Huda Dakhil Eulogy
in honor of our beloved mama and teta
Impossible Task
Dear Son,
What of Grandma Huda, you ask? What words can I use to honor her, to quench your youthful curiosity, to convey her essence? In this moment of suppressed grief, all I can muster is an offer of but glimpses into a life of tireless giving, of selfless enriching, that left a profound and lasting mark on many.
Origins
Our mother came into this life in our ancestral land, in the town of Jaffa, Palestine, early in the autumn of 1946. Her parents, Farah, a musician fluent in several languages, and Farida, a homemaker, named her Huda. In Arabic, Huda means the righteous path, the guide, or truth in faith. A middle child, Huda had three brothers and a younger sister. The events that saw many of our people, kin, and loved ones flee those lands shortly after Huda’s birth, eventually forced her family to move. And so, the young Huda grew up in Palestine, Iraq, Cyprus, then settled in Lebanon, where she lived most of her life, before moving to the United States a handful of years ago.
House of Music
Huda grew up in a house of the musical arts. Her father was a musician, a violoncello player, a composer, who collaborated with some of the greatest singers, musicians, bands, stations, and schools of the era. Huda adored her father and recalled with fondness growing up with that musical world around her, helping her dad every now and then, and regretting only that he did not teach her all that he knew about his art and craft and wondering what it would have been like had she taken up singing herself. When mom listened to music, she was moved by it, was transported by it, became inseparable from it, as it spoke to her on so many levels. Later in life she would bring that joy of music into the lives of her children and grandchildren through precious and memorable songs.
Hymns and Carols
I never saw how meaningful or deep mom’s faith or adherence to religious ritual was. But she sure enjoyed being around service or mass, where people sang in prayer that lifted her soul. She enjoyed the traditions of many denominations and never felt she had to subscribe to only one. Christmas was a time when she shared some of those hymns and carols singing from that good old worn out light blue book. Some of her grandkids got to hear these too. Mom was arguably the singing grandma to all her grandkids.
Love in Motherhood
Mom surprised me when one day she declared to me that I was her first true love, and that her true loves were her children. I fully expected her to have said dad or one of her immediate family members but no. Her children were her life, her love, her very being. No matter how distant or crude or cruel or ungrateful she found our behavior at times throughout the years, her love never faded and drove much of how she felt about and acted within her world. Pride and joy in our accomplishments and by extension those of her grandchildren was immeasurable.
She had a deep appreciation for what each child and grandchild brought her. Her first love Ibrahim, the stormy caring Hadi, the quiet compassionate Shadi, the first and above reproach Yasmine, the kind and tender Adonis, the playful Rayan, the inquisitive empathetic KJ, the sweet image of her Raneem, and the happy rascal Rakan. When confronted with the question of who her favorite was, she usually endearingly lied and claimed she loved everyone equally. She meant there was a place for everyone in her heart.
Independent Streak
Huda had an independent streak from a very young age. Her tales of her younger years told of slight rebelliousness with her mother. In a region and age of the world where women had low expectations of independence, education, and being a provider, Huda got her associates degree and then worked in a series of high-profile companies, enabling her to be a primary bread winner for her family and early in her marriage. Making the decision to stay at home to raise her children never felt quite right to her as it struck at the very independence she valued so much. Toward the end, she would rather be alone than in the company of a caretaker who would rob her of it; she would rather be unwell than be in the oppressive confines of a hospital that would limit her mobility and decision making.
Pride in her Craft
Mom took pride in doing things well. At her work as an executive administrator where she shined in her ability to organize, take shorthand notes (look that up, kiddo), being proactive and predictive of everyone’s needs. She felt seen and liked by all, and whenever she had to leave, goodbyes always hard. But I never felt the depth of her presence at her work until the crowds came out of nowhere upon her passing, each with a story that appreciated her delightful personality, helpful attitude, polished and gentle demeanor, lasting impact on work and coworkers. This from people who worked with her daily but also those who have only heard of her. She talked so much about how those years made her feel whole and valued, and how it enabled her to be her own person and provider.
Mom took pride in her kitchen craft too. Everyone loved her food. Delicious, aromatic, rich in flavor, texture, and spice, even addictive. She learned method before it was fashionable. She extended her skills beyond the local cuisine she grew up with. And she instilled in us an appreciation of what good looks and tastes like. She raised kids who share that love and pride. Mom loved us. She often did so with food and oh could we taste it.
And how could we forget: we became part of her kitchen team. The four of us peeling pound upon pound of pearl onions and baby potatoes with knives not peelers (because that’s the right way) without waste until we all smelled like onion and dirt. The stuffing of the turkey until it was on the verge of bursting. The shaping of maamoul cookies with tweezers until our hands went numb. And more. All in accordance with tradition and “the right way”, according to Huda, or risk being yelled at Christmas Eve.
Mom took pride in some of her gameplay too. She taught us Scrabble and turned us into skilled word game players that she was proud to lose to (on the occasion that happened). And she often spoke of rivals asking for rematches after making them savor the taste of humiliating defeat at her hands. Well done mama.
Struggles
To wash Huda’s life and present only what’s good and beautiful and comfortable would dishonor her. Her struggles shaped her for better or worse just as much as all else. And there were many mixed into her joys and accomplishments. The traumas of having a family torn from their homeland, of having to live through a civil war, of living through unrest, uncertainty, and real danger. The hardship of familial strife and fractures. The tests of abandonment, betrayal, disappointment, fear, and doubt were mixed in with stories of closeness, infatuation, friendship, clarity, and courage. She also suffered physical ailments that slowed her down too early. She met all this with dignity, strength, silence, and grace, often keeping her pain to herself. And how she met her struggles taught us about forgiveness and healing and dancing with our demons. Those who know her know it was not easy. Those who know her well know that she transformed her fire into the good in our life.
Transition
Huda’s time on this earth finally came to an end. Her unquenchable thirst for life and her desire for independence and dignity stubbornly held to the end. In the end, singing grandma was sung to. In the end, praying mama was prayed for by priest, kin, and friend. In the end, the self-sacrificing woman was showered with expressions of love and gratitude. In the end, she transitioned with those she loved unconditionally by her side, hands held, forehead kissed, body embraced, support and encouragement offered. She transitioned in quiet comfort and peace.
Essence Eternal
Dear Son,
Reading all this one is forgiven for thinking to oneself: are there not billions like Huda: proud mother, singing mama and grandma, stubborn, independent, proud of her mastery of all she put her mind to, gladly sacrificed much for her family for little in return? Maybe.
But this Huda was ours. And in the realest of senses, she might as well have been the only one.
Hundreds of years from this day, when Huda’s name, words, images, actions, memories, and very life will have faded to oblivion, when this writing will have withered into the insignificance of the void, her essence, unknowable and immeasurable as it is, will be felt by everyone whose ancestors she touched.
Son, she lives in me, she lives in you, more than we can ever truly appreciate.
May your essence live eternal, mama.
