The Blood of Lambs: A Former Terrorist's Memoir of Death and Redemption by Kamal Saleem Read Free Book Online Page B

and fall, I worked until sunset, answering the big, black dial phone in my uncle’s office. I was working six days for about twenty Lebanese lira—about three dollars. When someone called, I took notes. But many times, he could not read my handwriting and he could not figure out who called. At that, he would fly into a rage and punch and kick me right in my guts.
    “What good are you?” he yelled. “I am stuck with you as a favor to your mother, and you are good for nothing!”
    We could not afford for me to take the serviz , a cross between a shuttle and a taxi, so I had to walk there, leaving very early each morning. If I went the long way, I had to get up before sunrise to make it on time. IfI went the short way, through certain neighborhoods, the bad kids waited.
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    These were older boys, some teenagers, who did not go to school and hung about on the street corners looking for trouble. They cussed and spit and waited for someone they could harass to come along. I had heard some of them carried big knives, sharp and deadly knives that opened with seven clicks. One stab would put you to sleep.
    “What did you bring us today, ya ibn al-sharmouta? ” they would taunt, calling me a son of a female dog. I tried to alter my times—to get up before sunrise and still take the shortcut, running to avoid the bullies. Then I would fall asleep at work, and my uncle would beat me.
    I remember the day I found my saviors. Summer and fall had passed, and the winter streets were cold and wet from the rain that sweeps from the sea up the mountainsides, only to dapple back down on the city. That morning, I got up very early to make the trip to my uncle’s building. Since the day was cold, I decided on the shortest route. I reasoned that I might escape the gangs by the grace of Allah, but if I was late, a beating from my uncle was certain.
    Dressed in a white shirt, hand-me-down black pants, and a black vest I had bought at a secondhand store, I set out that morning with lunch in a paper sack and my father’s good umbrella. He did not usually let me use it, but with the wretched weather, I suspected he judged it better to risk losing it than forfeit my pay. My journey began pleasantly in the misty streets of my own neighborhood. The streets were freshly watered, the air crisp and cold. I headed up Verdan Street past the main police barracks, nodding at shopkeepers as they raised their roll-up metal doors with long hooks and whisked the sidewalks with homemade brooms.
    I walked with my head down, zigging and zagging between the rainpuddles. This was my quiet time, my safe time, the only time I was able to relax. I used it to try to keep the water from soaking through the lira -sized holes my brothers had worn in the soles of my shoes before passing them down to me.
    Soon, though, I passed out of my safe zone onto a wide street, four lanes, two leading in each direction. The buildings were a mix of old and new, mostly houses and apartments with a couple of businesses: Bata, a shoe store, and Coiffure, a fancy hair salon. Also there was a corner bakery that sold a few groceries and was famous for its lamajoun , an Armenian meat dish served on thin, pizza-like dough.
    That was the trouble: The Armenians. They were Christians, and almost every time I walked through there, a nasty little band of teenagers stole everything I had. On Monday, they would steal my lunch; Tuesday, the kroosh in my pocket; Wednesday, my shoes. Which is why I was now wearing shoes that had belonged to two brothers before me. If I didn’t take a lunch, so that they could plainly see I had nothing for them to steal, they would make a circle around me and push me back and forth between them, screaming, “What’s the matter, little son of a whore? Doesn’t your whore mother love you enough to make you a lunch? Or did you eat it already? Steal it from our mouths?”
    Once, a tall, skinny teenager slashed the palm of my hand with a seven-click knife. I