I Miss My Grandpa
CAUTION: This is a very long read. Kindly Keep scrolling and leave it be.
My Arab grandfather was a bedouin shepherd who lived most of his youth in the Gulf region during the pre oil era. The world around him had changed instantly and rapidly with the discovery of oil. He became a successful businessman and he owned houses and cars. But he always feared poverty will sneak up on him and it will be like: “Gotcha! bwahahaha you didn’t really think you became rich, did ya?”
For someone who grew up in a barren desert with a few known natural resources, the whole “oil thing” -as he used to call it- seemed very suspicious and confusing. He was convinced that one day, somewhere up there, whatever god or higher power is there, will get bored and decide, “OK. This is enough fun for those Arab fools”. And, as simple as that, they will put an end to it all. When that day comes, he knew he will have to go back to his old nomadic harsh life as a poor bedouin with low life expectancy and barely enough basic food to survive. The same lifestyle his ancestors had lived for centuries.
With that in mind, he became obsessed with teaching his kids how to herd sheep, ride camels, and harvest date palms. And whenever they'd show signs of boredom, he would yell in frustration, “None of this will last you idiots. You need to learn how to survive when it’s all over”.
As time went by and he got older, he came to realize that “this oil thing” may last longer than he thought. That’s when he started believing in the coming war. “There will be a war”, he would say over and over again, “Because if you got something good in this world, other people who don’t have what you have will try to take it from you”. He would sit his grandchildren in front of him and explain it to them “There can’t be enough resources for everyone on this planet. There can’t be enough food, water, energy or shelter. So they will come for the oil. They have to”.
He replaced his old obsession with a new one. He became highly obsessed with healing his swollen leg (he had Rheumatoid Arthritis). Because he was convinced he’s going to need it to run away, far far away, when the war breaks out.
I’ve known him for a short period of time. I was the American grandson who didn’t look like a Kuwaiti, with his gray eyes, curly hair, and broken Arabic. The one who came to visit for a few weeks every summer. My grandfather was in his 80s at the time. He had already exceeded the life expectancy of his ancestors by almost 40 years and was mostly still in shape. And the young bedouin inside him was still as alive as ever.
He didn’t seem to notice me around most of the time. But from time to time, I’d sit there, next to him under the old palm tree that he loved dearly. And he would tell me strange things. He would tell me whatever’s on his mind. He advised me once that I should never trust a mother other than my own. “Mothers could be dangerous”, he said throwing another dry date in his mouth, “They can get away with anything because people rarely suspect them”. Then he revealed to me that when he was my age (10yo), he saw a mother (a neighbor lady, apparently) killing a stranger who was passing through their poor village for a few coins in his pocket. The man was standing in front of her doorsteps. She gave him water as a gesture of hospitality, then stabbed him with a sharp knife as he drank the water. She then got rid of the body by dumping it in an abandoned well. “Her kids were starving to death”, he continued after a few moments of silence, “Watch out for desperate mothers. They are very dangerous. They will kill you if it means their babies will survive for one more day”.
He had so many unusual stories like that one. I never knew if they were legit or if he made them up out of the boredom of those hot summer afternoons. But I always listened and stuck around for more.
I remember when he heard about India’s population for the first time. One of my cousins was talking about India and mentioned that its population was over a billion. My grandfather couldn’t wrap his head around the number. He spent minutes figuring out the billion. Then he whispered when he finally understood: "Waja’a!", which could be translated as “shit!” in English. “India must be where all the forgotten and missing people end up eventually”, he added, “I bet I might find my little sister among those billion people”. He was referring to his 4 years old sister who went missing about 70 years ago and was never found. My grandfather was with her the day she disappeared. He was only 8 years old. They were playing outside and he took his eyes off her for a couple of minutes. She was never found and was presumed dead after a few years of not finding any trace of her. No one blamed him but he was her older brother and he took the regret of those minutes (that he took his eyes off her) to his grave.
He died when I was 14. I have fewer memories of him than I’d like to, and I never knew what to think of him. I guess he was just an old man who chose to cling to his Bedouin identity when most Kuwaitis gave it up a long time ago. He never really belonged in modern Kuwait. He lived like an outsider without his sheep, camels, and mud house. And I think, somehow, I shared those same feelings with him, but for different reasons. I was an Arab-American kid growing up in a post-9/11 era. A kid who didn't belong anywhere, perceived as An Arab in the US, and as an American in the middle east. We were both outsiders in this world in our own ways.
In 2004, he died peacefully in his sleep with both of his legs intact, even though he didn’t need to use them to run away from any war. I didn’t know of his death until weeks later. I was on the other side of the world in a boarding school and nobody cared to call me with the news. They probably didn’t think it would matter to the American kid.
