Somewhere during that time at the police station, I awoke to the sound of men screaming in other rooms, and later to Mama crying, beseeching the police. Sounds are what fill those days in my memory. They echo through the facts, the images, the pain of a fractured rib, the desire to take my brother’s place in their torture dungeons, the anguish of unmistakable endings—the end of innocence, of a home, of health, of days with daydreams and nights without nightmares.

They released me, but not my brother, and I returned to the police station the same day with Mama in the hope of talking them into releasing Jehad. The station walls were painted green. American military personnel milled about, and Kuwaiti police seemed to want to impress the Americans. They shooed us away. I yelled the Russian words I remembered: “Otva`li, mu`dak, b`lyad!”—Fuck off, you asshole, fuck!—hoping my brother could hear me to know that we were there.

Policemen shoved us out, warning us not to return.

“Please, my sons, may God’s mercy and His blessings fill your lives with success and joy,” my mother begged. “Please give him these.” Mama put several inhalers in one officer’s hands.

As we left the police station, from the corner of my eyes I saw a hand drop the inhalers into a trash bin.

Our landlord was waiting for us when we returned. We had three days to pay six months’ back rent or he would come with the police to evict us.

“Most people in the country have been pardoned from paying their rent during the occupation,” I protested.

“Not Palestinians. Your Iraqi friends gave you jobs. You have money to pay.”

Mama tried to explain that we did not have work. But I stopped her. I could see it was no use. This was not about rent.

Police barged into our apartment the next day. The landlord used his master key to open our door without knocking. I was on the phone, speaking with a lawyer about getting my brother out of jail. Mama was nervously smoking a cigarette and Sitti Wasfiyeh was praying the noon salat. I dropped the phone receiver and left it on the floor, afraid to bend down to pick it up. Mama was screaming.

“We still have two days to pay rent!” I reminded the landlord, confused why they were there.

The officer brushed his finger across my lips. “We don’t care about your rent. We are looking for traitors.”

“There’s no one here but us,” I said.

“Well, then. Maybe you’re the traitors.”

When I think of that day, what I remember most is Sitti Wasfiyeh’s face. She looked up from her prayer mat at the stampede of soldiers and police searching our apartment, overturning furniture, spilling drawers, gutting cushions, and breaking things. My grandmother’s face was ashen, her mouth open, though no words came out. I rushed to her, worried she was having a heart attack, and when she felt my arms around her, she began to sob. My mother yelled, “We are not collaborators. You’re making a mistake. We’ve been in this country for twenty-five years. We love Kuwait.”