A New Life
Posted: Thu Sep 06, 2018 7:51 am
Harun Kemal, bag slung around his back, was in front of his home.
Harun Kemal lived in an unassuming two-bedroom apartment just a short distance away from downtown St. Paul. It was a nice place; decent neighbours, not too cramped or noisy, and the first floor occupied by a small, underrated Hmong restaurant which he had used as an excuse to try and claim he was an expert on Hmong cuisine in a cooking class his mom made him take a while back (he wasn't.) The internet connection worked, it was close to everything Harun needed, and the neighbours were neither noisy nor oversensitive.
Not luxurious, but a pretty nice place to live; worth a fair amount of money due primarily to its location.
Harun didn't care about any of that.
All that mattered right now? It had his bed, and his parents, the only immediate family he had in Minnesota. It was his home.
He didn't expect his parents to be home. They were probably at work; his family was getting by alright, but they were still a few weeks of no pay away from falling behind on the bills, and they couldn't afford a period of extended mourning. He also didn't expect his parents to be up to date on his survival status. Not because they didn't watch the show, but he wasn't sure how much media coverage or media awareness there was of the rescue; he wasn't even sure if the winner had been announced or the "show" had been able to go on. They didn't have the computer skills to look up their son's fate on the internet, either. For all they knew, he was dead.
"Can I help you?"
Harun twirled around behind him, to find a fairly old woman, carrying a newspaper in her hand and at least a foot shorter than him, looking at Harun with a mixture of anxiety and concern. His only response was a semi-surprised grunt, his attempts at coherency falling flat.
"It's just that well, you looked a bit lost and you look a bit sickly and "
Ah. You look a bit sickly.
Good to know that the elderly still hadn't forgotten their near-unanimous way of politely telling someone they looked like shit.
Which Harun did.
Despite having spent quite a few days back in civilisation now, he still looked like he'd spent the better part of the past week rolling about in the mud getting pissed and rejecting most personal hygiene measures. That wasn't true, but it was how he looked and felt. The untrimmed beard he now sported (well, it wasn't really much of a beard, but "beard" sounded better than "patchy, unshaven, facial hair that was the result of a few weeks of not shaving"), large scabs and scars on a few of his fingers, his rapid weight loss due to the stresses and culinary restrictions of the island, and the general aura of unease he gave off all had a role to play in contributing to that perception.
Having not registered how the old lady had finished her sentence, he paused before shaking his head, and replying "Erm nothing. Nothing. Just been away from home for a while. No need to bother yourself with it."
For about a minute more, the stereotypical routine of the old lady asking if he was sure he was alright, coming up with new reasons as to why he wouldn't be (didn't come within a mile of the real one, but then again, who would?), and Harun firmly responding every time that he was certain he was just fine played out. Finally, she got the hint, accepted he wasn't going to quit the white lies (she clearly knew something was up. She wasn't stupid), or just got fed up herself, and left, looking back at Harun every few seconds as she continued walking down the street.
He'd had a pretty easy time getting home. Stayed in the hospital for as long as possible, and deliberately stretched out his time getting home as much as possible. No major incidents, and while he received quite a bit of unwelcome attention, it wasn't as overwhelming as it must have been for some of the others. He wasn't being mobbed by crowds of rabid reporters or SOTF fans or supposed "empathisers" at every turn; just some of the turns. Thank God he hadn't made a higher profile while on the island, or else he'd probably be surrounded by a new semi-permanent entourage of fame-seeking leeches.
He scowled.
Harun hadn't appreciated even the little bit of attention he had received; it made him feel uncomfortable and at the same time brought his mind right back to the worst parts of his stay (the announcements. The violence. The bodies. Rashid). Even the passing glares from people who had only passing knowledge of SOTF, or just noticed that he looked "a bit sickly", were unwelcome.
"HARUN!"
He turned around. At the end of the street stood Ibrahim Kemal.
He hadn't been separated from his entire world for weeks. He hadn't been forced to fight for his life, or struggle to get something good to eat, or have his suffering put on display for the world to see. But even without going through those hardships, Ibrahim Kemal was clearly a man who'd suffered a lot. Like his son, he'd lost weight. Wasn't paying much attention to his hair or clothes. Looked crap. Grown a beard (and like his son, his beard was due to negligence and apathy rather than planning, and was a beard only in the loosest definition of the word.)
