A leap year is not just an extra day added to the end of February every four years. Now, it also means there is an extra person in the world of absence—my father, who joined my mother there exactly one month ago today.
Dad's birthday comes every four years. This 29th of February was his 60th birthday. We were planning on making it a remarkable day with a joyful party in honor of his retirement. But our happy plans were for naught. Just two days before his birthday, Dad suffered a massive heart attack, and he turned 60 in a hospital bed. By the following Friday, he was dead.
Sixty may seem old, but it’s a short life for his many achievements. His father, my grandpa, died at an early age—forcing my father, Hamed, and his brothers to work and study at the same time. Dad worked in construction while he completed secondary school. He also worked as a farmer, orange picker, tailor and bodybuilding coach for eight years in our refugee camp, Jabalya.
In 1987, when the flames of the First Intifada swept across Palestine, Dad was arrested by the Israeli army and held for four months. It was during that time that Mum gave birth to my oldest sister, their first baby. After his release, Dad completed his education and worked for UNRWA as a security and safety officer in northern Gaza. Dad spent all three wars on Gaza (2008/9, 2012 and 2016), day and night, in the UN schools, which were used as shelters for thousands of homeless and displaced families. We stayed alone at home without Dad and Mum during all three wars on Gaza. (Mum died of breast cancer in 2003.)
But although Dad was busy a lot, he always gave advice to guide us through life, in language that made it easy to recall. Even though he is no longer with us, we will always remember his words and advice. Closing my eyes, I can still hear him say, “My children, your education matters most of all. I spent my life working to provide you with everything you need to complete your education. Be strong like an iron fist and stay focused. I’m proud my children are high achievers, and I would sell my body to make sure you are educated.”
I never thought that fathers really pass away. I'm 21 years old now and I really can't accept that both of my parents are gone; both died in a blink of the eye and now they seem like a dream! All I can do now is write a letter to you, hoping you will somehow read it:
Dear Dad,
Now, it is your turn for me to write a tribute for you; Mum already has one. How very much it hurts me to do so!
How can I say only a few words that will do justice to all of the years of love and strength you gave us?
We received the unexpected news of your death with great shock and deep sorrow in our hearts, and still find it difficult to believe you are no more.
When the cold hands of death snatched you from my hands, Papa, on the morning of March 4th, it was like the fall of an old olive tree. I found myself lost among a large crowd of people and a sea of voices, and I suddenly realized this scene was your funeral. I shouted the sounds of my grief, and it set a fire ablaze inside the hearts of all those near enough to feel the heat of my cries. At that very moment, with all of my strength, I shook your body. But you didn't move and your eyes stayed closed forever. I hugged your body, but I didn't feel your warm breath. I collapsed.
It has been 30 days since your passing. Thirty days and nights and hours and seconds of pain. My head is so full of fond memories of you that I do not know where to start. I can even still hear the sound of your voice as you sing the patriotic songs you loved.
Thirteen years have gone by since Mum died, but I am still hit with grief when I think of her. And now, with every milestone or good thing that happens to me, I will be upset that neither Mum nor Dad are here to share and enjoy it with me.
My parents, I know the struggle this time will be a long one. But your absence has taught me that it's never truly goodbye, only see you later – until next time.
Your loving daughter always,
Shrouq
Mentor: Pam Bailey
Posted April 3, 2016
