One wound, one pain
They say that time is a “cure,” but today, as I stand on the threshold of the anniversary of those milestones that shook my very being, I realize that there is a pain that does not depart; rather, it grows more agonizing in the veins of memory. Sadness is not weakness, but an eternal loyalty to those who have passed and left a void in our souls that no presence can fill. These are pivotal moments that still map out the days of my life, despite the passage of time.
I remember that first phone call. The phone rang, changing the definition of “life” in an instant. It was a voice bringing me the news of my mother’s passing, that devout and ascetic woman who was my compass and my anchor. In that moment, it was not a wall of the house that collapsed, but a roof that had sheltered me with unceasing prayers. The feeling that “men are made” in such trials, that strange sensation of suddenly finding yourself exposed to life’s storms without armor, took hold. That day, shock was not the master of the situation; rather, it was the “certainty of pain.” I had said goodbye to her before she departed, and I learned that the greatest lesson in strength is “contentment.”
I thought I had healed my wounds, until, two years later, another phone call rang. An international number, a vast distance, and a voice carrying an unexpected bolt of lightning. The passing of my sister, Dr. Salwa... She passed away in a foreign land, far from the embrace of the homeland, at a moment when she was at the peak of her contribution and the nobility of her purpose. This milestone was the most painful because it did not grant us the luxury of preparation. Here, the pain of loss mingled with the bitterness of bewildered questioning, as illusory calculations wove illusions about the reason for her departure. This put my soul in a confrontation not only with death, but also with a piercing ambiguity that remained lodged in my memory, even after absolute submission to God’s decree and destiny.
At the height of those milestones, when silence enveloped my soul and endless dialogues surged in my mind with the specters of my mother and sister, I found a balm whose scars never fully fade. It was the overwhelming empathy I received from all the people of Kuwait, both leadership and citizens, that became my refuge. It was not merely a fleeting condolence, but the entire “nation” wrapping itself around the heart of a grieving writer. Those high-level official facilitations that enabled me to repatriate my sister’s remains, and the warmth of people’s feelings from all segments of society, made me firmly realize that in Kuwait, we do not depart alone; rather, we carry in our shrouds the love of a nation overflowing with mercy.
Today, as the anniversary passes, I find myself conversing with their specters in my solitude, reproaching them for their hasty departure, and thanking them for the enduring impact they left. The bewilderment regarding the “secret of their departure” still nests in some corner of my memory, not to object to the Creator’s will—for praise be to God in all circumstances—but because the human spirit within us always yearns for the tranquility of truth.
I have made peace with sadness. It is no longer an enemy I chase, but a companion that reminds me that life is too narrow to carry hatred within it, and too short to postpone a word of love. May God have mercy on those who have passed, and may God preserve for us this homeland that teaches us, in every trial, that through our unity—leadership and people—we grow stronger and do not break.
