Khaloud Al-Buainain

Why Is He Not Here?

Why Is He Not Here? Here, where is “here”? Is “here” an alternate reality in the simulation
that we have yet to discover? Or is “here” my 5x4 room on the second floor of the house?
Questions fill my head as I stare at the family portrait hung on our white wall that’s covered
with crayon drawings done by Ahmad, my brother. Questioning reality and existence is a
familiar concept to me, God’s existence has always been a mystery that forced me to spend
sleepless nights pondering, “where is He?” I questioned my beliefs.

2014. I relive the moment when I was 12 years old, coloring in my favorite animals adult
coloring book, changing colored pencils every three seconds to blend in the colors. Strokes
from the uneven pencil tips filled the creased paper; I was so focused on perfecting the
imperfect piece when I glanced to the left and saw my 4-year-old brother sitting between
two walls, whispering to himself repeatedly “it’s okay… it’s okay… it’s okay… it’s okay”.
I leaned my body to get a better view of what he was looking at, and there was his
Spiderman toy scattered around the Persian rug, broken into small bits and pieces. His
frustration over what had happened showed in his facial expression; he looked tense, as if
his world stopped at him, his innocence made me question the vandalizer of his property.
The unease that filled the corner he sat in was reflected in how distraught he looked; he was
threatened by what had happened.

He can’t have done it, right?

2016. He was 6 years old; we were in the car driving back from a family trip to Bahrain.
The car moved slowly through the deserts. Condensation from the humid weather fogged
up the windows on the backseat, the last border checkpoint before entering The State of
Qatar got closer every meter we moved. My mom, in the passenger seat, got our passports
ready to ease the interaction as my dad started slowing down the car. The window started
rolling down as we waited patiently for the border patrol officer to verify our identities and
approve our entry. The air filled with discomfort when the officer asked to see my brother.
My dad lifted my brother from the back seat and brought him to his lap where the officer
had a good view of him. We saw a head reach to touch my brother’s left cheek; without a
beat, he let out a rush of rage that was enough to scare the officer away. The tantrum he
threw was exaggerated given the small incident that had happened.

Why did he feel violated over the smallest touch?

Is the officer a villain to him now?

Is he even there?

2019. someone started knocking on the door, snapping me from my dilemma. The door
opened only for my mom to greet me by complaining my brother ignoring her, “I have been
calling him for hours and he is not answering,” she yelled, while anger fueled her. The
confusion that hit me impulsively pulled me out of the room quickly to check up on him.
“Ahmad .. Ahmad! … Ahmad!” I shouted to the void with no response. The pleasant sound
of piano notes filled the discreet hallway leading up to his room, the room he spends most
of the time in. The door opened, and my entrance seemed to not have bothered him, his
focus on perfecting his piano skills altered his reality so he did not notice my presence,

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 Khaloud Al-Buainain
right? I rushed to him to remove his headphones without skipping a beat. “Why are you
ignoring me?” I asked him in the sharpest tone.

The sudden change in his physical state baffled him, causing a sudden rush of mixed
emotions to run through him, making him drop to the floor and scream at the top of his
lungs for help. “What happened?” I questioned him while his body was on the cold floor,
and he hit his head repeatedly on the hard floor on the hard floor. His screaming kept
getting louder and louder, forcing everyone to rush in to check up on him. “Leave me
alone! I hate you! I hate you!” He exclaimed so boldly with complete ignorance towards my
emotions, tears covering his young red face.

Is that where he is?

He has always conveyed a pattern of behavior of disregarding people’s emotions, ignoring

when someone calls him, overreacting to the smallest things, and isolating himself away
from anyone and everyone (A. Al-Arjani, personal communication, January 26, 2021). This
behavior falls under the autism spectrum, but he’s not autistic, right? He has always seemed
to be disconnected from reality, drifting in his own world. Living in a bubble that none of
us could enter, a bubble that takes him away from us, a bubble where he is not “here”.

Years have passed since his diagnosis, and I am writing him messages that will never be
read. I am often caught pondering the day that our worlds will collide, a day that he will
finally acknowledge me and answer if I have ever made it “there” with him. reluctantly
hoping to see what his eyes see of me, his mother, God, strangers, his friends; I believe the
universe will one day unite us, and his “here” will at last be here.