The high standards of integrity and achievement that you placed on yourself
and others were the talk of your family and acquaintances. Where did that
come from, I wonder. Was it the example of your mother and the standards
she set herself that motivated you? You hardly knew your father, and,
although your mother had male relatives, they were not involved in raising
you. You would tell us as children to be the best we could be so we could
study and have good careers. You took great pride in our achievements and
were fond of saying, "Who needs boys when I have girls like these?" When
asked why you set such store by our education -going so far as emigrating to
Australia when the Arabic language requirements in Lebanon made it
difficult for us to sit for the government exams which were a pre-requisite to
pursue university studies -you said, "They will have to depend on
themselves, I have to give them the means to do so."
I remember people telling you, "But they will soon marry and their husbands
will be responsible for taking care of them."
Your answer was always the same, "I want them to take care of themselves
and have a good life, married or not."
You never said so, but I am sure now your mother inspired that wish -she
who had to struggle to raise eight children single-handed. I sense that, and
feel such gratitude toward that woman that inspired you, and toward you for
honoring her thus.
When you got married, it was to a Greek girl you had met at work.
Intercultural marriages were rare in multi-communal Alexandria. She was
bright and hard-working, and you were attracted to each other despite the
cultural differences between you. Like you, she and her brothers were
graduates of the American Mission school. Though your origins were
different, you had much in common. Since you did not speak Greek, and
she, though born in Alexandria, spoke little Arabic, you communicated with
each other in English. Throughout your lives you worked together and
worked hard, and that ethic stood you in good stead when you had to start
from scratch, not once, not twice, but four times: upon leaving Egypt, when
you lost all your savings in an investment scam that had ruined many in
Lebanon, when we emigrated to Australia, and when we returned to
Lebanon.
One of my earliest memories is of you and me leaving the garage where you
had just parked the car and crossing the path to the building where we lived
in Alexandria. I was five years old. You had big square hands with thick
fingers. Instead of grasping my hand, you would give me your index finger to
hold on to. We walked out into the bright Mediterranean sunshine, with me
holding tight to your finger. I felt so content and so safe. Somehow, I know
you did too. You had explained why it was important to hold on to an adult
when crossing the street. Yo