
“This isn’t just about Hamad, is it?” he said, awareness washing over his face in empathetic understanding.
