Nana Um-Hashem 1921-2018
The days of Saturday 9/15 – Thursday 9/20/2018 have been intensely unique for me. I arrived to Panama City, FL early Saturday morning to my maternal grandmother’s quite intimidating ICU bedside. She was moved to a regular bed the next day where she was lucid and giving orders, asserting her preferences, praying and reciting scriptures, laughing and singing. Nana passed away on Tuesday morning and was buried Wednesday evening.
Losing the eldest surviving family member is a heavy ordeal for any family. It is especially intense for an immigrant family like ours who did not move to the US for the obvious educational opportunities or a better financial future, but for raw basic survival to escape the oppression exacted on them by the very founders of today’s vile genocidal Syrian dictatorship.
There is so much I can say about my grandmother’s education, career, travels, family life, etc —but I won’t, because to me she is foremost my Nana. She is my Nana who yelled at me for not wearing slippers on the tile inside the house or the cardinal sin of stepping outdoors barefoot, or for wiping the table with the rag designated for wiping the countertops or for using the pots & pan sponge to clean the cups. She is my Nana who once a year would bring us authentic Syrian string cheese shipped from her Aleppo birthplace, then scolded us if we ate too much of it or ate it without the proper measure of pita bread. From as early as I can remember through the last time I saw her in her home, my Nana still lamented, dear Yaman what happened to your beautiful blonde hair that you had as child? When I was a teenager, Nana this was commonly followed by, and don’t let your bangs touch your forehead because that has a bad meaning in Syria. And if I dared answer back in my usual American version of watered-down Arabic, Nana would snap back, stop talking Armenian to me and pronounce your Arabic correctly!
My Nana, this multidimensional, multilingual, sharp-witted disciplinarian, teacher, and matriarch was also the reason that I took French in high school –in order to finally be privy to her mealtime French-only secret conversations with my grandfather... most commonly about how I failed to wash my hands before coming to the table (gramps would secretly translate). After dinner, fruit was mandatory for my Nana –and so was my arguing with her that oranges don’t need to be washed because we don’t eat the peel… which was then followed by her jabbering angrily in French at my grandfather rather than heaven forbid, responding directly to me. Yet at the end of every meal with her and my grandfather, Nana would turn to me and declare (in Arabic this time), you see, a good husband peels oranges for his wife. Since my grandfather passed away during my sophomore year of high school, my Nana alone is who I blame that j'avais étudié le français à l'école secondaire became entirely pointless :-) but she also gets credit every time I peel an orange pour ma chère femme.
Even back then, I knew better than to complain because after all, there were significant perks of being a teenager NOT living with my own parents --like random day trips to NYC or road trips to DC or that one time I flew to Chicago, along with slightly more senior ditch days than I’ve ever fessed up to. It was also way easier to hide stuff from her than my own parents, like the spot under our bathroom sink where I hid my can of Nana-banned men’s hair spray (hey, it was the 80’s so that was before moose or jell!) Somehow, my Nana imposed just the right concoction of love and fear. Out of all my cousins, this concoction was uniquely complicated for me because of how it threaded in both forgiveness and accountability before my own father. You see, my father’s mother had passed before he got married, so at the onset of his relationship with my Nana… otherwise known as the two most argumentative, manipulative, stoic, and stubborn individuals of their time, these two people set aside highly title-defined Arab tradition and brokered the most loving, endearing lifelong arrangement --that my father would only address her as Mama. This was unique to him, and not extended to her two other sons-in-law and two other daughters-in-law. For all the times I saw my father and Nana interact, their special relationship was entirely and totally beautiful... except of course on those colorful days when she actually treated him like her son!
The days of Saturday 9/15 – Thursday 9/20/2018 have been intensely unique for me. I arrived to Panama City, FL early Saturday morning to my maternal grandmother’s quite intimidating ICU bedside. She was moved to a regular bed the next day where she was lucid and giving orders, asserting her preferences, praying and reciting scriptures, laughing and singing. Nana passed away on Tuesday morning and was buried Wednesday evening.
Losing the eldest surviving family member is a heavy ordeal for any family. It is especially intense for an immigrant family like ours who did not move to the US for the obvious educational opportunities or a better financial future, but for raw basic survival to escape the oppression exacted on them by the very founders of today’s vile genocidal Syrian dictatorship.
Tuesday 9/18/2018: This morning our family’s beloved 96-year-old matriarch returned to her Creator: My maternal grandmother, the only grandmother I have known, Samia Bianouni --may your soul be blissful and blessed.
There is so much I can say about my grandmother’s education, career, travels, family life, etc —but I won’t, because to me she is foremost my Nana. She is my Nana who yelled at me for not wearing slippers on the tile inside the house or the cardinal sin of stepping outdoors barefoot, or for wiping the table with the rag designated for wiping the countertops or for using the pots & pan sponge to clean the cups. She is my Nana who once a year would bring us authentic Syrian string cheese shipped from her Aleppo birthplace, then scolded us if we ate too much of it or ate it without the proper measure of pita bread. From as early as I can remember through the last time I saw her in her home, my Nana still lamented, dear Yaman what happened to your beautiful blonde hair that you had as child? When I was a teenager, Nana this was commonly followed by, and don’t let your bangs touch your forehead because that has a bad meaning in Syria. And if I dared answer back in my usual American version of watered-down Arabic, Nana would snap back, stop talking Armenian to me and pronounce your Arabic correctly!
