Just like uncle Farooq

In every family, there is an unspoken agreement between nephews and nieces about their favourite uncle. In dad’s family it was without doubt uncle Farooq. Although we’re not really close to his side of the family, yet my brother and I shared this deep love and respect for them —especially when it came to his favourite younger siblings — which included uncle Farooq.

Everything about him was effortless: his charm, his kindness and his sarcasm. I always remember him sitting with one leg crossed over the other, leaning slightly forward — with a serene smile on his face — inhaling a cigarette. Later he’ll get into his storytelling mode — a talent he shared with the rest of his brothers with a plus: his were acted out animatedly.

While relating a story that happened in his childhood, he’d get up from his place to demonstrate how he ran away. The nephews and the nieces would giggle and someone would demand another story — probably heard millions of time before — and he’ll spring into action again, sending a wave of cheerfulness and laughter among the rest of us.

One of my clear childhood memories of him was of us travelling together to France in the summer of 89. I still remember us waiting for him in front of the check-in counter with my parents fretting as we almost missed the flight. Finally, he arrived with his belongings gathered in a plastic shopping bag, wearing a pair of flip flops and a disarming smile. That was the time when I had my first revelation: “when I grow up, I want to become a cool hippie just like uncle Farooq!”.

To him I was always: “unfortunately smart”. This was a paradox that I never understood till as an adult I experienced it first hand: in patriarchal societies smart women were rarely appreciated. Uncle Farooq’s decision to migrate to America along with his wife was something that his brothers were in two minds about. Yet they continued being in touch via long phone calls and yearly visits. Every time we heard of him arriving, my mother and I would go to say hello.

Uncle Farooq would ask me if I had any plans of getting married soon “for your mother’s peace of mind”. He came back last month along with his family after seven years of not visiting. Our whole family were ecstatic and we went to see him as usual. I didn’t realise that this would be my final visit to him.

Last Saturday, we got the devastating news of his sudden demise. With eyes full of tears and total disbelief, my dad mumbled that they’d had lunch together the day before. To him Farooq was still the boy he travelled to Dubai with to register for middle school. The news sent a wave of shock to everyone he knew.

The three days of his mourning were filled with grieving people who knew him closely or at a distance sharing similar stories of his unlimited generosity, thoughtfulness and great sense of humour. The tributes that the family received through social media were numerous and heart-warming. Everyone seemed to mourn his loss and was happy to share a memory of him.

This was the time when I had my second revelation: “This the way I want to go. With people celebrating my life just like uncle Farooq”. Farewell uncle Farooq. You were larger than life. Your sudden loss took a heavy toll on us. What will keep us going are our fond memories of you and the certainty that we’ll meet again. Till that time, you’re truly missed.

Rasha al Raisi is a certified skills trainer and the author of: The World According to Bahja. rashabooks@yahoo.com