Our family was
supposed to come together this summer to celebrate my cousin Naji’s wedding in
Greece… But life, in its capricious ways, had other plans.
We met instead in
Lebanon to bury his father last weekend.
When I got the phone
call telling me that my khalto Dolly’s husband, Jean, had passed away it was
like it had fallen on deaf ears.
“What? No… he is
fine he isn’t ill, he doesn’t suffer from any terminal diseases…”
“Celine, it’s a
heart attack,” came the voice of my brother through the phone. He sounded as
dumbfounded as I was.
A tear couldn’t
escape my eyes- it was like all my energy was being used up to try and make
sense of this sudden death. He’s only 57… His son is getting married. His
grandson is just a little kid. My aunt doesn’t know how to breathe without him.
He can’t be dead. Those thoughts kept repeating, over and over as flashbacks to
the last time I saw him came rushing back.
“Beeseh, sushi
dinner is on you,” he said as he sipped on his arak.
“Done deal, I
promise Jean next time I am in Beirut.”
There never will
be a next time.
Even on the plane
to Beirut my senses were numb… Those same chains of thought kept whirling
around like a violent tornado.
Fifty-seven. Son
getting married. My aunt can’t breathe without him. His grandson is just a kid.
My aunt Dolly and
Jean were lovebirds… They did everything together, my aunt doesn’t even sip her
morning coffee without him- they lived a simple and humble life, and built a
beautiful little family in Aleppo.
As a husband he
made my aunt feel like a real queen and his compassion was only surpassed by
his sense of humor.
As a father he
raised two brave boys, Rami and Naji, instilling them with strength, courage
and humility.
The moment the car
pulled up on the street where Dolly and her family live my nerves shot electric
pulses, paralyzing my entire body. I wasn’t ready.
Sixty seconds
later, my nerves surrendered as the weight of my aunt slumped on my shoulder –
she was shattered, and nothing could repair her.
When my mom hugged
her sister I didn’t know who to comfort, a sister who was worried about the
state of her older sibling, or a wife whose other half lays cold in a hospital
bed.
Rami, his eldest
son, was on the brink of complete breakdown. When I hugged him close I could
feel the anger radiating from his body- he pulled me away and I could barely
see his eyes and every vein in his face stuck out like a rugged road on a
mountainous terrain.
When the family
fled Aleppo in 2012 after strife broke out in its streets, Rami, with
his wife Carla and new born baby boy Jean, lived together with his parents
under a single roof in Lebanon. Eventually Dolly and Jean moved next door
and the two men had to figure a way to support the family- but it was never
easy.
My uncle, Bishop
Joseph, who flew in from Athens, was our North Star; his words tried to calm
the tempest of sobs that enveloped the house.
“He is at peace
now… and you know that he didn’t suffer even in his last moments on Earth… know
he is in good Hands, he is in God’s hands…”
But I know he was
masking his own heartbreak.
Jean and my uncle
were very close- they used to always joke around together and Jean was the
fix-it man, anything that needed repairing or mending whether at my Teta’s
house or the church he would fix it.
The entire family
was there. I met my cousin’s fiancé for the first time- I was supposed to meet
her in a bride’s glow; instead I saw her gripping Naji’s arms, in red bloodshot
eyes. This must have been all too shocking and confusing for her… as it was for
everyone else.
“Jean is gone…” is
all I kept hearing my aunt say, “Beeseh, Jean is gone.”
When we were kids
spending summers in Aleppo at my grandparent’s house, Jean was like my bodyguard
against the bully-boy trio, Salim, Rami and Naji.
“Beeseh tell me
which one of them is bothering you and I will kick their little behinds!”
But this man had
the kindest eyes and sweetest smile, so it was hard to even take his threats
with an ounce of fright.
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The funeral was on
Friday May 19.
White roses
adorned the alter, encircling the wooden casket mounted on a tabletop.
Each arrangement carried a message from different members of his family.
“Habibi Jido, your
little grandson Jano”
“To my loving
father, your son Rami”
“To my darling
husband, your loving wife Dolly”
Jean’s brother,
the Bishop of the Roman Catholic Church, delivered the funeral mass, along with
my uncle and twelve other priests. There he was, Father Najib, a strong beacon
of faith and courage praying for the salvation of his baby brother’s soul while
the corpse lay a meter away from him.
How do they find
strength in the toughest of moments? Faith and belief works in miraculous ways.
I felt Jean’s
presence in the stone-walled church while the mass was being held- placing a
comforting hand on his sons’ shoulders as their heads bowed down, fighting back
tears as their uncle stood at the alter delivering a speech, “He raised two
boys, with Christian values…”
For a moment I
closed my eyes and was transported back to Syria- sitting in the back of the
antique black Mercedes Benz with my cousins and Jean driving through the
streets of Aleppo. I realized just how much I have taken for granted, those
streets, and now Jean, I would never see again.
The shrieking
sound of my aunt pierced through the hymns and snapped me back to the present.
They had taken off the lid of the casket, and my aunt rushed to hold her
husband’s hand, touching his cold skin, unrelentingly pleading,
“WAKE UP!! Please
wake up Jean, wake up!”
I hadn’t noticed
just how filled the church was until we followed the casket out into the
monastery’s garden. The number of priests, nuns, politicians, and friends that
came to pay their respect and offer their condolences must have been in the
hundreds. He was clearly a loved man.
We said our final prayers, and buried him beneath the church. I held tightly onto my Teta’s arms, helping
her climb up a set stairs, and between sobs she said,
“You know I lost a daughter when she was only an infant…. And you know
your Jido died eleven years ago, but they fell ill and so death saved them from
more pain…but Jean wasn’t ill and he wasn’t suffering from anything, but now my
daughter will suffer from pain of such a sudden loss and I don’t know how to
help her.”
I couldn’t even offer her a single word of comfort.
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“People are put on
this planet to deliver a message, and once it has been delivered that’s it -
their ephemeral life is done and eternal life with God begins,” said one of the
priests. His name is Father Jean, and he was one of my aunt’s husband’s closest
friends.
That somehow gave
me comfort; it gave this “meaningless death” more purpose. So may be this was
it- taking his family this far and hoping they are strong enough to figure the
rest out on their own…
But my Aunt
doesn’t even drink her morning coffee without him; she will never be ready for
his loss… whether it happened last Wednesday or it happens hundreds of Wednesday’s
later she will never be ready.
“Why couldn’t he
wait till our son’s wedding?” she would ask in weeping desperation.
Between every
breakdown a memory would sedate Dolly, sometimes she would vocalize it as her
words, like a brush, painted a picture of just how tender and compassionate her
husband was. She wasn’t angry at the world, she wasn’t angry at what happened…
she just missed him so deeply.
“Even when I had
the flu and was bed ridden for ten days he would sit by my side, peeling me an
orange, making me tea…” she would say with a smile as if he was right there
next to her.
Other times she
would just drift into her own world and tears would cascade silently like
morning due from a blossoming rose.
May be died
heartbroken over everything he lost in Syria’s fire: his home, his business,
his memories.
We will never
know… all we know is that he is gone and life has to go on… and all I can do is
hope my aunt and cousins find strength to deal with the loss.
Goodbye Jean, God rest your
amazing soul.
