You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

AHMED

I realized much later. That the best thing that happened to me upon arriving at King Faisal University, in Dammam, Saudi Arabia, was that I was assigned Ahmed Al Roashid as my teaching assistant. Ahmed was around 20 years old. He was a quiet unassuming slender man of average stature. He had graduated from the same program the previous year. I was told by a colleague, who had him as a student, that he was a hard worker, and indeed I found him to be an extraordinarily reliable, thoughtful and helpful man.

I was assigned to teach basic design. It was a course in organizing perceptual concepts into graphic and spatial expressions. These classes were to be taught in English. Many of the students had not learned English sufficiently well to express their ideas well enough so that I could help them develop their concepts into a physical/spatial expression. It was Ahmed’s job to help me with communication in these cases. This kind of translation concerned more than mere language, it also included translation of foreign cultural concepts to me which were embedded in the student’s ideas. Consequently Ahmed and I worked closely. He would be next to me when I was assisting a student. He would translate the more subtle aspects of the student’s ideas, if there were any, and help the student to think more deeply when there weren’t.

Another part of Ahmed’s role was to look out for me. I don’t know that this was an official part of his job. Rather it was in the nature of his caring personality. One instance occurred on a morning when he and I arrived at the studio before class. After we had prepared for the day’s lesson he approached me with a serious look and asked. “What is the matter Professor Lundy? You seem distracted this morning.” I was not aware that the problem with my children’s school was weighing on me so heavily that it would be apparent to anyone else, but this perceptive young man had picked up some clues. I explained to him that money for my children’s school tuition had not been wired to my Saudi bank as promised. And that the American Academy had sent a letter home with my son stating that my children will not be permitted to continue in their classes unless I had paid their tuition by the following Monday. “How much do you need?” Ahmed asked. “Two thousand one hundred dollars,” I replied. “No problem,” Ahmed said as he reached under his thobe to retrieve cash from his money belt. He counted out the equivalent of $2,100 in Saudi Rials onto the table in front of us. He slid the stack of bills over to me saying “You may return this when you receive your money.” I was amazed that he would be walking around with that kind of cash. I took a pen and paper and began writing an IOU. He stopped me asking “What are you doing?” I said I’m writing you an I owe you. He put his hand on the money, as if to take it back, and said “If I can’t trust your word, why would I trust a piece of paper?” I was surprised by his firmness and the clarity of his statement. “You are right,” I replied, crumpling the paper. “You have my word. I will return your money as soon as I have the funds.”

The tuition money had been sent to a bank on the opposite side of the Kingdom. I did not locate it for six months. However, I returned Ahmed’s money a couple of weeks later after going to the finance department window for the cash payment of my monthly salary.