It was a blustery February morning, and just a few days before my 40^th birthday, when my cell phone rang. I thought perhaps it was someone offering me early well wishes. But it was my mom, calling with news that would forever alter the course of my life.

“Hi, Mom,” I said as I sat down. “How are you?”
“Not good,” she whispered like a frightened child sharing a dark secret. “You know I’ve been feeling really down lately.”

“Yeah,” I said softly, matching her breathy tone.

She was talking so quietly that I cupped my hand over my left ear so I could hear her.
“I just swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills,” she blurted out.

My eyes widened as I sprung to my feet, nearly tripping over my toddler.

“A bunch? Like, how many?” I asked.

“I dunno,” she replied. “A lot.”

I raced to the kitchen, my hands trembling as I fumbled to dial 911 from the landline while trying to keep Mom talking to me on my cell.

A few moments later, I told her that the paramedics were on their way. She mumbled something incoherent. I could already feel her drifting away.

“Can you hear me?”

Numbing silence filled the line. Desperate to keep her awake, I continued talking, my voice growing louder each time I spoke.

“Are you still with me? Mom? Mom!”

Sensing the intensity to my tone, my 8-year-old son asked what was wrong. I wanted to comfort him, but I had to keep focused on Mom. Meanwhile, my toddler, who had only just realized his grandmother was on the phone, threw his goldfish crackers to the floor and pleaded to speak with her. He reached for the receiver with his tiny, cheddar-stained hands and shrieked, “I talk to Ga-ma!”

“Not now,” I said gently.

Both my boys burst into tears as my mind raced with worry. I paced the floor and repeatedly asked, “Are you still there, Mom? Keep talking to me.”

But I only heard a hint of monosyllabic mumbles, then a thud.

I stopped for a moment and stood beside the sliding glass door, shifting my weight from my right leg to my left as I stared out at the falling snow. I kept my eyes fixed on a specific tree branch in an effort to still my mind even as my restless stomach churned.

The wind whipped wildly, which made the snowflakes look as if they were engaged in a vicious game of tug-of-war. Blowing in umpteen different directions, the blustery scene depicted my current state of mind: frenzied, scattered, unsettled. My anxious eyes darted back and forth between the ticking clock, my wailing kids, and the straining pine trees in the backyard.

Finally, I heard the paramedics in the background and for the first time in forever, I took a breath.

I shot off a text message to my brother.

“Call me,” I wrote. “Mom just tried to kill herself.”

Even as I hit “send” with my quivering thumb, the moment seemed surreal. Did this really just happen? How? Why?

As I drove to Missouri, I tried to imagine what was running through my mom’s desperate mind as she ingested an entire bottle of sleeping pills. I envisioned her in her soft flannel pajamas, sitting on the cold tile bathroom floor, swallowing one handful of pills after another. My eyes squeezed shut and a lump formed in the back of my throat. I knew clinical depression was scary, but I’d never seen it up-close-and-personal.

When I stepped inside the hospital room, Mom’s eyes revealed a mixture of sorrow, regret, guilt, and fear. I sat next to her on her bed. She clasped my hand in hers, gripping it tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Mom said softly, staring at the floor.

It’s okay,” I replied.

The truth was that it wasn’t okay. Not even a little bit. But what else could I say?

I stayed with her for several days, trying to soothe her by offering hugs and encouraging her by offering advice.

“Go to group therapy. Go to individual therapy. Do anything and everything to help you feel better,” I suggested. “Snarf up every resource possible.”

But instead of concentrating on getting better, she seemed more concerned with how her behavior would be perceived.

“What will people say if they find out what I did?” Mom asked, her eyes brimming with tears.

After she was released from the hospital, I went back home to Indiana. The following month, I was cautiously optimistic when Mom invited me, my husband, and our sons to visit her for her birthday and stay through Easter weekend. I took it as a good sign that she wanted to reconnect with her grandsons, so we packed our bags and drove west.

