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MY FIRST DARK DAYS
Saif,
The summer of 1977 was wonderful. We went on a cruise liner around the Mediterranean and the
Black Sea. We swam and played on board in the sun. We strolled around different port cities and we
met my Russian grandparents in Odessa. I have clearer memories of this short holiday than of many
experiences I have had since.
We came home to Abu Dhabi in the Emirates at the end of summer and went back to school. Then
came the day when my younger brother and I were brought back home. Then my older brother and
sister were flown home from boarding school. Then my mother sat us down and told us that our father
had “died” and was not coming back. I remember my younger brother and I did not understand what
“died” meant and so we were told that he had gone away to a place called heaven. Would he be
coming back? We were five and six years old respectively. I thought to die was a temporary act and
as soon as it was completed, my father would be returning—sort of like going to the office or going
shopping. My younger brother had even less of an idea of what was going on, but we were both
certain that nothing serious had happened.
On the day of his assassination, your grandmother recounts, he stood at the top of the stairs and
told her that he had been called to see off the Syrians at the airport and that it was an unexpected
request. “I am not meant to be seeing him off,” he said. “I have other things to do today.” But he
dutifully complied. My mother says he looked angelic that day. That there was an aura around him.
Perhaps it was hindsight, but she speaks of having had a feeling, a premonition of something that was
about to happen.
He headed to the airport and met with the other officials and visitors. In the airport entrance, shots
rang out. Amid the panic, it was alleged that his loyal driver dragged him to the car. The person who
killed him was a nineteen-year-old Palestinian gunman. My father had become the direct victim of
inter-Arab gun politics as it related to the Palestinian Question and the Assad regime of the 1970s and
their brutal massacres of Palestinian refugees.
I learned in short conversations scattered haphazardly over the years what that day meant for
people. The news came out fairly quickly that the assassin was a Palestinian. This caused anger and
in some cases rage among my fellow Emiratis. This was for a host of reasons. The UAE, under the