Arrest This One

It started out like any other day, with the lines of hungry people stretching into the horizon as they waited for their rations. The wind swept up tufts of sand and burnt grass, and rippled the canopy shading myself, Joseph, Potiphar, and an assistant. I stood beside Joseph, taken in by the fascinating amalgam of hidden personalities in the queues, only hinted at in their mannerisms, clothing, and jewellery. Children clung to parents' hands, sucking their free thumbs or clutching a beloved toy to their hearts. Conversations swirled around the adults, their hands animated or staying by their sides. It was amazing how strong the civilians really were at heart—so many could have chosen to fall into depression or crime with the loss of crops and the famine, and yet thousands of human souls battled on.

Now a tall, young boy, perhaps no older than eight, stepped up, his hand holding that of a little girl's.

"Ah! A responsible young man!" Potiphar greeted him warmly, "How many in your family?"

The boy grinned, "Four, my Lord."

Potiphar signalled to the volunteer, who bent down to collect the needed amount from a sack of grain. The boy cheerfully accepted the bag of grain, not seeing me pick up another small sack full of food. Once the assistant had finished filling the sack with grain, the two children then approached us.

"Hello there," Joseph said, "what's your name?"

The boy told his name and introduced his sister. Joseph brandished the small sack of grain that I'd passed to him.

"Are you looking for some grain too?" he asked the little girl, who gasped and hid behind her brother. But an eye and the sweetest of grins I've ever seen still peeked out. In no time, her tiny hand reached out and grabbed the sack from Joseph's hand. Charmed by the little girl, we couldn't help but laugh gently.

"Thank you!" called the little boy as he led her away by the hand.

Waving to us, the girl accidentally dropped her toy, falling out of her reach. Tugging on her brother's hand, she reached out for the toy. But as her hand reached for it, a larger, darker hand, belonging to that of a man, grabbed it. The child looked like she would cry, but then the man leaned forward and gave the toy back to her, smiling.

"Here you go," he said.

"Who's next?" Potiphar asked.

The man turned back to address the man, "We are, my Lord."

Potiphar frowned at them, "You are not Egyptian."

The foreigner agreed, "No, my brothers and I have travelled far from Canaan. We have come for more supplies, for we are low in food, and our wives and children are hungry."

I realised then that Joseph had left my side—where had he gone? Distracted from the foreigners, I looked around the corner to see if perhaps he had gone to fetch another sack of grain. Instead, to my alarm, he was leaning over a table, his hat gripped in one hand. His head was bent low, and I could tell he was shaking.

"Joseph!" I cried, going to him and laying my hands on his arms. "What's wrong?"

He stood up, turning to face me—I had never seen him look so pale, as though with some awful sickness. I touched his cheekbones with my fingertips, noting at the same time how terribly his hands shook. He was not looking well.

"You're shaking," I said, worried, "what is it?"

He straightened himself up, hat still in his hands.

"It's…it's nothing," he insisted, replacing the hat on his head, "It…must be the sun. I'll be fine."

It wasn't terribly hot, for the sun had begun to cool as it slid toward the West. Nevertheless, I let him go. Back at the table, Potiphar still argued with the foreigners.

"…we don't ask for charity," the same foreigner insisted, reaching a hand into his belt and pulling out a small bundle tied with string, "we'll pay you with silver. Ten of us are here, and we have our father and youngest brother at home."

Potiphar relaxed. "Very well. Give them—"

"Nothing!" Joseph shouted, striding forward with clenched fists, his arm muscles taut with anger.

What's going on? Why this anger?

"Ten foreigners—no ties to Egypt—asking for charity and food!" I had never heard him sound so angry; it took me aback, "Are you thieves, or spies, hoping to steal our grain stores? I don't know who you are, and I don't believe your story."

I stared at Joseph, at a loss for words. This was so unlike the understanding, compassionate man I knew. He had never done this before with other foreigners, so why these men? Surely, he must know they were only trying to feed themselves and their families. No different to any other family, here or outside of Egypt, who all felt the effects of the famine.

Did he know them from somewhere?

At once, the men started bowing down, their leader—I assumed he was—all conciliatory toward Joseph.

"Your Excellency, all we say is true!" he pleaded, "I swear upon it!"

Joseph's face twisted in suspicion and disbelief, "Then produce this youngest brother, and you can have all the grain you want."

"Why?" asked another man, "What would that prove?"

Joseph waved his hand at them, "That…that you're not lying. Come back with this younger brother and you can have all the grain you want. For now…" he jabbed a finger at the leader, "arrest this one! Take him, now!"

I gasped in horror.

Joseph would never do this! What is he doing? Why?

Two wigged guards grabbed the leader by the arms and dragged him away.

"Judah!" he cried, "Help me!"

The other men moved to help, but two guards lunged forward, crossing their spears, holding back the group of Canaanites. They stared after their leader. One of the men touched whom I assumed was Judah's shoulder. Their faces fell into disappointed dismay, knowing they were unable to rescue their peer.

