Khaberni - (A short story written with tears before ink)
By/ Prof. Dr. Bassam Al-Shakhrit
He returned to his homeland after an exile longer than the lifespan of a palm tree, carrying the mountains of years on his shoulders, the dust of absence on his features, and a small homeland called "My Children" in his heart.
He was not a stranger in a foreign land, but returned to a home that once was light in his eyes, and the sound of his children's laughter dwelled in its corners like a prayer recited every evening.
Twenty-three years in lands whose winters were woven from alienation and whose summers from hardship. He taught at universities, published research, was honored in academic halls, and was applauded by students from various nationalities.
But he was never anything but a "father," learning that true success is not in titles, but in seeing his children grow up healthy.
He sent them everything his hands could gather from his toil, never asking, "How much is left for me?" but "Is it enough for them?"
He forsook the warmth of companionship and the pleasures of life to build them a bridge of safety, which they could walk upon without the thorns of life scratching their souls.
He returned, thinking the doors would open eagerly for him, and hearts would lay out tresses of longing for him, and that the first question he would hear would be:
"How were you alone all these years?"
But the first question was:
"When will you sign the divorce papers?"
His wife said it with the coldness of a stone, as if she had abandoned her femininity when she forgot the loyalty of a man who lived for them, not for himself.
She did not wait for him to settle, nor did she even offer him a glass of water after a lifetime’s journey, but led him to court as though he was a stranger who had stumbled upon them.
The divorce was finalized.
And the dream fell like a leaf in a harsh autumn.
But the wreckage did not end there.
She filed for maintenance against him, as though he was the father who ran away, not the one who showed up…
And as if the years of giving were no more than an illusion unrecognized by law or hearts.
Then she placed his name on the no-fly list, as though she wanted to revenge his loyalty by restricting his freedom and confiscating whatever remained of his dignity under the guise of law.
But he endured.
For a father, even if broken, remains standing for his children.
But he did not know that the greatest stab would come from their sleeves, not his adversaries.
His eldest daughter, the light of his eyes, whom he carried on his shoulders when she was sick and taught how to write her name… stood in court to complain against her father.
She told the judge, "He must provide for me," though all he knew was to spend his entire life for them.
Her sister followed, then the next, then came their youngest brother, who used to kiss his father's forehead before sleep… refused to greet him, and turned his face as if the blood that bound them had changed.
They were four candles, becoming flames that burned his hands.
They changed.
As if they never knew his heart, nor felt the tremble in his voice when he prayed for them.
As if they never read pride in his eyes as they graduated, never heard the beat of his heart when he secretly rejoiced over them and cried out of fear for them.
The house became a cemetery rich with memories.
The walls remember their names, and the pillows retain the scent of their hair, but he was there alone… no shadow, no laughter, no echo.
He wanders through the rooms searching for a past that was lost, a childhood stolen by betrayal, for days that no one appreciated.
He stands at the balcony and whispers to the world:
"O Lord, I gave them of myself until I forgot myself… so how did they forget me?"
And he cries.
Not the crying of the weak, but the crying of the wronged who were betrayed by those they loved most.
A cry from someone who offered his heart like a plate of gold, only for them to tread on it with feet of ingratitude.
And so…
The father became accused after being a silent saint, love became a crime punishable by law, and affection a shirt stripped off at the first conflict.
And he became an exile in his own country, a prisoner in his own home, a stranger in the memory of those he called "My Trusts."
And in his long night, he writes on the wall of the heart:
"Those who betray your fathers,
Ingatitude does not create glory,
And a broken prayer is harsher than the curses of enemies.
You will grow older…
And you will realize that a father is not a wallet, but a soul.
And the one who invested his life in you is not rewarded with denial,
