I made it home. But it wasn’t home. The apartment where I had lived most of my life was alien now. We had not been able to put it back together since the police turned it upside down. Mama had been busy caring for Sitti Wasfiyeh, who was taken to the hospital because her “head was exploding,” as she said. Her blood pressure was dangerously high. She would have had a stroke if Mama hadn’t gotten her to a doctor in time. But I had the money from my account, and it helped Mama and Sitti Wasfiyeh sleep that night, secure in knowing we would not be thrown out of our apartment, our possessions dumped in the street.

Emptying my bank account gave us enough to pay the landlord, the lawyer, and bribes to whomever the lawyer suggested. “They know he wasn’t in the country,” the lawyer said. “But there’s no rule of law right now. We just have to convince them to let him go.”

I wondered how much money Abu Moathe had in his account, and I began to panic thinking what might happen if he realized his card was gone. He could inform the authorities that I’d taken it. But I recalled how careless and disorganized he was. He probably didn’t remember the card was on his desk and would blame his secretary for misplacing it.

The next day and for the following two weeks, Um Buraq and I drove all around the country with Abu Moathe’s bank card, in search of available ATMs, where we began withdrawing as much as we could from each location, every day.

Our lawyer enlisted the help of an international human rights organization, which was successful in getting Jehad transferred to a hospital. The combination of pressure from the media, bribes, and legal channels finally persuaded the authorities to release him.

Mama and I got to work cleaning and putting the apartment back together in anticipation of Jehad’s return. We glued and nailed broken drawers and cabinets as best we could, refolded clothes, stacked belongings on shelves, and filled four bags of trash. We cleaned the windows, wiped the furniture, scrubbed the bathroom and kitchen, swept, mopped, beat and aired out the rugs, washed bedding, and did laundry. Sitti Wasfiyeh wanted to help. We put all our knickknacks and cutlery in front of her to wipe and shine. She had the most comfortable mattress and swore by God that her grandson must sleep on it until he was healed. “You’re welcome to take my bed,” I offered.

“I’m not sleeping with you cows,” she said, waving me off. “Arrange me a bed on the floor next to my grandson.”

Mama and I looked at each other. “No. That will not work. Your snoring will keep him up,” I said.