Fahoud

As we boarded the plane, we were not met with the typical beaming but uninhabited smile. Instead, a Filipino air-stewardess struggled to conceal her discomfort as a male colleague held an early-teenage boy by the shoulders, straining to prevent him from racing off into the plane unescorted. The youngster, whose name was Fahoud, sported an uncomplicated, mischievous smile, and expressed his delight with the moment by making what would become a familiar sound, a wheezy, deep breathing that soon glided into what resembled Arabic words. It was immediately evident that Fahoud suffered from some form of developmental disability. He was soon chased down by a band of identically dressed women, whose traditional Saudi attire meant that the only means of distinguishing between them was by their voices. An older lady, presumably Fahoud's mother, gutturally barked orders at the young man, imploring him to cease his capers and return to his seat. The ladies, however, were powerless against Fahoud’s pubescent frame, and it was left to the air-steward to kindly but forcefully return Fahoud to his seat. Initially, Fahoud was winged by two females, most likely his mother and older sister, but when he responded to an attempt to fasten his seatbelt with a volley of punches and frantic noises, his father appeared on the scene. Decked out in a neat thoub and conventional headwear, Abu Fahoud was a gigantic man, but rather than oozing a domineering and controlling aura, he seemed as gentle as a man in love. He smiled and laughed with his son, whilst firmly informing him that his antics would have to come to an end, and occasionally restraining Fahoud’s more animated outbursts. Fahoud would begin frantically kicking the back of the chair in front, which was inhabited by another female relative. He would simulate spitting as a demonstration of his discomfort, and, when nimble enough to avoid his father’s superior physical strength, he would reach over and bash his mother’s head. He also aimed blows at his father and his other female relatives. The women's responses combined a familiarity with such incidences with unfeigned love, and they glanced at each other with dancing eyes that revealed the merriment in these extraordinary circumstances. As the air-stewardesses prepared to serve drinks to the passengers, Abu Fahoud indicated that an orange juice should be brought to his son. I feared the worst. I envisaged flying cups and a carrot coloured rain falling upon the heads of those within range of Fahoud’s toss. But families usually know themselves best, and as he was informed that juice was on its way, a sense of calm descended upon Fahoud, seemingly motivated by the imminent treat. He held the plastic glass himself and drank the juice in one long swig, before glowing with satisfaction. His father took the glass, placed it on a folding table, and kissed Fahoud’s hand with a smile, as proud as any father in the world.