"My Story Began at the End"

Introduction:

In the Name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful

"And your ALLAH has decreed that you worship none but Him, and that you show kindness to your parents.

If either or both of them reach old age in your care, do not say to them even 'uff,' nor scold them, but speak to them words of honor.

And lower to them the wing of humility out of mercy and say: 'My ALLAH, have mercy upon them as they brought me up when I was small.'"

(Qur’an, Al-Isra: 23-24)

My tears overcame me, falling before I could write a single word.

If losing them was hard, describing this journey is even harder.

O ALLAH, forgive my shortcomings toward them,

and accept every whispered prayer I raise now,

that it may become light in their record of good deeds

and peace upon their souls.

O ALLAH , reunite us with them in Your Paradise,

in the seat of truth, with the prophets, the righteous, the martyrs

and what excellent companions they are.

From the moment of their passing, my story began.

I went back searching for every memory, every blessing, every laugh.

This is not merely a story, it is an attempt to write

what I could not say during their lifetime,

what my heart could no longer keep after they were gone.

I will tell this journey through four chapters:

Childhood -Adolescence and Youth - Marriage and the First Farewell

The Season of Frailty and the Final Parting.

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Part 1: The First Home:

The train of memory took me back to its very first station,

as if carrying a coffin that weighed down my heart.

I stopped at the happiest moments of my life: my childhood.

I was the youngest of my siblings, perhaps the luckiest.

My days, though sometimes harsh, were full of wonder.

I was the little bird of the family, always greeted with warmth.

I don’t remember the countryside days my siblings lived

I had left the village in my first months of life.

My story began in the city,

a city that was then a blend of urban life and rural simplicity.

Our house was spacious,

I woke early with my siblings,

they would leave for school and work,

and I would seize the empty house to unleash my mischief.

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Part 2: With My Mother:

I stayed near my beloved mother,

sometimes hugging her, sometimes being fed by her gentle hands.

I helped her plant trees and flowers — pure, indescribable joy.

I loved our animals: rabbits, cats, pigeons, chickens, even the lamb.

Mother would laugh at my antics as I hugged them, kissed them, named them,

and talked to them as if they would one day reply.

She taught me how to feed them, tend their wounds, clean their pens.

At night she would prepare food and tea,

watch TV with me for a little while,

then hug me to sleep.

Two moments I will never forget:

The day I fell ill with a high fever, collapsing before she reached me.

I woke up to find myself in her arms,

cool compresses on my forehead,

her smile reassuring me:

“May God heal you, my son… this too shall pass.”

The day I passed the trial exam with high marks.

I ran home with joy,

only to find my mother weeping:

“They have arrested your sister.”

Back then — as today — the authorities suppressed freedoms and jailed dissenters.

My joy died instantly.

Sometimes silence speaks louder than words.

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Part 3: With My Father:

My father… his name was Muhammad, after our Prophet Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him).

To a stranger, he might have seemed strict,

but he was kind, forgiving, and full of wisdom.

I have many precious, magical memories with him, but I will share the most meaningful:

Lesson in Forgiveness:

Once, after I pinched him in my sleep, he struck my hand.

Days later, I punctured his bicycle tire in childish revenge.

When he found out, he simply said:

“Why would he do this when I need it for work tomorrow?”

He quietly asked for it to be repaired, then called me to dinner that night,

gently asking me not to repeat it.

That was my first true lesson in forgiveness.

The Little Journeys:

He would take me on bike rides to visit my grandmother and relatives.

In spring we picked daffodils and tasted wild herbs by the stream,

in summer we gathered figs and prickly pears,

and in autumn we harvested olives.

When we returned, my father would ride

the bike and put me in front of him. He

would often have a basket on my right

and another basket on my left. Despite

the weight, he would ride it for about 8

km without groaning or complaining.

Along the way, we spoke of the

countryside, family, studies, sports, and faith...

Those trips were lessons in honoring parents,

caring for children emotionally , a value I now teach in civic education,

Patient, loving nature, and finding happiness in simple things...

The Festivals:

He took me to buy Ramadan and Eid supplies,

taught me to care for the sacrificial lamb until the day of slaughter.

When I cried, he comforted me saying:

“This is the way of God… we will buy another lamb next year.”

The Public Bath:

He woke me early, bathed me at the hammam,

and afterward we shared a bowl of sahlab or a soda with pastries.

Those mornings were moments of purity and joy.

_ _ _

Conclusion: When Childhood Slept in My Heart:

And so ended the chapters of my childhood...

my little paradise, filled with my mother’s love and my father’s gentle care,

and with the innocent mischief that taught me responsibility so early.

My childhood was the beginning of my story, the seed of all that I am today.

I closed my eyes on it, not because it was gone, but because it now hides deep within me...

reappearing with the smell of warm bread,

the sound of farm animals,

or when longing knocks at my heart for my mother’s face or my father’s hand.

There, in my heart, my childhood sleeps

yet it still wakes me whenever I forget

that I am the son of love,

the son of prayer,

the son of a memory that never dies...

To be continued...