What is Your Pen Writing?

Pens. Lots of them. My grandfather, Jiddo Jamil, loved pens. He loved to collect them. He loved receiving them as gifts. He loved giving them for gifts. Whenever I took him to the bank, he always made it a point to test the pen, jotting down his name slowly in English letters. If he liked it, he complimented the person at the window. "Good," he said, shaking his fist with a thumbs up. Sometimes they gave it to him. Whenever that happened, he would retire to his room, reach for his journal, and write a reflection or a poem. In Arabic.

Jiddo Jamil was an educator. A principal. An intellectual. The Head of Education in Aleppo, Syria for many years. He always had a book in hand and another by his side, waiting to be opened. He loved politics. Watched debates. Read the newspaper. Read the books banned in Syria in our Florida home. He was diplomatic, and had important friends and acquaintances. He was always in a suit and tie, even if it was simply to go outside, walk to the end of our driveway, and get the mail when he visited. He took care of his health. He walked everywhere in Aleppo and in Panama City, Florida: my dad's office, Wal-Mart, the bank, the mall, the citadel of Aleppo, the old city with cobblestones - always with his pen and a small notebook tucked in the hidden compartment of his suit jacket.

"How are you in such great shape?" community members would ask him. "For 50 years, I never missed praying salat al duha, the prayer of charity for my health."

But he lived in fear, fear of the Assad regime and fear of the moukhabarat, especially when his son, my father, became wanted and, only through a miracle, escaped in 1979. He loved his country; he was a proud Syrian; when he visited America, he always gave us saboon ghaar, Aleppo's specialty olive oil soap, and said, "This is the product of Sooriya, your country."

The red clouds of the bloodthirsty regime was no secret to him even though he hung a portrait of Hafez al-Assad right in the middle of his living room, where the moukhabarat could see when they visited.

He once gave a pen to a man he secretly knew was a moukhabarat. When the man asked, “What do I do with this?” My grandfather responded, “Don’t write names. Instead, write: ‏نون والقلم وما يسطرون —Nun. By the pen and what everyone writes”  (Quran 68:1-2). The written names were always the people who disappeared days later.

He never talked about the Assad regime's crimes and evil, even though some of his family members were tortured or killed. His pen would never write it.

I'm 39, one of 38 grandchildren, and I too inherited his love of pens. I test them out at the bank. I always compliment the secretary if I like the way it writes. Sometimes they give it to me. When they do, I retire to my room, pull out my journal, and write a reflection. In English.

Words are powerful. They can build; they can break. They can move people; they can paralyze people. Words can breathe life in weakness; words can inflict sickness in health. But the best words are good words. Good words resemble good trees with strong roots where branches lift to the sky (Quran 14:24). Ugly words resemble ugly trees with uprooted and unstable roots (Quran 14:25). It begins with the pen. What is your pen writing? Because the words that will flow out are the same words that are inside of you. Is your inside dark or is it light? Are your roots unstable or are they strong? These are the questions we ask; these are the answers our pens will write--with letters or with our actions.

My grandfather died four days before I gave birth to my twin daughters at the age of 93. I wrote a reflection on this. On how when God takes a soul, He gifts those left behind with new life. In my case, He gifted two. And I hope to pass down the inheritance of the pen and the power of the good word to my five children the way my Jiddo passed it down to me.

Today, Syria is free, a dream no one believed could be possible. I wish Jiddo were alive to witness this miracle after the gut-wrenching fear he swallowed daily. I wish I could give him a well-crafted pen, engraved with his name, watch him retreat to his room, then emerge to read aloud the many pages for a free Syria that his pen could finally write.

My aunt Amal telling Jiddo that his dream of a free Syria has happened, and that Yahia, his son, can finally return home after 46 years. December 8, 2024.

Jiddo before his passing.

Jiddo. My dad, Dr. Yahia Rahim. My second son, Dawude. March 2010.

My twin girls, Hawaa and Zahraa - four days after the passing of Jiddo. February 4, 2016.

Highschool graduation (with my brother Osama and Jiddo). Panama City, Florida. May 2003.

Saboon Ghaar, Aleppo Olive oil soap.

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