It's a trait neither my dad nor his mom, Sitti Haijar, are fond of. "Dumoo3 il 3awahir nawahir," she once told us; my dad erupted in impressed laughter. Both my dad and his mom know my grandfather's tears are not false; they also think the idea of a man crying is lame and embarrassing.
None of us wanted Sidi to cry. Fluid had played a large-enough role in this hospital stay, and we didn't want any more. So we tiptoed in, donning bright smiles and hearty, "Mar7aba"s to start the visit on a cheery note. And it worked. He responded in kind and in English: "Hello, Hello...I'm feeling good."
Famished 3amee 3abed and my dad went to eat the baked-falafel sandwiches we had brought them and take a break; my mom and I were on-shift with Sidi.
"Whatever!!," he brushed the air away. The sentiment comforted him. It allowed him to release this unfamiliar situation from his grasp and pass it to higher powers. "Maybe the second life is better...everyone says the second life is better." Such phrases led to conversations (sometimes one-sided) on random subjects: the whereabouts of Siti Haijar; the whereabouts of the TV's remote control; the whereabouts of Sidi himself.
The 7adeeth flowed but tears did not. The man who was known for his crying was instead smiling a lot.
As he talked, I captured bits of him with my internal camera: each shutter-blink caught an image that would then process in the recesses of my mind; I would hold it in and let it hang in that dark, back room to develop and, finally, be displayed.
I focused on his right ear. Sidi's big ears have always been an endearing physical trait. I scanned and measured the surface area of that ear compared to his skull--it was about one-third the size. This ear, his good ear, was the one he later used to hear Farid on the phone, calling from Palestine to check on him. "Laysh Farid ttasal?" he asked my mom. "Fakarnee meeyit?" She attempted to explain the courtesy call but to no avail. Sidi asked that same question twice more. Yes, Sidi has big ears--but size does not reveal function.
I zoomed in on his nose; I saw my dad's nose. It is a man's nose, a Palestinian man's nose. Nooks have been carved from the friction and sting of tears and life against his skin. It is a distinct nose, it is not a big nose. It fits his face. And revised forms embellish the faces of my dad and 3amtee.
"La Ilaha ila Allah," he grumbled as he waved his right arm up and down to shake away the numbness and the frustration of being confined to a bed he didn't recognize in a place he thought was a new condo. Even in his hospital bed, my grandfather was a real estate agent. He researched the dimensions of the room, the placement of the bathrooms, and how many beds could fit to accommodate the rest of the family. "Wayn il matbakh?," he asked.
He looked at me: "U keef il Sit Reem?" I smiled at him: "Iza inta mabsoot, ana mabsoota, Sidi." He laughed, lifting the air upward with two hands, expressing happy surrender with his eyes, and said, "This is life."
This did not reflect his life:
--Sidi had been a school principal; my dad was that school's bully; Sidi was 7atim's bully, insofar as a fatherly bullying would allow. He continued to be an educator, mostly teaching Arabic, long after he left that school in Beitin. He has always told me of the importance of education. And his son--my dad--is relentless (read: endless nagging) in his sermons about advanced degrees.
--Sidi has always been frugal, according to his children; almost miserly by some of their accounts. He likes to work to make money and have purpose. He likes more to save that money. He has never been miserly with me, his eldest grandchild, especially not on Al 3eed. He has always told me about the Palestinian lands I will inherit from him. He has always told me to "save, save, save."
--Sidi is a walker. His feet have trod kilometers and miles on various forms of terrain. Before two days ago, he would carve laps around his condo complex lobby and climbs stairs to remind his leg muscles of their purpose. He walked daily. His pedometer paused the day he entered the hospital. It will likely restart two days after his release.
--Sidi is a strong man. His infamous crying episodes attest to the strength of his nature--it takes a secure man to show sensitivity; it takes a strong man to not care what his son or wife think about his tears. He is strong physically: "His calf muscles, ya 7afeeth, are solid," 7atim said, "Still stronger than my own."
Sa3dat's strength comes from his father, Sidi tells me: "Sidik il 3abed kan nasheet," he said, "Anshat wa7ad," he paused. "Kan yimshee min Beitilou 3a Ramallah..w yrja3...b mushwar WA7AD!" He gloated that for many, such a journey would take at least an eighth of a day--for Sidi il 3abed, it would take a measly two hours.
I acquiesced, nodding a silent "I know, Sidi. I am of 7atim, and 7atim is of you. We are all walkers."
He'll be released tomorrow insha'Allah.
He smiled, rested his head back, and scanned the ceiling for answers about his whereabouts. My mom and I watched his silence.
It seemed he was attempting to stream a privileged, internal conversation "la bab il sema" and to Allah's ears. My grandfather, a religious man, regularly infused verses from the Qur'an in his monologues. In Room 358, his religion and its verses--not his blanket, not the TV, and not any tears--provided him comfort.
He plead with the ceiling and the Divine Power above it: Let me float into the next realm on the rivers that have gushed from my eyes these many years. I am ready. This is life.
My mom and I watched him stir again. He rejoined us. He waved his right arm up and down to shake away the numbness and the frustration of still being confined to the bed in Room 358 and to life. "Whatever," he dismissed quietly. Allah must have told him it was not yet his time.
He accepted his fate.
He looked at me, and laughed--not a tear in sight. Then he said, "You'd take the single-size bed...yes, fee wasa3. We'd all fit in this room."
He'll be released tomorrow insha'Allah.
Allah yishfeek Sidi.
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