“Lucky” for me, my Arabic improved with time and that facilitated a lifetime of regular phone check-ups with Nana. It was always the grandson’s duty to call his grandmother because the reverse is unbecoming if not disgraceful. Even though it was my dime calling her, for many years our calls were still about her checking up on me –most profoundly during the entire first four years of my marriage. Let’s just say those phone interrogations, advice, and oh yes instructions from Nana about exactly why my wife was not yet pregnant became “increasingly precise.” So to all my guy-friends who advised me to avoid marriage advice from my father—bite me, thanks for nothing!
My Nana, this multidimensional, multilingual, sharp-witted disciplinarian, teacher, and matriarch was also the reason that I took French in high school –in order to finally be privy to her mealtime French-only secret conversations with my grandfather... most commonly about how I failed to wash my hands before coming to the table (gramps would secretly translate). After dinner, fruit was mandatory for my Nana –and so was my arguing with her that oranges don’t need to be washed because we don’t eat the peel… which was then followed by her jabbering angrily in French at my grandfather rather than heaven forbid, responding directly to me. Yet at the end of every meal with her and my grandfather, Nana would turn to me and declare (in Arabic this time), you see, a good husband peels oranges for his wife. Since my grandfather passed away during my sophomore year of high school, my Nana alone is who I blame that j'avais étudié le français à l'école secondaire became entirely pointless :-) but she also gets credit every time I peel an orange pour ma chère femme.
It turns out ma chère grand-mère rocked her own world all along. Unlike her career-blazing city-girl 1930’s-1960’s peers, my Nana blazed right past them in her education, career, community leadership and advocacy, and even her quite non-traditional marriage. The reason however, that Nana stood out from her peers is that she did all of this while still relentlessly adhering to her religious convictions in every aspect of her personal and public life –very literally right through to her last breath. Her oldest daughter, my own mommy became the Damascus University School of Pharmacy's only hijab-clad student --quickly to be followed by my Nana's second daughter who became the Damascus University School of Medicine's only hijab-clad med student. Yes, much of this contemporary religious revival is proudly attributed to my Nana’s marriage to the man who grew into a Syrian statesman and renowned scholar wove inspiration into her life and into all of ours, but it did so right alongside the oppressive requisite heartache of diaspora. By the time my Nana was forced to resettle in the US 38 years ago, my Nana had lived in Aleppo and Damascus Syria, Beirut Lebanon, Khartoom Sudan, Amman Jordan and Makkah Saudi Arabia.
Nana blessed my childhood that in addition to her visits to the States, I spent several months with her and my grandfather both in Amman and in Makkah. The childhood milestone of my relationship with Nana, however, was when we became roomies in our North Brunswick NJ apartment during my senior year of high school when my father’s employment moved my own family temporarily overseas. During that year, it was pretty common that Nana would holler then wait for me, then holler and wait and holler again until I finally came to pray with her every day when I came home from school… just as she hollered out for my mandatory translation services as she dutifully watched every episode of the infamous 80’s evening soap, Dallas. We had the same ritual for Little House on the Prairie, though it was far less egregious if an episode of LHP was skipped.
Even back then, I knew better than to complain because after all, there were significant perks of being a teenager NOT living with my own parents --like random day trips to NYC or road trips to DC or that one time I flew to Chicago, along with slightly more senior ditch days than I’ve ever fessed up to. It was also way easier to hide stuff from her than my own parents, like the spot under our bathroom sink where I hid my can of Nana-banned men’s hair spray (hey, it was the 80’s so that was before moose or jell!) Somehow, my Nana imposed just the right concoction of love and fear. Out of all my cousins, this concoction was uniquely complicated for me because of how it threaded in both forgiveness and accountability before my own father. You see, my father’s mother had passed before he got married, so at the onset of his relationship with my Nana… otherwise known as the two most argumentative, manipulative, stoic, and stubborn individuals of their time, these two people set aside highly title-defined Arab tradition and brokered the most loving, endearing lifelong arrangement --that my father would only address her as Mama. This was unique to him, and not extended to her two other sons-in-law and two other daughters-in-law. For all the times I saw my father and Nana interact, their special relationship was entirely and totally beautiful... except of course on those colorful days when she actually treated him like her son!
I am pretty sure that by now, you get the picture why Nana always kept me hopping –which is exactly why this past week with her in Panama City FL was so intensely different for me. For the first time, the always-a-boy grandson inside me stopped hopping long enough to see my Nana’s world beyond just her and I. It turns out that this woman was a local icon. For long-term residents and newer immigrant families alike, my Nana was the uncontested mother of her community. Among other things I just learned about Panama City FL is that for just under three decades, quite literally every Muslim woman and her mother attended a weekly Friday-evening religious study circle lead by my Nana. Nonetheless, I honestly still could not help but think that no one else could love my amazing Nana as much as me… until time after the next, I was humbled and overwhelmed as the local Panama City FL women and men who I entirely don’t know keep repeating, “she was our mother too.”
My awesome Nana passed as she lived —Queen of her tribe, commanding, proud, poised, and purposed. Survived by 5 kids, 23 grand kids, more great-grandkids than I can count, and way way way more love than my heart can imagine or my words can describe.
As I replayed and distilled every memory of my Nana, there was clearly no avoiding that what my life will miss most is my Nana’s regular prayers for me and my family. Every time that she and I spoke, the last thing I would say was, dear Nana do you still pray for me? Nana would say, yes dear Yaman, of course I always pray for you. Then I would say, and for my wife and my kids? Nana would say, yes of course dear, I also pray for your wife and your kids. As entirely illogical as this sounds, I never imagined that one day I would be the one left praying for her.
To Our Creator belong what is His. To Our Creator we entrust your sweet beloved soul dear Nana. To Our Creator I eternally entrust my Nana’s prayers for me and my wife and my kids.
God bless you always dear Nana. I love you always dear Nana.