Though it was great to spend time with Mom, she was anxious and unsettled, worried that the kids might make a mess in her house. This was a far cry from the woman who in the past would often jump into the lake to entertain her grandsons. She spoke slowly and methodically yet still stumbled on her words. She seemed uncomfortable in her own skin. She wouldn’t even sit down to eat meals. Instead she stood by the sink, nervously nibbling at her food like a rodent.

One morning when the house was quiet, Mom approached me and said meekly, “Christy. I have to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

I didn’t want to rush her or force her, but I was desperate to hear what she had to say.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” she said, squeezing my hands as if to relay some sort of message to me through code.

“Honest about what?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. I pressed her a bit more.

“You can tell me, Mom. Whatever it is, I’ll help you. What are you not being honest about?”

“We’d better get ready,” she said tersely, releasing my hands. “The boys want to go to the zoo today.”

Just like that, the moment was gone.

At the zoo, the kids had fun seeing the animals and riding the train, but I couldn’t get past the vacant stare in Mom’s eyes. It was like she was looking past everybody—like she wasn’t all there. Anytime I tried to engage with her, I’d get the same response: “I’m tired.”

That evening after tucking the boys into bed, I asked Mom if she wanted to talk. She looked at me with a pained expression, like she was gripping a hot plate without a pot holder.

“Well, I…um, I,” she muttered.

I don’t know if she couldn’t speak or wouldn’t speak or what was going on. But her mind definitely seemed muddled. I knew something was gnawing at Mom, but I didn’t know how to pull it out of her.

When I laid down to bed that night, tears welled up in my eyes as I confided to my husband, “I think Mom may still be suicidal.”

I hated to admit it out loud, and yet, I could sense a definite heaviness to her spirit.

“Why do you say that?” Eric asked.

“I can’t put my finger on it, but she’s definitely not herself. She’s apologized profusely for trying to kill herself, but earlier today she told me that she’s not been completely honest with me, and when I asked her what about, she clammed up. Have you noticed how empty her eyes look?”

“What do we do? Your dad won’t listen. He’s adamant that she’s getting better.”

“But clearly she’s not. I wish I could get her to confide in me, but I feel like us being here is stressing her out more,” I said. “If the boys’ energy is causing her anxiety to spike, maybe we should take off and let her and Dad have a quiet holiday weekend.”

“Okay,” Eric agreed.

The next morning, I found Mom in the kitchen. She wasn’t eating, cooking, or doing dishes. She was simply standing in her housecoat staring into space. Until she caught a glimpse of my oldest son. Then her eyes moved to him and she watched him intently, like she was memorizing his every move. She did the same when my younger son entered the room. When I sat down, she acknowledged me with a weak, forced smile like she was using every last bit of energy to keep from crying.

I approached her and said softly, “Mom, we’ve decided to leave early.”

“When?”

“Here in a few minutes,” I said. “Eric’s packing the car.”

Confusion, sadness, and relief simultaneously spread across her face.

“Why today?” she asked.

“I can tell you’re struggling, Mom, and I know the boys have a lot of energy. I want you to be able to rest so I think it’s best if we get out of your hair.”

Her lips began to quiver, her brows furrowed, and she said with palpable remorse, “I’m sorry, Christy. I’m so sorry.”

It was a phrase she had repeated numerous times over the past three days so I didn’t think much of it. I replied in the same way I had all weekend—by telling her, “It’s okay.”

We hugged and I told her I loved her.

“Things will get better,” I whispered into her ear. “I promise.”

Those were the last words I ever spoke to my mother.

Six weeks later, my phone rang again. When I answered, I heard my dad’s voice, low and scratchy, say my name, followed by a long pause.

“She did it again,” he said quietly.

My gut clenched as all the color drained from my face.

“What?” I asked.

“She was doing better. She seemed stronger….” he said, his voice cracking.

My entire body began to tremble.

