Reasons my dad is better than anyone else’s
He once tricked Samir Sabry into thinking he’s Indian.
He once tricked a Kuwaiti airport officer into thinking he’s French.
Every single day, he used to greet me in the morning asking “نمتي كويس؟”
He used to kiss my friend’s hands (when we were barely 12) and address her as mademoiselle.
He had the most beautiful perfectly manicured fingers.
He was a perfect ballroom dancer.
He talked openly about faith and doubt.
He had the biggest heart I’ve ever seen on a man, and enormous energy for love. I know I’m not just saying so, because I hated a lot of other traits he had.
For as long as I remember, he recited surat Yassin everyday for his parents who’d died 30 years earlier.
He taught me how women should be treated, and how not to accept mediocre treatment.
He was a great grandfather to my nephews. The best.
He was so tender and soft hearted, that in his last days he actually used to carry little sugar packets in his pocket on the way to the mosque to feed an ant colony he discovered. Crazy but cute.
He turned heads wherever he went (not always something I was proud of).
He was a wonderful storyteller.
He was great at all board games, and used his paternal authority to take extra turns at video games with us.
He swam, rode bicycles, and played basketball with my friends when he was older than any other dad, and with a sick heart that couldn’t keep up.
He taught me to dream and to love.
This year, in a couple of months, it will be 18 years. It never goes away, we just learn to embrace the longing and celebrate the memories.