When I became a U.S. citizen and was able to travel anywhere in the world, the only place I  visited was back home to see my dad. Like most of my visits, this trip started with a summons because he was hospitalized again. My sister and I met up and flew together. I don't remember much of my emotional state on our way there, but I didn't have a good feeling about it. We landed on a bumpy runway in Bole Addis airport and went directly to the hospital. We waited our turn to see him since he was in the ICU. Given our circumstance the strict "rule" seemed like a joke, that was there to test our patience, but everyone seemed to follow it, so we did too. We waited anxiously in the corridor trying to ignore the distinct smell that hospitals emit. (I don't like that smell).

It was our turn and I walked in slowly with this feeling of dread. I singled him out from the row of patients (the ICU was communal). He was lying on a white, metalframed bed with his eyes open, gazing nowhere in particular. I hugged him and told him it was me and that I had come to see him. He was intubated, but even if he wasn't, he wouldn't have said anything. Dad stopped talking after his depression got worse. Sometimes on special occasions when God or a glitch in his brain allowed it, he would talk. It was like he snapped out of his depressed self and became the old Baba we knew. These were rare occasions that brought joy to our family; seeing Dad remember us and talk to us like he had just awaken from a deep Cinderella-like sleep and recollect memories of our lives was the best feeling. I've often wondered if he had undiagnosed Alzheimer’s or brain damage like progressive aphasia that caused his silence.

I remember one occasion where seven out of eight of my siblings managed to gather because of another scare. My dad always pulled through, though. Maybe this was his quiet way of forcing us to all come together. It was Thanksgiving and we had all gathered for dinner (we ate tibs not turkey). My dad was released from the hospital, and we were all so happy to have him home. He was quiet as usual, observant of everything around him without any words. Sometimes I wondered if he knew what he was doing, silently observing. After dinner, we had celebrated my niece’s birthday, and the celebration quickly escalated to a full-blown family cake fight. We were running around throwing cakes and smearing icing on each other's faces. My dad seeing this ruckus started laughing. We all stopped what we were doing and looked at him and started laughing too. That was the last time I ever saw him laughing and talking. 

Again, Dad seemed to pull through, and they were getting ready to discharge him from the ICU. So, I went back to Chicago and back to work. Around 10 a.m. I was on my way to work when I got the phone call. I was told to come for the second time in a less than a month. This time it seemed serious. I packed my bags and took the next flight out of Chicago. This time I didn't get any more information except that I should come as soon as possible. This was my introduction to Ethiopian mourning customs. Phone calls like these were only procedural as nothing else is told to you except to arrive soon.  

Once again, I stood in the queue to get my visa. I felt numb and exhausted when the immigration officer asked why I was visiting. I simply replied, "My dad might have passed." The immigration officer looked at me sympathetically and stamped my passport. When I exited the airport, I wasn't met by any of my usual family members. It was my uncle from my mom's side who came to pick me up in his old taxi. I gave him a quick hug, and the first words out of my mouth were, “Baba motual aydel?” (“Dad passed right?”) He didn't respond. He gave me a hug and grabbed my luggage. 

We drove silently to the house I grew up in. Our house is on the right side of a dead-end street. We turned the curb and right before we descended down the hill, I saw it. The white tent; the number one telltale sign that someone in the house has passed. The tent is for the hundreds of people that will come to pay homage. Fat tears started rolling down my face. Despite my gut feeling, I had thought he would maybe pull through again, but not this time. I quickly comforted myself for having seen him just ten days ago before my flight back to Chicago. I had said my goodbyes and I told him if he wanted to rest, it was ok for him to go home to Jesus, but if he didn't I would be back in a month to spend three weeks with him. I gave him a kiss and a hug unsure if he had listened. I guess he did!

When I walked into our living room, I could hear soft sobs. When they noticed me, it turned into wailing. When I saw my mom, my brother, and two sisters,I went to them, fell on my knees, and we cried, sobbed, and wailed. Our hearts were broken, shattered. The man we all loved was not alive anymore. I don't remember at what point, but we went to bed. My aunt (my dad’s sister) slept in between my twin and I. There was something comforting in that because she was our favorite aunt who always bridged our uncertainties with her warm love.  

The next morning, we woke up to a strange noise coming from the other room. It was my dad's other, much older sister performing an orthodox ceremonial wailing. My twin and I were completely oblivious to this tradition, and we woke up startled by her voice and awareness of our recent reality. We knew the days ahead would be difficult as we were not familiar with the customs of intense mourning in Ethiopia. Those days and weeks turned out to be the most painful time of our lives.  None of us knew how to deal with the loss, but also the expectation of mourning that comes in waves. We were all mourning in our own way, unable to comfort each other or relate to the culture or rituals. I know most people excused our aloofness, at least I sure hope they did. 

In Ethiopia, after the burial, mourning lasts for several weeks. During this time, people who come to visit come in crying loudly reminiscing about a story, and the expectation is to join them. By the end of the week, exhaustion was setting in especially for my mom. I felt they were ripping off the bandage that hadn't even set every time they came to show their respect. I wanted to remove her from this painful repetitive tradition. Confused by the cultural norms and my own grief, I reverted to busying myself. Work gave me a month leave and I decided to stay mostly to comfort my grieving mother. I've never felt as vulnerable as I did during that season. I hid my emotions and took care of my mom. I mostly gardened and avoided the room my dad was in when he passed away. It was surreal staying with her in our lonely house without dad being there. 

At the same time, I had other situations that needed my full attention. Emotions were high and palpable, so I made it my mission to comfort whomever needed it. I was broken, and if I didn't busy myself fixing other people’s emotional baggage, I would suffer the consequences of an emotional breakdown. Those months taught me a lot. First, about my own cultural mourning practices. Though exhausting, they were meant to confront the pain of loss and create a space for healing surrounded by people that shared this grief with you. Second, that my parents had true love. Watching my mom cry inconsolably, reminiscing poetically (in Tigriña her native tongue) about Dad’s life and how losing him was unbearable every single day until I left showed me their love for one another was so deep. I should be so lucky to find a love like that. And lastly, you need family in difficult times. Though we all dealt with our loss confused and dazed, we were together and there was power to ignite healing in our camaraderie.

I concluded that month by going to Lalibela, a spiritual place where many go to find a connection with God and find healing, but I didn't realize it that back then. It’s been five years now and my heart is healed. Some days are hard especially when I miss him and realize I can't go back to see him. I just allow for whatever emotion to come and go. I don't hide or ignore it. Traveling reminds me of him for it is the legacy my father instilled in me. I travel because he traveled. For him it started when he was a teenager as a duty to serve his country in The Imperial Ethiopian navy in Massawa, Eritrea. After meeting my mom in Asmara, Eritrea they fell in love, got married, had us, and moved to Addis. Most of my memories of my dad comes from photos of him on his trips. Whether it was for business, taking my mom on elaborate trips, or taking us on family vacations, he was an avid traveler.These fond memories of him show me that I carry his gene for adventure and challenge. 

Visiting The Fountains of St. Peter's Square 30 years after my dad took my sister and my parents in Greece. 

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