“It’s far worse this time,” he continued. “She swallowed hundreds of pills of all different kinds.”
My knees buckled.

“No-no-no-no,” I repeated.

How could this be happening again?

“I’ll jump in the car,” I told my dad as tears sprang to my burning eyes. “I can leave right now and be there by midnight.”

“Even if you left now, I don’t think you’d make it in time to say goodbye.”

Wait. What? Goodbye? Oh, Jesus!

My breath caught in my throat as my heart splintered.

When I got news in the middle of the night that Mom had died from the overdose, my world faded to grey.

Why? Why? Why? Why?

A thousand other questions bombarded my brain, but this was the predominant one. I could not, for the life of me, make sense of the fact that my sweet, loving, kind, compassionate mom would choose to take her own life. It defied logic and left me feeling helpless, hopeless, and hollow. How was I supposed to go on? How was I to let go of the guilt that gnawed at me round the clock? How was I to ever smile again? None of it seemed possible.

“Everything’s possible with God,” well-meaning people told me. But their platitudes and looks of pity only pissed me off. They didn’t know what it felt like to be leveled by grief. Though friends encouraged me to find peace through prayer, I did the opposite and gave God the silent treatment. What did I have to say to Him, anyway? I was angry that He had not only taken away my mom but that He had allowed her to exit the earth in such a terrible, tragic way. Having been a Christian all my life, I’ll admit it felt strange to cut Christ from my life, but I didn’t know what else to do. Many days, I found myself curled in the fetal position, sobbing and gasping for air.

Over the next six months, everything was a chore—driving, cooking, reading, even sleeping. Then one night I fell into a deep slumber and was met by a vivid dream that seemed to carry with it a distinct message.
I was at home when suddenly bright blue skies began to darken as a slight breeze tickled the shutters. Instantaneously, the sky transformed into a greenish-black hue. A small hiss followed a rumble, then a booming crash. The ground shook with a sinister force. Giant tree limbs snapped. Heavy shutters broke. Tin mailboxes crumpled. Wooden dog houses cracked. As the wind continued to howl, dirt, debris, and trash swirled through the air like frenzied snowflakes. Fence sections and lawn ornaments crashed through windows and dented car doors.

The scene was chaotic and scary. I glanced out the window, helpless and weak. Then, just as quickly as it built, the storm died out, and the world grew eerily still. I stepped outside to assess the damage and my jaw dropped at the sight of the devastation. Our beautiful house—a house I had always perceived to be strong and indestructible—was now a shell of its former self.

As I walked the perimeter of the house, I saw that it was uprooted from its foundation. It became evident that we wouldn’t have access to power or water anytime soon. It was going to take a lot of time and effort to rebuild this foundation—to start fresh. As a result, we would not be living comfortably for quite some time.

There was a silver lining, however. Despite such extensive damage, we determined that we could stay in the house, which provided a degree of comfort.

I stood in stunned silence, beholding the wreckage that surrounded me. I couldn’t believe the massive devastation that had leveled my life in the blink of an eye. But…I had survived.

For the first time since Mom’s suicide, I woke up with a sense of peace. I knew I would still face challenges and cry countless tears. But I had survived the worst, and though my foundation was shaky, I was still standing. And I could feel God standing beside me.

In the weeks and months ahead, I began surrounding myself with others who needed love and support, and, together, we journeyed through our pain: we shared tears, smiles, and embraces, and we held one another up, day in and day out. I learned that being in a community is perhaps the most important piece of life’s puzzle when it comes to maintaining a healthy existence. I also found that even in the deepest, darkest pit of despair, one can find a sliver of light, a glimmer of hope, a hint of peace. And that is what propels us forward, enabling us to breathe in, breathe out, and carry on.

Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) is a terminal illness of the nervous system, resulting in the degeneration of neurons. When the motor neurons in the lateral spinal cord degenerate, the muscle cannot be stimulated and gradually atrophies. As the disease progresses, the brain cannot initiate and control muscle movement, so voluntary muscle actions, such as reaching for your phone or typing on a keyboard, are lost. Currently there are no treatments or cures to reverse the effects of ALS and the disease process is still widely unknown. Some noteworthy individuals diagnosed with this disease have included Lou Gehrig, Stephen Hawking, Jon Stone, George Yardley, Henry A. Wallace, and Steve Gleason. These are the facts, but I could have never realized what living with ALS was like until I listened to a retired senior, a teacher, and a musician tell me their stories.

The older couple told us of their past year as the husband wrote on an electronic note pad to fill in the gaps of his spouse’s version of their story. They had first noticed his symptoms when he began choking on his food, and they had to adapt as the disease progression got more and more severe. His wife comically said that she doesn’t know where to look when he’s trying to talk to her – “Should I look at his eyes, his mouth, this pad?” Every day, they had to face a new challenge and overcome it together, as a family.

Another patient was a mother, a teacher, now wheelchair bound and with a respirator to help her breathe. Because of her age, none of her physicians expected ALS and thought she was struggling from carpal tunnel syndrome or an ulnar nerve injury. She told us her husband was her biggest caregiver and supporter; her husband joked, “She makes the list and I carry it out.” He talked about his struggles, working full time as well as being a full-time caregiver for his wife and their 3-year-old daughter, as well as still finding time for self-care. Even with all this juggling, he felt guilty. This guilt was expressed by many of the caregivers: some because they didn’t even notice the symptoms and others because they felt like they couldn’t help their spouses. Guilt was felt by the patients too. The mother was upset because her daughter would only remember her in a wheelchair. Despite the difficulties, family was a major support system for each patient.

When asked about how she felt after getting her diagnosis, the musician said, “I felt like a deer in headlights… I never pictured I was going to go out that way… with a terminal illness… Last year I had no trouble walking, singing, cooking, gardening, and this year…” Despite all of this, she said she felt relieved. Her struggle to find a neurologist who respected her was heartbreaking. She had gone to a physician because she felt helpless; she was having trouble playing guitar, she was losing her identity as a musician. However, the physician assumed from her past medical history of anxiety that she was having mental issues with memory, anxiety, and depression. As she continued to receive hostile treatment, she found a second doctor who listened to her. Unfortunately, even though he took her seriously, he didn’t have the courage to diagnose her with ALS, telling her instead that she had a motor neuron disease and referring her to a specialist. When she finally received the diagnosis of ALS, she was relieved. She no longer felt crazy. She was able to be heard. She was able to communicate with someone who wanted to help her. ALS is already a hard disease to diagnose; not having someone on her side only made her situation more difficult. She says now, as each symptom appears, she isn’t afraid anymore, because she knows it’s ALS. This relief of having a concrete diagnosis, of having a diagnosable disease, even one that is untreatable, was reiterated by several of the other panelists.

Although a diagnosis was a relief for many of the patients, they all saw the importance of taking part in clinical trials. They recognized that ALS affects everyone at different times in different ways and hoped that one day they could explain why this illness is so hard to detect and track. Participating in various studies and trials made them feel like they were helping future patients and physicians to be able to better understand why this terminal disease can strike at any time, with no discernable warning signs, affecting each individual uniquely in initial symptoms and progression.

Getting a concrete diagnosis gave these patients the freedom to seize the day and live in the moment. For the musician, as her ability to play guitar diminished chord by chord, and she started slurring her words, preserving her voice and her identity became very important to her. She is using a message banking app to preserve her voice. The software requires her to read thousands of words and sentences. Although she had to accept the things she could no longer do, she realized that she did not have to give up her identity or love of music because of ALS. Overflowing with her love of music, she told us about how when choirs sings together, their hearts become synchronized; and how music lowers blood pressure and stimulates all areas of the brain. As she interwove details about her symptoms with her favorite song, Fire on the Mountain by the Grateful Dead, the two had become part of the same spiritual transformation. Smiling peacefully, she explained, “Maybe nobody else hears it the way I do. I see death as the final healing, finally being released from your body.” She viewed her diagnosis as graduating early and the symptoms that came attached with it as her disappearing slowly, rather than all at once. The unavoidable indignities were just something she had to accept. What mattered most to her was keeping her individual personality in the face of intense daily struggles.

