My Name is ‘Dreamer’: I was Resurrected at the Age of 24

“Good luck my son — May God bless you — be a real and very good man — I count on you.” My father’s eyes brimmed with tears as he said these words to me from his bed, where he had been confined due to illness. He was 85 and unable to move after losing his capacity to walk normally overnight. At the time, I could not possibly have known these would be the last “motivating phrase” I would ever hear him speak to me. His words reverberated in my ears and I was completely overwhelmed with emotion. My nearly 61-year-old mother leaned against my chest immobile, silently crying. It was an extremely touching yet difficult moment she was experiencing. Her young son was leaving home and would no longer be by her side. He was leaving home, pursuing a better future for himself and the family. It felt to her as if a part of her body would remain paralyzed for a while and yet, from the bottom of her heart, she believed his soul would never fade.

It was 3 PM in Morocco. One hot August day in 2017, with the scorching sun forcing the temperature to 40 degrees Celsius, dramatic and unforgotten memories flooded into my brain as I prepared to drag my luggage down the stairs. A long journey was ahead of me. I was about to leave Morocco for Frankfurt, on my way to my destination of Warsaw, where I had been accepted into a Master’s program to study with a full-ride scholarship. This was an achievement that my family was extremely proud of. Looking back, I experienced the profound realization that I was no longer the child I used to see through the eyes of my parents. I was no longer the child who needed to be taken care of. The child had become the caretaker.

It was an eight-hour flight, overshadowed by nostalgia and yet full of excitement. I carried my parents deep in my heart and my prayers as I looked on Morocco from the sky, imagining “to what extent overseas would be better than here. Does home mean Morocco or only my aged parents.” A remarkable sign of becoming an expat quickly emerged, predicting that I was at the first stage of adopting everlasting loneliness.

When I was nine I very much looked forward to growing up, dreaming that I would somehow become my family’s lifelong source of pride by achieving something unprecedented. I would become an important figure in the environment that I would hopefully carve out for myself. Since then, many sentiments have crossed my mind many times over, creating flashbacks, remembrances of childhood, some good and some hard. Over the years, they have served to inspire me to remain resilient, regardless of the struggles I have experienced on my journey.

As it turned out, leaving Morocco felt like a resurrection. I grew up in a small, unprogressive, developing rural village, nestled in the middle of mountains, lacking even basic facilities. Poverty-stricken parents face serious obstacles trying to provide even a small stipend toward the education of just one child. I lost track of the number of childhood friends who dropped out of school because of the lack of financial support. For me, education was an all-consuming struggle. All of my limited resources were set steadily on achieving my goal and I vowed to crawl if necessary to attain it, even if it took my last breath. During each summer season, I was a worker ant looking to the long, cold winter, working non-stop and saving everything I could for my dream.

Back Home to Bid a Farewell

I have always dreamed of appearing before my family as a completely accomplished individual, capable of securing their well-being. I knew that to do this, I would most likely need to take the radical step of going abroad, at least for a while. Sadly, however, my dream would never be fully realized after all. My rebirth and new life were cut short six months after my arrival in Warsaw. Living as a stranger away from my homeland, I received unexpected and deeply sorrowful news which forever changed the positions of the pieces on my chess board. It was January 14, 2018. I was still formulating my New Year’s resolutions when, sadly, everything outside and inside of me collapsed. My beloved father, the man I dreamed would one day see my success and share in its bounty suddenly drew his last breath. He left me with only his shadow to fill my imagination. My dad, the man who taught me how to be a man, no longer existed. He would no longer see his own dreams for me reach fruition. His departure was a devastating blow.

I had to buy a cheap flight to go back home, forcing me to endure a near 24-hour sleepless trip home, including a horrible 10-hour layover in Brussels. I wanted more than anything to return carrying with me my final achievements, head raised, my arms opened wide for a warm hug from the one person who could no longer give it. Everything had turned away from that dream so quickly.

Instead, I returned home with a face devoid of colour and voice, speaking only the language of ‘tears’. My six brothers and two sisters surrounded my widowed mother, just staring at each other. The sun in our home had set for the final time. Suddenly, it became difficult to cope with a new and challenging part of life. How would I ever cope seeing my mother without imagining my father sitting next to her with a broad smile, filling out all of the empty spaces of home? What a different experience it would be to see my mother without seeing my father by her side as they had lived for 47 years.

Almost as painful was having to cope with the fact that I had missed his funeral. I had lost the chance to speak the words I now longed to say to him before his body was committed to the ground: “I love you and I am eternally grateful to you.”

All that remains now are only photos of us together poignantly sculpting my memories. He was and will always remain my complete role model. He was more than my larger-than-life character, starring in blockbuster film of my life’s story.

May His soul forever rest in peace.