Sometimes, sorrow prevails and pain surfaces. You try to distance them, but they insist on staying. During the year 2010 which is about to take its last breath in 45 days, prominent cultural names and symbols met their Maker, and we do not know who will depart along with them before the new year comes into view. During the last few months, these names disappeared because death does not differentiate between the old and the young, the rich and the poor, the famous and the common and is God's will on earth. Arab symbols left us in consecutive months, as though they had agreed to leave during the same year. I do not like to enumerate the names of the dead, or else I would have written about my father who passed away in 2000 in a tragic car accident. Among those symbols who departed this year were Mohammed Abed al-Jabri, Mohammed Arkoun, Ahmad al-Baghdadi, Ghazi Al-Qusaibi and Muhammad Abdo Yamani, May Allah rest their souls and grant their families patience and consolation. Last Thursday, I was invited to attend a dinner far from the hustle and bustle of the capital Riyadh, out in the open and under the lights of the stars that are scattered in the sky, but remained in contact with the colleagues at the newspaper from time to time. All of a sudden, I started receiving countless phone calls from colleagues, all of whom were expressing their deep sorrow and extending their condolences for the death of colleague and friend Imad Eddin Dhaban from cancer. This colleague had spent around twenty years in Al-Hayat newspaper, during which he was a model employee who was extremely committed to his work, to the point where he was described by the colleagues as being the man with the “white file.” Three years ago, colleague Imad (May he rest in peace) came to my office, smiling, to inform me he was diagnosed with cancer and that the doctors told him that the cancerous tumor could be defeated with chemotherapy. I thus asked him to go get his treatment and not to mind work and to consider himself on an open vacation until he is cured, telling him that the newspaper was willing to do whatever he needed based on the instructions of the publisher. Imad thus left my office and I was hopeful he would be cured. At the same time, I thought about the end of the life of a man who is always smiling and who is loved by all his colleagues and friends. Following an ongoing treatment for about three months, he came back to the office after he had lost weight and after his hair had fallen off his head and his thick beard. However, his smile did not change and his deep sensitivity was not altered by the “malignant” illness. I was so happy to see him return and asked him what the doctors had told him. He said: Thanks to Allah, I am doing well and the tumor was eliminated by chemotherapy. I could not contain my joy and asked him to continue taking his medication and communicating with the doctors. Imad returned to work as normal, and was able – thanks to his wonderful smile and his ability to overcome pain – to make us forget his illness. However, three months ago, he came back to tell me that the tumor had reemerged in the same place but in a more critical way, and that he had to go through chemotherapy again. I thus repeated what I had told him the first time, hoping he would heal soon and urging him not to hesitate to ask for any help. I do not know why this time around, I felt he was leaving us for good. Imad started therapy and I was following his state up-close. About a week ago, he came to the newspaper on a “last visit,” as though he wanted to bid his colleagues farewell. He came after he had lost his hair, his beard and a lot of weight, and while wearing a mask on his face as per the doctors' recommendations to prevent him from catching any virus in light of his poor immunity. During that visit, I looked at his face once and felt he was saying good bye. I asked him: “Do you need anything?” But he only responded by saying: “Thank you all,” as it is usually done by loyal people who depart way too quickly, leaving behind lifelong memories. During the Friday sermon, the Al-Rajihi mosque in Riyadh was filled with colleagues, friends and members of the family of Imad who had all come for the prayer and the burial. In the evening, I went to his home to extend my condolences to his family, and when I arrived at the doorstep, an idea came to me. I could not resist it but I held on to it before his siblings and parents. However, it soon returned when I kissed Ahmad, his seven-year old son who was the only boy among five sisters. I wondered while holding the hand of an innocent child, how life will be for his sisters and his mother following the death of a father who knew what they wanted and who affectionately provided them with all their needs. I felt a deep pain as a painting of sorrow was being drawn in front of me. Still, I remembered his father's smile and his permanent optimism and left the condolences with grief in my heart. That is the way men are. They leave quietly without letting you know they are suffering. They resist the toughest illnesses with a smile and without ever moaning, even as they are trying to keep away the ghost of “self-destruction.” Colleague Imad Dhaban passed away at age 44, leaving great pain among his family members, friends and colleagues, especially since he lived far away from his “occupied” country and was able to overcome many difficult circumstances. May your soul rest in peace, Imad. You hoped you would return to a free and independent Palestine, without any disputes or division between parties and movements that marginalized the cause and turned toward infighting. However, Allah wanted you to die while optimistic, smiling and hopeful. Close your eyes my friend and sleep in peace, because we will follow, or as it was said by Saudi Information Minister Abdul-Aziz Khoja during the eulogy of Muhammad Abdo Yamani: “I salute you my brother and I know you care. So will you smile on us? My brother, we will meet some day. So I will be seeing you!”