By the end of our discussion, I felt the weight of my white coat as I never had before and recognized that this would be the first of many times that I would have to carry this symbol of patient advocacy. As these patients spilled all their vulnerabilities to a group of 50 students, I realized the most important thing I will learn in medical school is opening my heart without getting crushed under negativity. I learned that, as doctors, we have the tendency to think the ultimate solution is life, when in truth, mortality is the reality. What matters is being present when there is a fire, realizing that “a pail of water” may not be enough to put it out, but continuing to carry that water for your patient.

Long distance runner, what you standin there for?
Get up, get out, get out of the door

There’s a dragon with matches that’s loose on the town
Takes a whole pail of water just to cool him down
-The Grateful Dead

“It’s my fault, all my fault; I should’ve tried harder,” he said. A quintessential characteristic of his – always pinning the blame on no one other than himself.

They were closing us down; there was no more hope.

He had returned hopeful after the bidding: his paperwork had been in order, and he’d been at it for weeks, day and night. In fact, he hadn’t slept much since the great wave had hit them on the 16th of July. I recall seeing his worried sleepless face on the morning of the 17^th; he hadn’t slept a wink. He’d been up all night making “namaz” (prayers) for his country. He’d been confused by the events. The slowly emerging, dizzying “facts” confounded him.

The wave had been the talk of the staffroom in the days to follow. Some said that their country had just been making good progress and now everything, who knows maybe 10 or 15 years of building, had been lost, all in a single night. Teachers, first by the hundreds and then by the thousands, had been sacked, and their licenses revoked. I was shown a picture of a teacher with an angelic appearance who had been put to death because he had allegedly been involved in terrorism. The morale dropped with each passing day and the friendly smiles and warm greetings turned into frowns and drooping shoulders. I woke up each morning with a sense of angst and prayed for peace, justice, and truth to prevail in my colleagues’ country. The realization started setting in that they wouldn’t be able to return home that year. Their children would not be able to see their grandparents the next holiday. And with the school being shut down, they had no idea where to go. They told me that it’s become too dangerous to contact their families; people are being detained by the thousands. Some told me that their parents believed the news and not their own accounts of what had happened; a certain blindness had descended upon their countryfolk.

My colleagues are deeply patriotic. There were Turkish flags and laminated Turkish words labeling things and framed pictures of the Hagia Sophia and Istanbul on the walls of the school.

Talk about the failed coup eventually ceased in the staffroom and my colleagues refused to be dispirited further by it. Weeks went by and everyone kicked into survival mode. CV’s were being updated, job applications were being sent out in a frenzy, reference letters were being written, and my friends had nowhere to go. They were stranded or worse, they’d become alleged “terrorists.” My friends: terrorists? Ludicrous!

I’ve known them for over five years and the only allegation I could make against them is that they work too hard! Most work seven days a week. Our staffroom was open 24 hours and I’d often see them working in there as late as 11 at night. They had once compelled me to redo a video promo I’d made about the school just to insert a clip of the Prime Minister at the time, Erdoğan, and his wife who had attended a Turkish Olympiad (Türkçe Olimpiyatları) where Ghanaians had performed a traditional Turkish dance. Both Erdoğan and his wife were deeply touched. I’m not sure if I had gotten my facts straight… so he, Erdoğan, was blaming my colleagues of plotting against him? The reasoning behind this had confounded myself and my colleagues alike.

They’ve travelled land and sea to make other nations pro-Turkish and pro-Turkey. Never had I picked up on an ounce of resentment against Turkey from my devoted colleagues.

