I lived a moment of contemplation that was perhaps ill-suited to the place and circumstances I was in, yet reflection and remembrance imposed themselves on my memory and feelings as I watched the girl who was, only yesterday, a tiny little child the size of a handful of roses, crawling along a long hotel corridor.
In 2009, while the family was keeping vigil with my mother following a delicate surgical procedure she had undergone in Germany, her parents came to join us, and she came with them — bringing an enormous measure of indulgence, joy, and delight that her presence bestowed on us all. I remember us staying at the Hilton in Munich, and I remember her growing day by day before our eyes, lifting one foot and placing the other, falling and crying, then standing and steadying herself, leaning on her mother's hands until she could walk.
I remember her praying and raising her tiny palms when her younger brother was engulfed in a devastating illness that ground us all down, while the little one swung between bewilderment and mischief, living out her childhood and marvelling at how long her brother remained bedridden in hospital.
I remember her returning from London after a treatment journey for her brother that lasted more than a year — she came back speaking a formal classical Arabic that provoked smiles and laughter, as well as admiration for this little girl pronouncing Arabic with such fluency and dexterity. She had spent that year in London watching the Arabic cartoons and animated series on which our generation was raised — the likes of The Smurfs, Zeina, and Nuhoul. She returned once again caught between two languages and two ways of speaking, which led to bullying by other children, though she quickly blended into the local dialect.
The little one grew up and crossed not one threshold but many: she crossed the passing of her brother, her childhood, and part of her adolescence, to arrive at the gates of university. Yesterday, as she walked alongside her fellow graduates toward the graduation stage, she traversed 17 years of dreams and childhood and wishes that had filled her parents' hearts and mine, carrying all of that weight across into tomorrow, into the future, into university. That entire long reel, condensed from 17 years into a few seconds — such is the greatness of memory, the greatness of love, and the power of wishes.
To Alia, and to all the graduates who were walking with confidence and joy the morning of the day before yesterday: every wish of love and sincere prayer that God may grant them days more beautiful, more secure, and more peaceful — they deserve it fully, and so does the homeland, and so do we.