11 hours ago
An ode to the sacrifices of a Palestinian dad for Father's Day
He doesn't say 'I love you' very often. But, at 82, he will fight his chronic back pain, the one that has come back after surgery, and leave the warmth of his bed at 6am.
He'll head to the market to buy fruit and vegetables that could otherwise have been ordered and delivered within the hour.
This is the way Arab fathers say 'I love you.'
I was at my parents' house once when my dad, Dr Mazen AlTaher, began to put on his shoes after coming home from work. He was exhausted and still sweating from the walk home. I kept asking where he was going, but he wouldn't tell me. Eventually, I said I'd go with him.
We walked in the Abu Dhabi heat for 10 minutes. We entered a supermarket and he picked up some fruit, including some watermelons. They were really heavy, but I insisted on taking them off his hands like it was nothing.
I was dizzy by the time we got home and thought the whole trip was unnecessary. Nobody had asked for these things and there was no need to leave so suddenly in the middle of the day in summer.
But he takes pride in this. He will cut that melon, and offer it to us after lunch or in the afternoon. It is his way of saying 'I love you', and we're saying 'I love you too' when that piece exchanges hands.
For him, every 'that was delicious' means 'thank you for everything you do.'
Empowerment
As a Palestinian, my dad struggled growing up. He has six younger siblings. His mother died when he was nine, something he only talked about once – five years ago when he was still under anaesthesia from back surgery.
He often suppressed his emotions. He was used to carrying the burden in silence. All of it. From the big decisions he had to make after his father died to the financial hardships he had sending all of his five kids to schools and universities.
I am the youngest and there's a 13-year gap between me and my eldest sister. By the time it was my turn to go to university, my dad had already depleted most of his resources to get my brothers and sisters through.
But all he asked of me was one thing: get good grades. 'I would sell the clothes off my back to educate you,' I remember him saying once.
You would think this man, who grew up without a mother, would not be so inclined to empower women.
But shortly after I turned 21, the first thing my dad did was to take me to the Emirates School of Transport, sign a no-objection letter and help me get the driving lessons I needed to become more independent after graduation.
And when I got my license while working as a journalist at a local paper, he saved every single one of my articles. This is how Arab dads say 'I am proud of you'.
Family first
Like most Arab dads, my father is so committed and dedicated to his family that he would hand-wrap our Eid gifts – which are always perfumes – at 5am on the first day of Eid, after morning prayers.
We would all tear them open in seconds, the gifts he had spent so much time imperfectly perfecting. I once saw him hunched over, trying to make those corners smooth and painstakingly cutting pieces of tape to keep it all together. I have started to keep the wrapping paper.
Then there are the daily check-ins. When he doesn't see my name in the newspaper, I would get a call: 'What's happening? Why aren't you writing anything?'.
'Baba, I'm working on long-term projects,' I'd reply.
'Oh,' he would say, disappointedly.
He just wants to see my name in the paper. 'Your achievements are mine,' he'd say. And I believe him.
The dramas
But of course, no Arab father would be who he is without a little drama. When I told him I have a surprise for him this Father's Day – referring to this column – he insisted that I reveal what it was.
'You never know. I might not live until Friday,' he said before reciting a verse of poetry that made an otherwise happy topic quickly turn dark.
I caved in, of course, and told him. He suppressed his smile. But I know it meant something to him.
Baba, as you're reading this, know that I love you and I see everything you do for us.
Happy Father's Day to you and all the vigilant Arab dads who are 100 per cent dedicated to their families, in a way that future generations can only hope they can aspire to be too.