And when my colleague had exerted his final efforts and realized that the fight to keep the school open had been lost, he sighed and said: “It’s my fault, all my fault; I should’ve tried harder.” My heart broke upon hearing these words uttered by a man who teaches his students on weekends and until eleven o’clock at night to help prepare them for their exam the next day. My heart was shattered when I heard those words from the man who had learned to push on with his teaching responsibilities despite an onslaught of dengue fever, his shirt completely soaked and his eyes deeply sunken.  “You should rest Abi,” I said to him. “I will rest in the hereafter,” he stoically replied.

My heart was crushed when he still blamed himself when powers beyond his control had worked against him, the man who had once removed the tie from his neck and wrapped it up neatly and made it a gift to me following my comment about its beauty. How can my heart go on if the man – who took me to his unfurnished house, save for a mattress on the floor, to give me his own mattress when mine was infested with bed bugs – is labelled a “terrorist”? Tell me, how should I respond? What should I do to convince people that none of this is his fault, that he’s a man of peace, a teacher by trade and nothing more, that he’s nothing less than a saint? Tell me, what should I do?

The day my husband died, my work for a newspaper had taken me out of the office to do interviews and take pictures. I hurried back to my computer because I wanted to finish early. The man I had loved for three decades had not been well for several years. He had attempted suicide several times before, and I had always been there to stop him, but today – on a most magnificent Tuesday, the kind of day only an Alabama sky can provide – I was worried. The weekend had given us new problems, and new problems usually brought with them reactions that could range from unusual behavior to a complete loss of hope.

I telephoned him as I drove from one interview to the next. We talked briefly about ordinary things and about my new idea: that he should try out a new program I had found. He had been diagnosed with bipolar depression in 2004, a behavioral disorder that decreases a person’s ability to handle stress. The toll this took on him in a few years far exceeded the ravages of major depression he had dealt with alone for a lifetime.

Those years had taken a toll on me, too. But I had no idea what lay just ahead. Suicide is not just a personal disaster. It happens to everyone in a family and devastates whatever life came before, changing forever those who are left behind.

After writing my column for the week, I left work early. I felt desperate to get home. On the way, I called him again. The day before had been his fifty-eighth birthday. Our plans had changed a couple of times recently, but the weekend had been eerily quiet. On Sunday afternoon, we sat on the deck in the sunshine. I grew tired watching him go through boxes of papers and discard this or that. At the time I thought he was just organizing. I left him to go inside and take a nap. When I returned he had finished, and the day ended with the sweetness I had known for so long: the satisfying closeness of just being with him.

But by this Tuesday, around four o’clock, the calls between our cell phones kept dropping – or perhaps he kept hanging up. I told him I was on the way home. As I did, I passed a grocery store and thought I should stop for a birthday cake. Yesterday had not gone well, and today I had a chance to do something special for him, but I was exhausted and felt driven to be with him. Something was wrong. I was sure of it. I didn’t stop, a fact I regret.

His voice, when we spoke again, was too calm. He told me he had broken into the gun safe, the one I bought after he had his first psychotic break. I realized later he could have done that at any time. My false sense of security had been nothing more than a thin veil.

“I’m not mad.” Inside, I panicked. What would I do now that I only had my voice with which to save his life? “Where are you?”

Carefully, as if speaking to a child, he told me. I asked him to put the pistol down and cross the road to our neighbor’s house. When the connection broke, I dialed 911, reported the situation, and heard the words that would change the course of my thinking.

“Don’t go in,” the operator said. “Sometimes they wait until they see you before they do it. Park on the side of the road where he can’t see you.”

That was something I had not thought of before. It terrified me. Woodenly, I obeyed. Now I had entered an alternate reality, shock creeping over me like a blanket. I stopped the car as close to the house as I could without being seen.

Eventually, a young deputy arrived, took my house key, and went inside, finding my husband’s body. He came back to my car, where I waited. Through the window, which was rolled down, he extended his hand, and I latched onto two of his fingers with my own. His expression was so pained that I couldn’t bear to make him tell me what he had found.  

