I think of my dad all the time
2024/06/18
I think of my dad all the time.
When I scroll down my feed and see the news of the war, I think of my dad, all the time.
I think of how his house must’ve shook, how the paint must’ve chipped, how he, as a little boy, would play outside and collect shards of shells.
Shells are explosive projectiles that are often filled with incendiary chemicals.
I know my dad as the jolly middle-aged man who barbecues in our suburban yard, my dad scrolling YouTube on his monitor for spaceship videos, my dad cleaning the kitchen, my dad taking jiu jitsu classes.
My dad is Lebanese. My dad was born in 1969, with the most Lebanese name, the most Lebanese nose, and the most Lebanese unsolicited advice.
Papa on the lap of his papa (left), with his mom and sister.
Teenage papa!
My dad knows wara anab, my dad knows snipers, my dad knows Wii Just Dance 3, my dad knows air raids, my dad knows Les Cowboys Fringants, my dad knows.
As a child, my dad would tell me stories from the war - stories of mischief during his boy scout days, stories of listening to the radio, stories of Lebanese cedar trees.
He didn’t tell me stories of debris, stories of amputees, stories of rations. Yet I know he doesn’t like being around fireworks, the bassy detonations and fiery lights in the sky are too familiar to sounds of murder.
He didn’t tell me stories of how many friends he lost, he didn’t tell me stories of hearing his mother cry at night, he didn’t tell me stories of alarms and dust.
But I think of my dad all the time.
Papa had a dog. From what I remember, her name was Laika, and she must’ve been a German shepherd, or some other kind of big, bright dog. Some soldiers took her away, in the backyard. She was barking. I don’t remember the story clearly, but she couldn’t win against rifles. Papa was a little boy.
I see videos of Palestinian children playing in broken buildings, houses that are no longer homes, and I think of Papa. I see Palestinian young men vlogging their day-to-day lives in a warzone, and I think of Papa and his friends - Rony, Youssef, Ziad, etc.
Papa (right) and Rony (left)
I see Palestinian fathers holding their sons, and I think of my grandfather and Papa. I think of Jeddo (grandpa) holding Papa, in a sepia-tinted 70s.
And I think of how I couldn’t say goodbye to Jeddo. My grandfather died peacefully in his sleep of old age a few weeks ago, but I think of how Israel was too busy bombing Lebanon, on top of already terrorizing Palestine, so I couldn’t come and say goodbye. I think of how my last words with Jeddo were over Facetime and how I knew that was our last.
I had a dream before Jeddo passed. He was laughing, Teta (grandma) was there, and we were sharing chocolate in the living room.
Papa and Jeddo
And I thought of Papa when Jeddo passed. I thought how cruel that war still echoed down south, left and right, even after so many years, even after all the children became refugees in Canada, and even after the children of the children knew only news flashes and journalism when it came to war.
I think of Papa’s grief. I think of the Middle East everyday, I think of the jar of hummus I found at the store that was produced in Israel, and how I thought, how could they, how dare they steal right before my eyes, in broad daylight, in an imported goods store right here across the world in Tokyo.
I think of the Levant everyday. I think of how, every year, without fault, when my brother and I ask Papa what he would like for his birthday or for Christmas, he says that he only wants peace on earth.
I think of Omar, a little boy who joined my sixth grade class as a Syrian refugee. I think of my aunt Coco making mouloukhieh for Easter. I think of my Japanese mother making mujaddara at every occasion she gets. I think of how long the Free Palestine Libre wall art has stood along Ave Parc. I think of how, of course, it was vandalized by Zionists, and I think of how Imane warned her sister to avoid the protests because she will be targeted as a hijabi by islamophobes.
I think of Papa who was sent alone, far from his siblings and cousins and neighbours, to a boarding school in Paris by his father, just so his eldest son could escape the war and get help from some family friends. I think of Papa, little Papa, mon Papa tout petit avec des oreilles décollées et un sourire timide, so excited to adapt in this brand new city, free for once.
Teenage Papa - we look so alike.
Free Palestine has roots so deep. The wars in the Middle East are nothing new. The way it is today is the way it was fifty, sixty, seventy years ago. It’s tireless massacres after massacres. Somehow it is normal for the Middle East to be hell on earth, when no place is more beautiful, rich, and devout. Somehow it is normal.
I visited Lebanon the first time when I was eight years old. My most cherished memories from that trip is making friends with Stephy and Nano from the apartment right below my grandparents - Stephy just graduated and lives in Paris with her brilliant younger sister Nano.
But I remember walking in the street, holding Papa’s hand, asking him about the mother begging for some water for her son, immobile on her lap, about my age. I remember her crying in Arabic, pleading to God and the passersby. She was sitting on the dirt, emaciated, petting the little boy on the head. He looked like he was dead, with a grimy face, crusted clothes, soft brown hair. I know he wasn’t dead, but he was dying. Papa told me that someone will help her and not to worry. I never brought this up again.
I understand now. Lucky are those who bounce back from war, fleeing to freedom, only for freedom to be just as vile. I also understand why Papa told me then that there were no “good guys” during the war, no “heroes”, just loss after loss, and so much resentment and anger.
Yet today, it is still the same. I don’t need to be Lebanese to care. I don’t think I even need to be human to care. All I have to do is look at my aunt Jojo who fled first, alone as a young woman, around my age. All I have to do is look at the Palestinians in camps and Syrian refugees making fool (bean dish) from meager cans, without any sumac, any fresh onions, tomatoes, mint, a dining table, a kitchen, a home, a place to be.
Papa with the good hair!
How selective it all is, posting news flash after news flash only when it’s too late, only when it’s too tragic, all for the traction after the damage has been done. We sit here, in all of our glorious, unanointed privilege, and we have the option to be “objective”, to hone in on our “research” and “media literacy”. Waving our tiny white flags with our pinky’s lifted, bickering in comment sections, like we are true Justice. As if our pure, educated, researched, objective, dove-holding-an-olive-branch “opinions” would make a difference in a war that’s an industry running on blood as wind for the mills. A war that’s built on handshakes and smiling for the flash, a war that’s built on decades of porcelain veneers chomping down browned, bruised napes. A war so we can drink from our water bottles and “consciously” consume, posting stupid fucking AI generated stories and pastel infographics. Yet we cash in and cash in mindlessly, effortlessly, with social media breaks in between to catch our breath.
Guilty. Fuck us.
If no babies' heads are cut off, the banks are closed, the tampons sell starting at double digits, the electricity is paid yet never on. And if your house has running hot water, you send your kids overseas because there’s no future home. Khalas. Some days I am so angry and I cannot stop crying because I am so upset at the martyrdom of the Levant, and everyday I am just so heartbroken, so devastated.
There will be a day when the Middle East will shed its colonizer’s beige and gray and trade them for lush green and turquoise waters. Where people will laugh in Arabic, where people will pick between zaatar and cheese manouche, where people will go on walks with their Jeddo and Teta, where people will sit on terraces with cardamom coffee and listen to the Adhan in the distance. Where people will be busy shouting voicemails in WhatsApp, where people of all religions will rebuild their once rich ecosystem of overlapping culture, where people can call their home home, and their land theirs. Nana will be minty and mazahar will be fragrant. Maybe then we could give Papa peace on earth for his birthday or for Christmas.
I love Papa. He is the best dad in the world. He taught me that I can do anything, and he taught me everything. He gave me his humor, his creativity, his curiosity, his nose, his eyes, and everything else. I love my dad, and I am so proud and lucky to have him as my dad.
I think of Papa all the time.
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UNRWA - United Nations Relief and Works Agency