I never thought I'd say this but I wish I could spend one more afternoon with him under the palm tree.
My Arab grandfather was a bedouin shepherd who lived most of his youth in the Gulf region during the pre oil era. The world around him had changed instantly and rapidly with the discovery of oil. He became a successful businessman and he owned houses and cars. But he always feared poverty will sneak up on him and it will be like: “Gotcha! bwahahaha you didn’t really think you became rich, did ya?”
For someone who grew up in a barren desert with a few known natural resources, the whole “oil thing” -as he used to call it- seemed very suspicious and confusing. He was convinced that one day, somewhere up there, whatever god or higher power is there, will get bored and decide, “OK. This is enough fun for those Arab fools”. And, as simple as that, they will put an end to it all. When that day comes, he knew he will have to go back to his old nomadic harsh life as a poor bedouin with low life expectancy and barely enough basic food to survive. The same lifestyle his ancestors had lived for centuries.
With that in mind, he became obsessed with teaching his kids how to herd sheep, ride camels, and harvest date palms. And whenever they'd show signs of boredom, he would yell in frustration, “None of this will last you idiots. You need to learn how to survive when it’s all over”.
As time went by and he got older, he came to realize that “this oil thing” may last longer than he thought. That’s when he started believing in the coming war. “There will be a war”, he would say over and over again, “Because if you got something good in this world, other people who don’t have what you have will try to take it from you”. He would sit his grandchildren in front of him and explain it to them “There can’t be enough resources for everyone on this planet. There can’t be enough food, water, energy or shelter. So they will come for the oil. They have to”.
He replaced his old obsession with a new one. He became highly obsessed with healing his swollen leg (he had Rheumatoid Arthritis). Because he was convinced he’s going to need it to run away, far far away, when the war breaks out.
I’ve known him for a short period of time. I was the American grandson who didn’t look like a Kuwaiti, with his gray eyes, curly hair, and broken Arabic. The one who came to visit for a few weeks every summer. My grandfather was in his 80s at the time. He had already exceeded the life expectancy of his ancestors by almost 40 years and was mostly still in shape. And the young bedouin inside him was still as alive as ever.
He didn’t seem to notice me around most of the time. But from time to time, I’d sit there, next to him under the old palm tree that he loved dearly. And he would tell me strange things. He would tell me whatever’s on his mind. He advised me once that I should never trust a mother other than my own. “Mothers could be dangerous”, he said throwing another dry date in his mouth, “They can get away with anything because people rarely suspect them”. Then he revealed to me that when he was my age (10yo), he saw a mother (a neighbor lady, apparently) killing a stranger who was passing through their poor village for a few coins in his pocket. The man was standing in front of her doorsteps. She gave him water as a gesture of hospitality, then stabbed him with a sharp knife as he drank the water. She then got rid of the body by dumping it in an abandoned well. “Her kids were starving to death”, he continued after a few moments of silence, “Watch out for desperate mothers. They are very dangerous. They will kill you if it means their babies will survive for one more day”.
He had so many unusual stories like that one. I never knew if they were legit or if he made them up out of the boredom of those hot summer afternoons. But I always listened and stuck around for more.
I remember when he heard about India’s population for the first time. One of my cousins was talking about India and mentioned that its population was over a billion. My grandfather couldn’t wrap his head around the number. He spent minutes figuring out the billion. Then he whispered when he finally understood: "Waja’a!", which could be translated as “shit!” in English. “India must be where all the forgotten and missing people end up eventually”, he added, “I bet I might find my little sister among those billion people”. He was referring to his 4 years old sister who went missing about 70 years ago and was never found. My grandfather was with her the day she disappeared. He was only 8 years old. They were playing outside and he took his eyes off her for a couple of minutes. She was never found and was presumed dead after a few years of not finding any trace of her. No one blamed him but he was her older brother and he took the regret of those minutes (that he took his eyes off her) to his grave.
He died when I was 14. I have fewer memories of him than I’d like to, and I never knew what to think of him. I guess he was just an old man who chose to cling to his Bedouin identity when most Kuwaitis gave it up a long time ago. He never really belonged in modern Kuwait. He lived like an outsider without his sheep, camels, and mud house. And I think, somehow, I shared those same feelings with him, but for different reasons. I was an Arab-American kid growing up in a post-9/11 era. A kid who didn't belong anywhere, perceived as An Arab in the US, and as an American in the middle east. We were both outsiders in this world in our own ways.
In 2004, he died peacefully in his sleep with both of his legs intact, even though he didn’t need to use them to run away from any war. I didn’t know of his death until weeks later. I was on the other side of the world in a boarding school and nobody cared to call me with the news. They probably didn’t think it would matter to the American kid.
I never thought I'd say this but I wish I could spend one more afternoon with him under the palm tree.