“I know,” I told him, and he explained that the scene would first have to be treated like a homicide. I nodded and stayed where I was as he drove back to the house.

It took more time for neighbors to arrive and the call to go out to our church friends who gathered around the car and waited with me. I made calls to his family and to our children in three different states. I was deep in shock.

From there, the nightmare of the past few years changed into the hellish existence of a grief I had never known before. I was familiar with death. My mother had died. So had my father and my brother-in-law. Even in childhood, in my life as a preacher’s kid it was not uncommon for me to attend every funeral and visit every grieving household. I played the beautiful organ in our church sanctuary at the funeral of one of my best friends’ father when I was only nine or ten years old. I had read and written about death, but this was different.

Sometimes suicide comes without warning, but for several years before my husband’s suicide, his uncontrollable, rapid cycling moods and bizarre episodes left us both drained. He was at the mercy of his illness, and as I tried to help him and to get help for him in every way I could, I was at the mercy of his illness as well.

Physically, I had already used almost all of my strength. I had no reserves. My body was anemic; my mind was in a state of constant crisis. Even the moments between emergencies became crises because those were the waiting and worrying times. I never knew what would be coming next, but I knew it would be horrible.

Suddenly, as I sat in my car on the side of the road, he was gone, and I entered the aftermath of suicide. Since that day, I’ve worked alongside thousands of other survivors of suicide loss to try and understand what happened; and to mourn, heal, and rebuild. To help myself, I had to help others who were struggling through similar situations.

I discovered that grieving and hope can become entangled with regret and guilt and so many other emotions. During this confusing time, hope is a concept that is difficult to hold onto. Hold onto it we must, however, even if we have to borrow strength from each other.

Suicide changes us, but together, we can turn mourning into joy. For me, healing became a three-step process. I first found that co-support fortifies survivors so that obstacles like secondary wounding do not halt progress toward a successful return to life. Then, there is the essential but difficult step that enables survivors to let go of their past lives and turn toward new ones. No one wants to go on without a dear loved one, but a healthy recovery from grief depends on finding the strength to let go. Without this interim step, a survivor may not realize there are other ways to carry forward the memory of the lost one, other kinds of relationships that can be built with the departed. Lastly, there is an internal drive that emerges in most survivors that motivates them to go beyond just surviving to making meaning out of loss. This can manifest first as an instinctive need to do something. This guiding force inspires survivors to find or to create ways to carry a message forward, to turn their own personal tragedies into victories by helping others. They may write books, found organizations, set up foundations, or contribute in other ways. Many of these are artistic or creative in nature and come straight from the heart.

Suicide touches all kinds of people from every background and belief system. It can create a barrier between those closest to the person who died and those around them. Historically, suicide has been viewed by many societies as a social taboo, but the underserved stigma, shame, and shunning that surround suicide is being dispelled by the efforts of loved ones who are banding together to share both pain and healing. One such group – the Alliance of Hope for suicide loss survivors (www.allianceofhope.com) – is attempting to change the culture surrounding suicide worldwide. With the guiding slogan “Kindness Matters,” members share the simple but powerful knowledge that one can not only survive the loss of a loved one or friend to suicide but also can go beyond just surviving to rebuild happy, productive lives.

“You are not alone.”

“This was not your fault.”

“Healing is possible.”

“There are specific things you can do to build a new life that honors the one you lost.”

When I reach out in this way to comfort a mom or dad, a partner or child who is in more pain than they ever knew existed, it is because of the many times I saw my husband’s gentleness, his respect for all living things, his brilliant mind at work. His life is not defined by how he died. Neither is mine. He made such an impact on my life and on the lives of anyone who knew him that even his illness – even suicide – could not change the good he did in the world.

I can only hand survivors a little hope, but in that moment, hope is enough.

