"Remember what I told you."

Whenever we'd hear my father’s truck pull into the driveway, we’d scurry like cockroaches. (My sister once described) We would hide in our rooms and pretend to be asleep. Sometimes my dad would check on us, so we learned that pretending to be asleep was our best option. More often we would hear the front door slam as he stormed into the basement, never to be seen for the rest of the night. One of us would crawl out of bed to check if the coast was clear and quietly continue to play or watch T.V. If he ever did leave his room, we’d sneak up to the door and listen through the cracks at him yelling at our mom. The rule was to keep as quiet as possible, and staying out of the way seemed to work best. There were parts of the house that were out of bounds when he was home, and we weren’t allowed to move around because any little creek would result in him storming up the stairs from the basement to violently scream at us, for waking him up. Sometimes he’d break our things, to really prove a point, calling us every name possible in Arabic; "Sharmouta. Kess Ommak, Hemar, Ibn al Kalb, Telhas Teeze." (sp?) He’d run back downstairs once he successfully made us all cry in fear; his job was done. Sometimes he'd stay in his room for what felt like days, smoking and watching T.V. before re-surfacing like nothing had happened.

My dad had this saying anytime we would leave the house, “Embarrass me, and I will embarrass you.” And if we were ever out of line he would whisper in our ears, “Remember what I told you.” Those words still haunt me. I was scared. Scared of the world, scared of talking, scared of going to school, scared of having conversations, scared of telling people what I believed. I kept my mouth shut for most of my life in fear of the consequences- even when my dad would deny the Holocaust, or use all kinds of racial slurs in public. I've only tested him a few times and the consequences, which was pissing myself in front of my sisters, or my dad choking me in public as he dragged me across the floor by my hood, were enough for me to not test him again. 

My mom had it worse. It almost felt as if my father’s mission was to break her down. Her selflessness and strength is beyond beautiful. She didn't have to be with my father. She sacrificed herself to protect us and that had a significant effect on me. She was very quiet and rarely spoke when my dad was around. My mom would always do this thing when my dad had just finished yelling at us, she’d wink and make a silly face, and we’d all try and hold in our laugh. If my dad caught us, he’d think we were laughing at him, which would just ensue in another screaming fit. Most of the abuse was directed at her, and he did things to directly hurt her; mentally, physically and emotionally. He prevented her from seeing her own family- she would only be allowed to go once a year. When her father was sick, I remember her only being allowed to go once or twice and the last time she could see him was at his funeral. He prevented us all from getting to know my mom’s side of the family, and they are good people. But all of that never stopped my mom from being super positive and hilarious when he wasn't around.

He had this technique to scare my mom. We would be driving somewhere, and I would watch the speedometer go from 80 to 100, to 150 km/hr. He would drive recklessly - cutting cars off, driving so close to the shoulder of the road, taking turns at a dangerous speed. I would be squeezing my sister’s hand, as my heart would race at a speed that matched his driving. My body would tense up, bracing itself for impact. I'd look over at my mom who would sit there with her eyes closed, none of us wanted to look death straight in the eye. Unfortunately, my body still remains this tense. I think I spent most of my life holding my breath. I catch myself gasping for air throughout the day. Even while I sleep, I can feel my husband try to pry my clenched fingers open. 

My mom just felt so invincible to me. I think she learned to escape the present and get lost in her thoughts, or at least I hope she blocked out whatever belittling things he would say or do to her. Blocking out the noise was a skill we all picked up from her. My mom chose her battles wisely though, she didn’t always just sit there and take all of it. At times, she would have enough courage to storm into his room with confidence and scream to defend us. But she didn’t have to do that. We knew what happened behind closed doors was worse than what we saw, and we never wanted to put my mom in that sort of danger. I think we all had the same intuition for danger, and I remember at a very young age having that feeling to protect my sisters. I always felt the need to keep an eye on them whenever my father was around, and I think he was aware of it. But the fear that built up inside of me, of having to try and pretend I was tough, was hard. I bet if I ever lifted my hand, you could actually see it trembling from the fear that I would be holding back when I was around him. But that day did come, where I had to stand up to him. And to stand up to a figure who I feared more than anyone, felt liberating. Someone who threatened to kill me, but also the person who I loved most, made me realize I wasn’t the scared person who I thought I was. At that point was when I realized that I had the sort of power that I didn’t know was possible. His retaliation was to just ignore me and we would go months to a year at a time not talking, and living under the same roof. He knew his silence would cut deeper than his words.

I can go on and on about the abuse we endured, but that's not totally the point here. I don't mean to paint my father in a bad light. I knew my father loved us. I never questioned his love for me. I also wouldn't trade those experiences, because everything I am today started with that darkness that he brought into the world. So much of what I have learned in my life in regard to family, love and communication, is what not to do by example of him. When my father died, it was the day I was reborn. It almost seems like a different life to me now. I've had so many beautiful experiences since he has passed. I’ve traveled the world, I’ve felt true happiness. I have learned that you can be born with bad cards, but you have the choice to choose your own path. Keeping my childhood close to my chest is no longer valid, because those in similar situations may want to hear that they are not alone and things could get better if you choose to make them better. Every little thing that happened, formed me into the person I am today. And it's not incredible, but it’s a lot better than who my dad was. I buried my father on July 13th 2010, one day before my birthday, and I remember standing in the pouring rain, looking down at his coffin six feet under and thinking, "finally, we're free." 

**I know I briefly mentioned that my father was murdered, and you are all probably wondering the story behind that. I will not be sharing that story. I will potentially revisit at a later time if everyone involved is on board.**