Look at the arrangement of fruit salad on my tormentor’s chest, above the left pocket of his uniform shirt, and you can read his whole biography. A faded paratrooper’s badge is the only thing that he had to leave his barracks to earn. The medals in the first row just came and pinned themselves to his chest. He got them because he was there. The Fortieth Independence Day medal. The Squadron Anniversary medal. Today-I-did-not-[expletive] medal. Then the second row, fruits of his own hard labour and leadership. One for organising a squash tournament, another for the great battle that was tree-plantation week. The leader with his mouth to my ear and my mother on his mind has had a freebie to Mecca and is wearing a haj medal, too.
As Obaid used to say, “God’s glory. God’s glory. For every monkey there is a houri.”