The commited journalist
The loving husband
The caring father
The faithful believer
The Human . . . My Father
Here is a beautiful memory blossoms ‘in place’.
If my father was still alive, he would be 83 today. But he is not. Neither his tomb. Nor the places where we used to live together. Nor the places where we used to hang out together. Not the market, not the barber shop, not the park, not the restaurant, not the trees, nor their shadows. That is true. When people die we lose access to them, but we still can visit places we shared with them, or touch things they had once touched. The sensations arrousing from such contacts confirm to us that what we had lived in the past was real. It was not imaginative. In fact, those materilistic artifacts gives a sense of the past itself. When we lose access to them, we lose access to our sense of time and accordingly to our sense of existence. But fortunately, there is always something helpful and healing: Memory. With memories we get a better sense of who we are. There will be many posts on this project about memory.
For the time being, i am sending this first message out, to my father who taught me to love and care and admit and remain strong and never surrender among many other things. May his soul rest in peace.
To all Syrians who lost significant portions of their lives during their strugle for liberty of speech and life in Syria.