The Last Words

He stood in our kitchen, staring into the distance, a shadow of the man who once filled our lives with warmth. I was frantically making arrangements to take him to the hospital, the urgency of the moment masking the inevitability of what was to come.

It was a typical summer day in 1998. Hussein Hallak Sr., my only uncle from my dad’s side, stayed at our place after attending my grandfather’s funeral two months ago. It was his first visit to Damascus since the early 80s. An unusually quiet evening with none of the seemingly endless stream of visitors and relatives we had over the past few weeks. There he was, lying on the floor mattress where he loved sitting and sleeping, just like he did growing up.

Hussein Hallak Sr. chose to dedicate his life to fighting tyranny instead of studying medicine. In the 1940s he was shot in the shoulder at fifteen years old while protesting the French occupation in Syria, captured and almost killed in Iraq in the 1950s, and in the late 1960s sentenced to death by hanging because he led a coup against Al Assad’s rise to power.?

When authoritarian regimes dominated the Arab world, he chose to support freedom of expression by publishing for the most outspoken poets and writers through his Dar Al Kalemah (House of The Word), one of the most iconic publishing houses in the Arab world.

Finally, a chance for me to spend some quality time with him. I was beaming with excitement, so I made him tea.

As I set the tray with the cups and teapot beside him, I noticed his hands trembling. “Thank you,” he tried to say, but the words were choked by a sudden spurt of blood. Panic surged through me like a tidal wave. Something was terribly wrong. “Don’t worry,” I said, my voice trembling with the fear I was trying to suppress.?

I immediately called Ibn Al Naffis, the closest hospital.

The nurse on the line said the ambulance would take time and it was better to bring him ourselves. I sent my brother to get a taxi and knocked on our neighbor’s door to help me carry him down.

“I’m taking Uncle Hussein to Ibn Al Naffis emergency, meet us there,” I told my father over the phone, trying to keep my voice steady.

My brother burst back into the apartment. “The taxi’s waiting,” he panted. By then, my uncle was back on the mattress, and losing consciousness. We put him on a blanket and carefully lifted him.

We made our way down the stairs from the fifth floor, but halfway down, he became as heavy as a boulder. We gathered all our strength, barely managed to get him to the taxi, and rushed to the hospital.

They tried to revive him, but he was gone.

I’ve had many challenging experiences in my life, but that summer evening is by far the most haunting.

For many years after, I played what happened on that day again and again in my head. I recall our visitors earlier in the afternoon, my excitement about spending quality time with the person I loved more than life itself, the blood spatter on the tea tray, my uncle passing halfway down the stairs, and when I had to tell my dad his only brother, who he loved more than life itself, was gone.

But the moment on repeat in my head is my uncle looking out of the kitchen window. I kept wondering what went through his mind as he knew he was struggling to take in his last few breaths. What things would he wish he had said, to whom? What things would he regret? What things would he wish for if he had a few more moments?

I can’t help but wish I hadn’t been so frantic trying to get him to the hospital. I wish I could’ve stopped if only for a second to be there with him, hug him and say “I love you,” hold his hand, and let him know he would never be forgotten. Something to make him feel a little more at peace in his final moments among us.

It makes me think of what my final moments would look and feel like. What would my last words be, and what would I like to leave behind? What would I want my daughter and son to know? Will I get to hug my wife one last time? And which of my friends would I like to be there as I depart from this world forever?

Would I tell them how much I love them, how much they mean to me, and how rich and full my life has been because they were part of it?

Haunted by the memory of my uncle standing alone in our kitchen, I have made it a point to tell the people around me how much they mean to me and how brilliant my life is because they are in it. But I’ve always felt it’s not enough. The writer in me wants to leave them with something written they can always refer to after I’m gone.

The voice in the back of my head keeps telling me, “How arrogant of you. You think yourself a sage, a philosopher, or maybe a prophet! Why would your words matter to anyone?”

Then I find myself back at the doorway of our home in Syria, with Hussein Sr. standing in the kitchen. The young, frightened and confused me. Oh, how much I wished for anything from the man I was named after and looked up to all my life.

I still long for that lost moment when he whispers his secret of a life worth living in my ear while we drink our last cup of tea together.

Today, I live my life true to his legacy and the name I carry. I like to believe he would approve, pat me on the back, and tell me, “I love you,” if only we had a few more moments together.