"DAD!"
Harun had never been more pleased to see his father in his life.
.
Ibrahim had never been more pleased to see his son in his life.
Chronologically speaking, Harun's time away had been just a blip. But in reality, and Ibrahim knew this was a cliché, it had felt like a lifetime. It had been a time of no sleep, hours spent praying in the local mosque that only his wife regularly attended, frantic calls to government agencies demanding answers and to relatives and family friends spreading the bad news, hours spent trying in vain to watch the latest SOTF feed without vomiting or bursting into tears.
He'd given up.
He'd heard rumours about the rescue. Rumours he hadn't bothered to verify.
Rumours he hadn't even tried to believe.
And so to see his son standing in front of him, to see him still breathing and thinking, to see him not mutilated or under arrest or whatever that was a relief beyond any other. The thought of losing your only son in a terrorist attack, that burden was taken off his shoulders. In just a few seconds, Ibrahim felt the bulk of the depression and stress he'd felt lately, even that not related to the kidnapping of Harun's class, disappear.
And as he ran up to his son and hugged him, tears of joy and relief in his eyes, he felt happy.
.
Even following the return of Harun's mother from work, and another tearful reunion, not much happened. They had the obligatory conversations about how happy they were Harun had returned and if he was alright and how much therapy he'd need (his parents didn't use the word therapy; they had become pretty good at using English euphemisms. "Help" and "support" were the words they mainly used), but his first day back home from an "experience" on SOTF wasn't anywhere near as busy or exciting or joyful as he thought it would have been in the past.
After dinner (a pizza; Harun's favourite thing that his mom could make on short notice without buying more food) and a walk around town (staying way clear of Bayview or the streets any of his friends had lived on), he had retreated to his room. It was just as messy as he'd left it, if not more so; the normal tidy-up it received from his parents when he was away from the house appeared to have been cancelled. Unlike normal, Harun did not spend the night on his computer, browsing the web and playing games until eight in the morning when he'd fall asleep by accident and mess up his sleeping pattern even more. He did not spend the night catching up with friends or the news, or thinking about planning to consider doing something productive at one point if future events permitted it.
He just lay in bed.
Tired.
Sick.
Depressed.
And then asleep.
Harun Kemal lived in an unassuming two-bedroom apartment just a short distance away from downtown St. Paul. It was a nice place; decent neighbours, not too cramped or noisy, and the first floor occupied by a small, underrated Hmong restaurant which he had used as an excuse to try and claim he was an expert on Hmong cuisine in a cooking class his mom made him take a while back (he wasn't.) The internet connection worked, it was close to everything Harun needed, and the neighbours were neither noisy nor oversensitive.
Not luxurious, but a pretty nice place to live; worth a fair amount of money due primarily to its location.
Harun didn't care about any of that.
All that mattered right now? It had his bed, and his parents, the only immediate family he had in Minnesota. It was his home.
He didn't expect his parents to be home. They were probably at work; his family was getting by alright, but they were still a few weeks of no pay away from falling behind on the bills, and they couldn't afford a period of extended mourning. He also didn't expect his parents to be up to date on his survival status. Not because they didn't watch the show, but he wasn't sure how much media coverage or media awareness there was of the rescue; he wasn't even sure if the winner had been announced or the "show" had been able to go on. They didn't have the computer skills to look up their son's fate on the internet, either. For all they knew, he was dead.
"Can I help you?"
Harun twirled around behind him, to find a fairly old woman, carrying a newspaper in her hand and at least a foot shorter than him, looking at Harun with a mixture of anxiety and concern. His only response was a semi-surprised grunt, his attempts at coherency falling flat.
"It's just that well, you looked a bit lost and you look a bit sickly and "
Ah. You look a bit sickly.
Good to know that the elderly still hadn't forgotten their near-unanimous way of politely telling someone they looked like shit.
Which Harun did.
Despite having spent quite a few days back in civilisation now, he still looked like he'd spent the better part of the past week rolling about in the mud getting pissed and rejecting most personal hygiene measures. That wasn't true, but it was how he looked and felt. The untrimmed beard he now sported (well, it wasn't really much of a beard, but "beard" sounded better than "patchy, unshaven, facial hair that was the result of a few weeks of not shaving"), large scabs and scars on a few of his fingers, his rapid weight loss due to the stresses and culinary restrictions of the island, and the general aura of unease he gave off all had a role to play in contributing to that perception.
