My father, during the 1990s, was working day and night just to have the little money that provides us with a small lunch. The dinner stayed an irregular possibility that made my mom irritable, knowing that her children are hungry, but they are keeping their mouths shut. We were all getting thinner and thinner. And thinner.
That was not the thing I want to talk about. I wanted to talk about my father’s mood. He was tired, quitted all his hobbies, including tennis and painting. I took his books. All of literature and start eating them. I mean reading them. I asked him from now and then about a thing I read from his books and I was really annoyed cause he did not care to talk about literature. He gave me few money each month’s beginning. About 2 US dollars. That’s all he could. I bought novels. He got angry at me sometimes. Sometimes he asked me to show him what I bought. His facial expressions were not encouraging. I got angry at him. I remember I asked him to go with me to a theatre. He said he was tired. I get angry more day by day at him.
And it was tough years. I really became a rebel. Doing anything that could make them angry. Start listening heavy metal. Turning the recorder loud when my father tried to sleep his short afternoon before he went again to work. The recorder was taken from me. And the war continued.
It is not this that I want to talk about. It is about wadee3 il safi. It was late in some evening in the 90s. When the TV showed some concert of Wadee3 il safi. My father did not hear a song for long time. But this time he came and sat smiling. And how wide was his smile. He even said “ Allah” many times while he was really in a state that I can say it was a trance. He smiled like before. I saw his face shining there in our dark main hall. You cannot imagine how I became happy. I sat little behind him just to see his face while he cannot notice me. Oh daddy I really love you when you are happy. I knew that all the hatred I felt for you was not for you in person, but was for your suffering. I love my dad who listen to music, paint, and enjoy his life.
Now I don’t live with my father. I didn’t see him for about a year and a half. I bought almost all the CDs of Wadee3 il safi and listen them every time I miss him.
5 comments:
Sami, this is a beautiful, sad, loving story. It leads me to thoughts not only of your hunger then--for freedom as a teenager, for ideas, for food, for your father's happiness, but also the hunger of so many children--and parents--today, now, in Baghdad.
Here is a clip of Wadee3 il safi, with Jose Fernandez. I'm listening to it, thinking of you, your father, and Baghdad today. Peace be with you.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6zRJuIMVCs&feature=related
Dear Sami
Good to see you writing once more.
this post just stirred up so many memories, of stressed out parents trying to shield their children, of the pain of separation, and the simple things that bring smiles.
Thank you
3eeraqimedic
A lovely post. Perhaps all that pushing against your father was necessary. Every man has to overcome his father in order to become a man himself, I think.
thank you Laura, 3eeraqimedic, and adiffentvoice for your nice comments. sorry to be late to respond to them. i have no internet connection daily.
that was so sincere and beautiful. i use to get upset at my father, now all i have left from him are his writings. i think that's how my siblings are feeling towards my mom, you described it so perfectly; when you are angry at the suffering, not at them. Thanks!
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