Jiddo

Sunday morning i woke up, put on my gym cloth and went for a ritual jog with dad on the "corniche" (for those of you who do not know, the corniche is a long path along the sea in the middle of Beirut).
Once i arrived near Kantaki on Raouche i started my search. For who or what, u ask? For Jiddo (meaning grandfather), i answer.
Not my paternal or maternal Jiddo. But an old man stranger...a stranger that over years and years still managed to stay a stranger to me.
I first realized how important that stranger is to me when, 9 years ago, my drama class teacher handed us papers and pens and asked us to just write something...anything that comes to mind...and for some very weird reason the first thing that came to my mind was this old man. I was puzzled by that fact. I used to see Jiddo almost everyday on my way back from school. same timing, same route every single day. and i used to see him always in the same place next to Kantaki, by a garbage bin. But i never thought of that until i was asked to write "something". So i wrote about how intrigued i was by the life of this old man.
Days went by, i graduated from school, i no longer take same route at the same time back home. Moreover i travelled to study outside Lebanon, came back to work in Lebanon, then left again to work in London...BUT i never ever pass by Kantaki without looking around and hoping that Jiddo is still there...that he is still alive...and year after year Jiddo have not failed me.
I tried at many times to speak with him, let him know of my existence, let him be aware that i am aware of his existence. But i've never tried to know him more. Each time i approach him, i hand him a sum of money that i would keep away just for him, he says "Shukran"and that is about it!
So who is he? what does he do? is he a beggar? does he work in Kantaki? does he take the garbage out? does he have a family? does he have a home? how old is he? and...what is his name?
Same morning, i got the news that a family friend's dad passed away. I went to pay my condolences. I do not personally know her father, however i was very sad for her loss. That morning i accompanied the wife of the deceased to her home in order for her to put on some black cloth. It was the first time she goes to their home after her husband passed away...it was a pain feeling this old lady's pain while going through his things, his glasses, his newspaper and so on. And i thought...what about Jiddo? Who will be there when he dies? Who will be at his funeral? I have been seeing this man solo for 10 years, i could not imagine him with a life of his own.
I guess i will never know...but i learned something very important from Jiddo. And that is to be aware of the people around me, to give them the chance and the right to be part of my life. So i owe it to Jiddo that my waiting times at the coffee shop every single morning are much more enjoyable, now that i got to know the staff that works there, i owe it to him that i am not naming my daughter Alegria (meaning Joy in spanish) since this spanish lady who works at Itshu (where i get my lunch almost everyday) made fun of me when i told her that, and i thought it was an original name! How many times do we get into and out of the tube per day? How many faces do we see just in the tube and the tube station? How degrading are tube rides? There are certainly many people who live across the street from you who take same route everyday at same time to work... Imagine u could pinpoint Jiddosss in the tube. Familiar faces, familiar voices...Imagine u could SPEAK to them...how much less painful the ride would be?
I owe it to Jiddo that everyday that goes by, especially in a humongous city like London, is a more personalized day and a less lonely day.
Jiddo will probably never be aware that i am writing this about him...but thank you Jiddo.

Furaha