I grew up in Beirut, Lebanon, one of five children in a household of many wants and demands. My physical needs were met but my heart was hungry for love. One day I met my prince, a jewel amongst them all. We were wed in love and magic under a blanket of stars, with dozens of family and friends wishing us a good Life.
It was during the honeymoon that my prince was diagnosed with cancer. I was pregnant. He died soon after.
I gave birth to a healthy boy and gave him his father’s name. I kept to myself for years and decades. I nurtured my child on my own and vowed never to marry again. I always remembered the father with honour and respect.
We were a happy family of two; mother and child. We were contented in our home together. I went to work. He went to school. We did not have much to live on but we managed. We felt secured in our home for the love between us was our bond.
Then one night, we were startled by the sound of an explosion. Dust was every where. He woke up crying; we spent the night in the shelters. The next night there was another explosion and a third. Night after night we were seeking refuge somewhere. Dust filled the air and gunpowder smoke filled our lungs.
It was time to leave. We never looked back; we did not go back. We did not live happily ever after for there was a block in our throats. We were refugees and were never safe again. We lived thousands of miles apart and we were both away from our home. When we met, we found delight in spite of our bleeding scars.
I worked in different countries to help the oppressed. I went wherever there was a need for human rights. There were many struggles for us both, until my son became an adult and started building his own life. I visited him whenever I could. And when I was in poor health, he nursed me with tenderness and care.
Haas, my son looked like his father. He was handsome, fit and with lots of gifts to give. He cherished life and his soul was satisfied. I often looked with wonder at my son and thanked the Divine for the rewards bestowed after all the suffering and the pain.
Haas became a writer and resided in tranquillity in a cabin in the mountain Rockies, Boulder, USA. He wrote sad stories never told and wrote poems that cried with concern for all. He wrote about the devastating war, about the hate and anger that divides people and keeps families apart. He wanted to tell the world that war was just like dust. Nothing comes out of it except loss of lives and twisted minds.
He wrote and wrote until one day he could write no more. He put all his writings in his only suitcase and headed directly to the airport. After 25 years he was going home, to Beirut. He did just that, he took a one way ticket to join his fathers’ roots. I was too frail to make the trip with him. I blessed him and bid him farewell.
In his childhood home, where his father died and he was born, he found his love and lots of joy. For no reason at all, one afternoon, he bent his head on the sofa, ‘he was a little tired’ he said.
A telephone call came for me echoing a hollow sound and I heard:
‘C o m e i d e n t i f y t h e b o d y’.
Haas was buried with his father’s bones.