HAJJ RASHID

I sit in our backyard, my eyes frozen on the empty spot that used to be the Pear tree. The sun is setting, casting an amber glow over everything, and as I watch the shadows lengthen, I realize how fleeting time can be. Memories drift around me like leaves in the wind, and one particular memory draws me back to my childhood—a time when my father was both a fortress and a puzzle I couldn’t quite solve. He who gave me birth is gone now. That thought wrapped around my heart like a heavy cloak as I stared at the stark gray sky. The sun fought its way through the clouds, but I felt little warmth as I sat outside the house that had once echoed with laughter and life. Today, it felt empty, a shell left behind after the departure of its soul.

My father, Hajj Rashid, was a man of many contradictions. He was as gentle as a kitten in the warmth of his home, but to the world outside, he wore the mask of a lion. As a boy, I often stood at the door of our house, looking out at his imposing figure as he talked to neighbors or defended his views with passionate fervor. The alpha male of our small, tight-knit community, he commanded respect and was often treated like royalty, yet within our walls, he was soft, often caught in quiet moments of tenderness that would leave me in awe. My father was never one to draw attention to himself. He moved through life like a whisper in a crowded room—gentle but unmissable for those who paid close attention. He lived silently, not out of shyness, but with the quiet knowing that love often speaks louder in hushed tones. It wasn’t until later in life that I realized my father was not just a storyteller; he was the story himself—a man battling the turbulent tides of expectation, vulnerabilities hidden beneath layers of ferocity. He likely felt the need to protect us from the world, yet in doing so, he missed the whisper of the gentle heart that pulsed within him. As I looked around his bedroom, now a sanctuary filled with certainties turned void, I noticed his prayer rug—a lovingly worn patch of fabric stitched with years of devotion. It sprawled across the floor like a lonely island, surrounded by books filled with wisdom and articles of faith. I had always admired how he took time to pray, as if weaving those moments into the very fabric of our lives, linking our family to something greater. I often think of the way he would sit on his bed at night, murmuring stories to himself. At times, praying in whispers just before bedtime.

He had lived fully. I remember his laughter during family dinners, a deep rumble that vibrated with mirth. He had a way of elevating even the simplest meals to sacred feasts by his mere presence. Yet, love was often cloaked in silence; he never sought glory or praise, nor did he boast of his sacrifices. It is a duality we all share—the struggle between the lion we show the world and the kitten we keep hidden for those few we hold dear. The days following his passing were a blur. Friends and relatives gathered in our home, the air simmering with shared sorrow. I welcomed their presence, yet felt separate, as if I was an observer behind a thick glass wall. Words shared were a comfort, yet they did little to fill the void. Everyone sought to share their memories, to paint vibrant pictures of their life, but I clung to my memories, hesitant to let them be mixed with the colors of others. I had crumpled, feeling the floor shift beneath me as if I stood on a precipice of despair. My father, the silent giant of my life, was gone.

One night, I found myself knee-deep in memories. I rummaged through old family albums, uncovering the milestones he had quietly celebrated—my graduation, birthdays, and the parks filled with laughter. I began to pen poems to him, pouring my heart onto the pages. After that night, I realized that he had given me more than just life; he had gifted me the courage to live it authentically and unapologetically, to love and be loved, to create and to share. I understand that these memories are not just echoes of the past but threads woven into my own life’s tapestry. And I aspire daily to balance the strength of a lion with the softness of a kitten, just as my father did. The legacy of Hajj Rashid lives on through me as I tell his story, honoring the gentle heart behind the lion. He who gave me birth is gone now, but his spirit weaves through the days of my life, carried within the confines of my heart.

I continue to listen closely as I navigate through my own story, embracing the whispers of his wisdom, crafting a life that honors his silent caring—a life where love speaks volumes, even in silence.

©Habib Dabajeh

HAJJ RASHID

I sit in our backyard, my eyes frozen on the empty spot that used to be the Pear tree. The sun is setting, casting an amber glow over everything, and as I watch the shadows lengthen, I realize how fleeting time can be. Memories drift around me like leaves in the wind, and one particular memory draws me back to my childhood—a time when my father was both a fortress and a puzzle I couldn’t quite solve. He who gave me birth is gone now. That thought wrapped around my heart like a heavy cloak as I stared at the stark gray sky. The sun fought its way through the clouds, but I felt little warmth as I sat outside the house that had once echoed with laughter and life. Today, it felt empty, a shell left behind after the departure of its soul.

My father, Hajj Rashid, was a man of many contradictions. He was as gentle as a kitten in the warmth of his home, but to the world outside, he wore the mask of a lion. As a boy, I often stood at the door of our house, looking out at his imposing figure as he talked to neighbors or defended his views with passionate fervor. The alpha male of our small, tight-knit community, he commanded respect and was often treated like royalty, yet within our walls, he was soft, often caught in quiet moments of tenderness that would leave me in awe. My father was never one to draw attention to himself. He moved through life like a whisper in a crowded room—gentle but unmissable for those who paid close attention. He lived silently, not out of shyness, but with the quiet knowing that love often speaks louder in hushed tones. It wasn’t until later in life that I realized my father was not just a storyteller; he was the story himself—a man battling the turbulent tides of expectation, vulnerabilities hidden beneath layers of ferocity. He likely felt the need to protect us from the world, yet in doing so, he missed the whisper of the gentle heart that pulsed within him. As I looked around his bedroom, now a sanctuary filled with certainties turned void, I noticed his prayer rug—a lovingly worn patch of fabric stitched with years of devotion. It sprawled across the floor like a lonely island, surrounded by books filled with wisdom and articles of faith. I had always admired how he took time to pray, as if weaving those moments into the very fabric of our lives, linking our family to something greater. I often think of the way he would sit on his bed at night, murmuring stories to himself. At times, praying in whispers just before bedtime.

He had lived fully. I remember his laughter during family dinners, a deep rumble that vibrated with mirth. He had a way of elevating even the simplest meals to sacred feasts by his mere presence. Yet, love was often cloaked in silence; he never sought glory or praise, nor did he boast of his sacrifices. It is a duality we all share—the struggle between the lion we show the world and the kitten we keep hidden for those few we hold dear. The days following his passing were a blur. Friends and relatives gathered in our home, the air simmering with shared sorrow. I welcomed their presence, yet felt separate, as if I was an observer behind a thick glass wall. Words shared were a comfort, yet they did little to fill the void. Everyone sought to share their memories, to paint vibrant pictures of their life, but I clung to my memories, hesitant to let them be mixed with the colors of others. I had crumpled, feeling the floor shift beneath me as if I stood on a precipice of despair. My father, the silent giant of my life, was gone.

One night, I found myself knee-deep in memories. I rummaged through old family albums, uncovering the milestones he had quietly celebrated—my graduation, birthdays, and the parks filled with laughter. I began to pen poems to him, pouring my heart onto the pages. After that night, I realized that he had given me more than just life; he had gifted me the courage to live it authentically and unapologetically, to love and be loved, to create and to share. I understand that these memories are not just echoes of the past but threads woven into my own life’s tapestry. And I aspire daily to balance the strength of a lion with the softness of a kitten, just as my father did. The legacy of Hajj Rashid lives on through me as I tell his story, honoring the gentle heart behind the lion. He who gave me birth is gone now, but his spirit weaves through the days of my life, carried within the confines of my heart.

I continue to listen closely as I navigate through my own story, embracing the whispers of his wisdom, crafting a life that honors his silent caring—a life where love speaks volumes, even in silence.

©Habib Dabajeh