It didn't matter what inexplicable anger my husband felt to them, now I found myself very much sorry for these men. They seemed to me quite honest enough in their intentions and words—coming all this way to Egypt from Canaan, only for their brother to be held hostage until they brought their brother back with them.

Hostage, I thought bitterly, That's what it is. Taking their brother hostage until they return with their youngest brother.

Watching the men walking away, defeated and unable to help their brother, a surge of sympathy touched my heart. What Joseph was doing was wrong, wrong, wrong. I thought him a good judge of character, but not today. Today, he arrested a man, for nothing more than asking for rations. They had travelled from the distant land of Canaan for and were now returning empty-handed.

They can't help their brother, arrested for simply wanting to feed their families. Tonight, their children will cry for food. This man's wife and children will ask where he is. Who will tell them he has been arrested in Egypt for nothing more than wanting to feed his beloved family?

Later that evening, when the last of those seeking rations had gone home, I found Joseph at the rocky outcroppings above the royal prison cells. Hidden in the sand behind the rocks, there was a square hole with wooden framing, into which anyone could peer down into the prison. A long time ago, I had lowered food into this very window into the cell, when my beloved was imprisoned. At nights, I had sneaked out just to be with him—even if it was just to sit with him in silence.

Enough reminiscing, I scolded myself, time to confront your husband.

I walked up to my love, ready to make him tell me his reasons for arresting this man.

"Joseph?" I addressed him, not hiding my indignation, "What are you doing? They're trying to feed their families!"

Joseph turned to me, exhaustion in his very frame, "They're thieves, trying to steal our grain."

"They needed food," I argued, "and they were prepared to pay for it! How can you say they're thieves? They've done nothing to you!"

Joseph looked at me, bitterness in his eyes, and something even deeper, hidden deep in his soul.

"Nothing?" he echoed, words thick with bitterness, as he heaved a great sigh. "They're my brothers."

What? Shouldn't he then be happy?

"What?" I asked, confused.

Then—in that moment between Joseph's next words and mine, I realised: he had never spoken of his brothers. He had spoken of his mother and father, but never his brothers. In the ten plus years I had loved him, I had never thought to wonder why, or ask him why he never talked of them.

"They sold me," Joseph revealed, his eyes gazing into mine, "they sold me…into slavery." He walked away, back turned to me, "I never got to say goodbye to my mother," he turned again so his grieved eyes searched mine, "I never got to see my father grow old."

Oh gods, how much I wanted to embrace him and never let him go! To be sold into slavery by your own brothers! I reached out for him, touching his face tenderly with a hand.

"I never knew," I murmured, "But you're here now. You have a wife who loves you, children, a home, everything you could ask for."

He shook his head, parting from my embrace, strolling to the hole into the cell. "No, not everything."

He still has a family! He has me, he has his sons! Egypt is his home.

I joined his side, reaching out my hand to intertwine my fingers with his, feeling his soft palm against mine. Our wrists touched; I felt a quick pulse beating in his. We watched without speaking as a guard shoved a package of food into the brother's chest and stalked back out again. The door clanged as the guard slammed it. I rubbed my thumb along Joseph's.

"Remember when I would bring you food too?" I asked him gently.

"Yes," he whispered, "it kept me going."

Letting go of my hand, he pulled me to him and embraced me tenderly. I wound my arms around his waist, leaning my head against his warm shoulder. Even despite his anger against his brothers, I could feel protection and tender love in his warmth. I didn't want to let him go, wanting to hold him forever. My husband needed me in this moment of turmoil.

Then—the brother's voice shouted up to us, though I could not see him, for I faced away from the prison hole.

"Hey!" the man shouted, "You won't keep me here! My brothers will come for me!"

Joseph's arms tensed against mine, before abruptly pulling out of my embrace and stalking off, leaving me alone with the brother imprisoned far, far below. I stood for seconds, my hand reaching to my husband as he stalked off.

I want to help you, my love, I called in my heart, Help me to help you, Joseph. Help me understand all this anger, please, my Joseph…

My hand dropped to my side, heart sinking. I didn't want to tell Joseph, but I had heard something in their voices today, something I could not put my finger on. I could see something in their faces, their eyes, and the way their leader spoke. I saw honesty, but something haunted at the same time, in their eyes.

Help me to help you, Joseph…they may have changed for the better. They may feel regret, and yet you believe not.

I stared back into the cell, but I could not see the prisoner; perhaps he had moved off to a hidden corner to enjoy his stale bread and three-days-old pomegranate.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, knowing he wouldn't hear me, "I'm sorry for you and your family. I don't want this any more than you do…and…I'm sure Joseph doesn't either."

Somehow, Joseph would see their honesty that he did not see today, but I had. No thief would ever offer silver in return for grain, and no brother would allow their kin to be arrested.

Help me to help you…