Having not registered how the old lady had finished her sentence, he paused before shaking his head, and replying "Erm nothing. Nothing. Just been away from home for a while. No need to bother yourself with it."
For about a minute more, the stereotypical routine of the old lady asking if he was sure he was alright, coming up with new reasons as to why he wouldn't be (didn't come within a mile of the real one, but then again, who would?), and Harun firmly responding every time that he was certain he was just fine played out. Finally, she got the hint, accepted he wasn't going to quit the white lies (she clearly knew something was up. She wasn't stupid), or just got fed up herself, and left, looking back at Harun every few seconds as she continued walking down the street.
He'd had a pretty easy time getting home. Stayed in the hospital for as long as possible, and deliberately stretched out his time getting home as much as possible. No major incidents, and while he received quite a bit of unwelcome attention, it wasn't as overwhelming as it must have been for some of the others. He wasn't being mobbed by crowds of rabid reporters or SOTF fans or supposed "empathisers" at every turn; just some of the turns. Thank God he hadn't made a higher profile while on the island, or else he'd probably be surrounded by a new semi-permanent entourage of fame-seeking leeches.
He scowled.
Harun hadn't appreciated even the little bit of attention he had received; it made him feel uncomfortable and at the same time brought his mind right back to the worst parts of his stay (the announcements. The violence. The bodies. Rashid). Even the passing glares from people who had only passing knowledge of SOTF, or just noticed that he looked "a bit sickly", were unwelcome.
"HARUN!"
He turned around. At the end of the street stood Ibrahim Kemal.
He hadn't been separated from his entire world for weeks. He hadn't been forced to fight for his life, or struggle to get something good to eat, or have his suffering put on display for the world to see. But even without going through those hardships, Ibrahim Kemal was clearly a man who'd suffered a lot. Like his son, he'd lost weight. Wasn't paying much attention to his hair or clothes. Looked crap. Grown a beard (and like his son, his beard was due to negligence and apathy rather than planning, and was a beard only in the loosest definition of the word.)
"DAD!"
Harun had never been more pleased to see his father in his life.
.
Ibrahim had never been more pleased to see his son in his life.
Chronologically speaking, Harun's time away had been just a blip. But in reality, and Ibrahim knew this was a cliché, it had felt like a lifetime. It had been a time of no sleep, hours spent praying in the local mosque that only his wife regularly attended, frantic calls to government agencies demanding answers and to relatives and family friends spreading the bad news, hours spent trying in vain to watch the latest SOTF feed without vomiting or bursting into tears.
He'd given up.
He'd heard rumours about the rescue. Rumours he hadn't bothered to verify.
Rumours he hadn't even tried to believe.
And so to see his son standing in front of him, to see him still breathing and thinking, to see him not mutilated or under arrest or whatever that was a relief beyond any other. The thought of losing your only son in a terrorist attack, that burden was taken off his shoulders. In just a few seconds, Ibrahim felt the bulk of the depression and stress he'd felt lately, even that not related to the kidnapping of Harun's class, disappear.
And as he ran up to his son and hugged him, tears of joy and relief in his eyes, he felt happy.
.
Even following the return of Harun's mother from work, and another tearful reunion, not much happened. They had the obligatory conversations about how happy they were Harun had returned and if he was alright and how much therapy he'd need (his parents didn't use the word therapy; they had become pretty good at using English euphemisms. "Help" and "support" were the words they mainly used), but his first day back home from an "experience" on SOTF wasn't anywhere near as busy or exciting or joyful as he thought it would have been in the past.
After dinner (a pizza; Harun's favourite thing that his mom could make on short notice without buying more food) and a walk around town (staying way clear of Bayview or the streets any of his friends had lived on), he had retreated to his room. It was just as messy as he'd left it, if not more so; the normal tidy-up it received from his parents when he was away from the house appeared to have been cancelled. Unlike normal, Harun did not spend the night on his computer, browsing the web and playing games until eight in the morning when he'd fall asleep by accident and mess up his sleeping pattern even more. He did not spend the night catching up with friends or the news, or thinking about planning to consider doing something productive at one point if future events permitted it.
He just lay in bed.
Tired.
Sick.
Depressed.
And then asleep.