In memory of home
On my way to Damascus today. Visiting aunts and uncles. It's been nothing but funerals there. An old lady that used to visit my grandmother passed away. I liked her a lot. Elegant woman. So I want to go.
I miss visiting older people. Family. They have so much love to give. It is an age where either love or despair prevails. There is no other distraction from this core question. Love or despair, love or despair, is the only question.
My uncle, a well-known doctor and professor in his 80's, has been depressed and aging rapidly since the war started. He is a tall man. He has been losing his balance. Not falling, thankfully, but heartbroken and feeling the world is no longer firm under his feet. His wife, my mom's sister, has always been like a second mother to me. They are anchors in Damascus. So I want to go.
He had spent his career dedicated to overseeing the education of medical students and to supporting the wellbeing of medical staff across the country, especially the rural areas. Generations of young doctors and nurses have been guided by his direction. My uncle was a serious man. He embodied that era of the 1960's, when a modernizing Arab nationalism witnessed region-wide educational reforms that created a palpable sense of progress and optimism. The world he has helped build is crumbling in darkness.
I found out that two of his former students, father and son, doctors the both of them, were killed yesterday. So I want to go.
What times we are living. Our countries, our families, our bodies are carrying such a burden of pain and loss and crushed hopes. How can there be such thing as a quick fix? Patience. Patience. They say, in Arabic, Patience is Beautiful.
Right now, the view of the Mediterranean blue is just about the most perfect soothing balm ever.
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A fellow human, tuning in.