Vein of Life.

Chapter Eight.

C H A P T E R   E I G H T.

I was eleven years old when I saw my dad cry for the first time.

We were living in one of the many UN funded shelters for refugees and our situation had just seemed to be lightening up. After two years of being on the waiting list, the housing committee had finally contacted us to offer us a home in which we could live in permanently. My parents were both working full-time, dad as a painter and mum as a janitor. Money was scarce but it was flowing in and at the time, saving as much as possible was priority in my parents eyes.

My brothers and I were enrolled in a good school and our grades were slowly yet surely increasing. A lot of our family were also migrating from Lebanon to Australia and the numbing feeling of loneliness that had been previously eating away at us was slowly fading away.

Things were going great.

But then one day, I woke up to the sound of wretched sobbing from the next room.

My parents room.

I yawned and rubbed at my heavy eyes before quietly making my way over. My feet padded against the wooden floorboards but I was too light to make any sound. My parents had left the door slightly ajar, so I sidled up and peeked through the narrow space to see what was happening.

To my shock, I saw dad bent over, one hand covering his mouth in an attempt to prevent anymore audible sobs from escaping his lips. Mum was right by his side, one hand wrapped around his waist and the other holding onto his hand tightly. Her head lay on his shoulder and I could only barely make out the words they were whispering to each other.

"That was two years worth of money. Two years!"

"It's OK, money comes and goes. We'll find a way Hameed, we always do!" mum had said in an effort to ease his worries.

"I know but...that money. It was for the kids. For their future Sehnaz and now it's all gone and we have to start saving again! We're barely making enough as it is!" The exhaustion and frustration in my father's voice had been tangible and I remember feeling so hopeless at that moment. I was only eleven years old so surely, I couldn't have possibly done anything. But I still felt so terribly scared as I watched my dad break down in my mother's arms, all because he feared the unknown.

He feared whether we would ever have a stable home or a stable income. He feared our future...would we grow up to be educated and gain the capacity to think critically like everybody else. Would we remember that life was enjoyable or would we only see and know stress over food, money and shelter?

"Hameed, they're going to find that thief and we're going to get our money back!" Dad looked over at mum with a sad, knowing smile and even though he knew that wasn't likely, impossible even, he had kissed her on the cheek and said alhamdulillah.

The next day, I had walked into their room to grab mum's hairbrush when I stumbled across dad in prayer. His arms were raised high, his eyes closed and his lips moving as he made dua.

"Oh Allah, please forgive my family, my friends and this ummah for our sins. Oh Allah, you are the Most Generous so if You will, bestow on us from your bounty. Do not burden us with more than we can bear and help us battle through the hardships of this dunya. Ya Allah, give victory to my brothers and sisters overseas who are still suffering under the hands of tyrants, who are being killed effortlessly. Oh Allah, you are the most Merciful, so forgive those who have wronged me and give me the ability to forgive, so that I may return to you with a clean heart."

I had sat there, observing and listening to my father silently. Tears were streaming down his face by the end of his prayer and when he finally finished, I ran to him and sat in his lap.