Fight Club

Some months ago, I had to come between my two younger brothers as they scuffled in the middle of the night. As I sat there, trying my best to be just and reasonable, I attempted to count the number of times I've had to pull my brothers apart when they were in the middle of one of their infamous brawls.

All those times I doubted myself and my negotiation skills were unwarranted. I've honed the ability to settle fights down to an art from having so many brothers.

See, I make them out in pairs: two from each generation. There's Omar and Amir, Waleed and Zen, Adnan and Pollock, and finally, Ayman and Othman. These pairs stick together; they rarely start fights with members of another pair.

My sister and I are different in our tactics. Worlds apart, in fact. She'd always believed in the power of touch, love, and sweet words. She settled conflicts with her soothing voice, singing us calm. I, on the other hand, am more street - uncultured, threatening, berating, scolding.

I wash them with detergent soap and my sister pours fabric conditioner over them. I iron them out aggressively, and she lovingly folds them or hangs them up in padded hangers.

We are the SWAT team. Teamed up, we make a formiddable pair. And I think it's very fortunate that she and I don't squabble.

I love my siblings. I remember a time when I couldn't imagine ever sharing them with other people. The first time one of them entered a serious relationship, I was devastated. Growing up, we laughed together, and fought together. It was almost like an exclusive club we belonged to, impenetrable, inaccessible to outsiders.

It's tough, realizing that we have to move in different directions now, go our own separate ways.