Perhaps no one who knew the stern-faced man could recall ever seeing him smile or laugh. Nothing about him suggested tenderness or emotion. This man, originally from a rural village, bore sharp features and a hard gaze that instilled awe and respect in his family, acquaintances, and even the people of his village near Homs. Having lived his life close to the stubborn land, he himself became hardened, immune to joy—or even to smiling.

When his eldest son obtained his high school diploma, the father asked him what he planned to do. The son, with the same confidence and seriousness he had inherited from his father, replied:
— I want to travel to Germany to continue my studies.
— Prepare yourself for the journey. I want you to obtain the highest degree.

The conversation ended there. The son left his small city of Homs at the beginning of the 1960s, heading to Germany with nothing but his high school diploma, the necessary university papers, his father’s stern face, and that sharp instruction to obtain the highest degree.

Years later, after completing his studies, the son returned to his hometown. He carried with him not only the advanced degree his father had demanded, but also German citizenship granted for his brilliance and academic excellence, as well as an exceptional work contract. For many years since, he has served as the director of a branch of the renowned pharmaceutical company Bayer, where thirteen specialists—each holding the title of “Doctor”—work under his supervision, in addition to several German technicians and administrators. He alone among them bears both the title of Doctor and Professor.

But let us return to the rural man of stern features, the man unfamiliar with laughter, smiling, or any expression of affection—the man whose sharp gaze struck fear and awe into all around him. When his son returned from abroad, having completed his studies as commanded, the family, relatives, and friends gathered to celebrate. That evening, when only the family remained at home, the son opened his large suitcase and began distributing the gifts he had brought with him. With joy, he handed each family member and relative a present.

Then a heavy silence fell. Everyone had received a gift—except the father. All eyes turned to him. His face remained unreadable, neutral. After a moment, the son returned to his suitcase, pulled out a rolled-up paper tied with a ribbon, and handed it to his father, saying:
— As for you, Father, I found no gift better than this… it is my Doctorate in Medicine.

Once again, all eyes turned to the father’s face—the same severe face they had always known. But this time they saw what no one had ever seen before. Two tears were rolling down his cheeks, and on his lips appeared something resembling a smile—yet one filled with joy and pride.

It is well known that the cactus plant is the hardest and most unyielding of all plants, and that this harsh plant produces only once a year a large flower, which lives no more than a day or two. But that flower is more beautiful and delicate than any blossom other plants may offer. Perhaps those two tears and that rare smile on the stern man’s face were his cactus flower.

Motasem Dalati
2008-03-24