To My Father From the Year 2014

“Our love is like the wind. I can’t see it but I can feel it.”

أسامة أنور البورنو
أسامة أنور البورنو

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It has been around 19 years. Tomorrow they become 19 years since you died (or I’d prefer estash’had). It’s funny. It’s like the age of someone. As if someone turned 19. Here’s the thing: everything about you is fragmented. All I know is fragments of fragments of fragments. Yeah that’s about it. I am 20 years old. See why I said it’s like someone’s age? Around my age. I am one year older than your martyrdom.

I was thinking today about how I can hold on to to someone I don’t remember. Heck, I have never heard, seen, met, hugged and all the cool stuff fathers and daughters do. I didn’t know the answer until few minutes ago then I decided to write this blog post. But I’ll get to that later.

I used to say, “I have never dreamed of him.” However, that changed very recently. I have had at least three  to four dreams about him. You think it is little; I think it is A LOT. My dreaming season has been too dry for too long. Having dreams about him almost never happened. I never understood why. But I always believed. I am not sure what it was that I believed in but I used to tell myself, “You’ll dream about him when you are ready.” Ready for what I was not sure. Now I understand.

It is not that I was giving up on him or his memories (that never really happened) but something inside of me started fading. I got busy. I had more things to think about. More things to call for, dream of, want *Shame on me*. It was time for me to have dreams about him (the man I have never met, the man I have never known). I was sired to him, am still sired. Blood? It’s more than that. My last dream about him was great. It was really great. But the funny thing is that in the dream he was dead. I know right? Even when I dream about him he’s dead_going back to another dream, I went back in time and saw him but he was dead. The two more dream, I can barely remember or recognize.

Why am I writing this? Because here’s the thing: if I don’t hold on to my own father’s memory, no one will. And my father, as so many people who knew him told me, was a great man (it feels awful to use was but that’s life, right?) Great men must not be forgotten. Yes I don’t have stories about him to tell my children or grand-children, or my friends or mates, but I have something better than stories and memories, “He’s a shaheed (martyr),” I say whenever anyone asks me. To be honest, it’s the only thing that keeps me standing.

I can’t forget the person who helped bringing me to life. I can’t forget the man who raised me, for a year but the idea is that he raised me. I can’t forget my dad. I won’t forget my dad.

How can I hold on to someone I have never known?

I can’t. So I hold on to everything else that reminds me of him: my religion, my family, me.

May his soul rest in peace. May I can finally meet him. May I get my own stories and memories with him. Amen. Amen.

4\3\1995

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