Gasparetto (not his real name)[1] was a young Turkish medical student when he was arrested and imprisoned for eight months by Turkey’s government, merely for his connection to the Hizmet, a social movement inspired by Fethullah Gülen and Sufi thought, which Turkey’s President Erdoğan blamed for the July 15, 2016 coup attempt. While incarcerated, Gasparetto experienced a range of feelings—heightened spirituality and camaraderie with others, but also devastating emotional torture at the hands of prison guards. In prison, they had crammed 57 people into a room meant for 12, and so the inmates took turns sleeping and sharing beds. He was only given permission to leave his cell on four occasions over an eight-month period. He asked his family to bring National Geographic magazines to him so that he could see color photographs of the outside world. The worst part was that his mother, who suffers from bipolar disorder, was unable to manage her own medications at home because of the stress, and rapidly deteriorated during his absence. Sadly, as soon as Gasparetto was released, he knew he would soon likely be rearrested, and so he planned his escape from Turkey via the dangerous Evros River, known as the “refugee cemetery.”[2] Crossing the river on a flimsy inflatable boat, he was terrified he would drown in the rushing currents, as far too many had before him, or be thrown back into prison again by Turkish soldiers, before his boat reached Greece.

I met him in Greece during the summer of 2018, where I had travelled to interview other refugees of Erdoğan’s ongoing purge. According to Mehmet, a Hizmet representative there, approximately 800 Turkish refugee families are temporarily residing in Greece (the number fluctuates), hoping to gain asylum somewhere, anywhere, in Europe. At least 41,500 Turks have already reached Europe to seek refuge after the attempted coup, and many more are still desperately trying to reach safety and gain asylum there.[3]

Firdevs, a former teacher who crossed the river with her three children, told me that after arriving in Greece, she kissed the first tree she saw. She felt her burdens lifting, and that at that moment she could breathe for the first time in two years. “All Turkish refugees are thankful to the people of Greece,” Mehmet explained to me.

Due to its strategic location and (relative) hospitality as of June 2018, Greece houses approximately 60,000 refugees.[4] From January to September 2018 alone, over 23,000 refugees, most of them (72%) from Syria, Iraq (including Syrian and Iraqi Yazidis and Kurds), and Afghanistan, came to Greece by sea.[5] Others risked the treacherous Evros River—from January to May, 2018, 7,200 refugees survived the crossing to Greece.[6] When asylum seekers arrive, often exhausted, hungry, and thirsty, unfortunately many find conditions in the refugee camps less than ideal. Crowded, squalid, and dirty, the camps nonetheless offer refuge for those awaiting their asylum decisions. Residents have complained that living in the camps can be dangerous: there have been reports of physical and sexual assault, threats of violence, and a rise in mental health problems.[7]

One of the worst examples is the Moria Camp, on the island of Lesbos. It is supposed to house 2,000 refugees, but as of August, 2018, it houses four times that many, and sexual harassment and assault are commonplace.[8] It also reeks—there is one toilet for every seventy people. Some have lived there for over two years. Many, including children, are suicidal.[9] The same camp recently witnessed violence against Kurdish refugees by Arabs, in which over seventy Kurds were injured, at least ten left in critical condition, mirroring sectarian violence against Kurds in Syria and Iraq, at the hands of religious extremists.[10]

My 9-day trip was marred by several tragedies. The day before I arrived, fires in the region of East Attica, near Rafina, horrifyingly killed 99 people,[11] with 200 more being injured.[12] In two separate incidents around the duration of my stay seven Turkish refugees, including children, lost their lives drowning in the Evros trying to reach safety in Greece. For days one Turkish father, Murat Akcabay,[13] who had survived the trip while the rest of his family fell into the water after the boat hit a rock, prayed that one of his three sons, five year-old Mesut, who had been wearing a life vest when he fell off the boat, would still be alive. The bodies of his wife and two sons had already been recovered.[14] Sadly, during my trip, Mesut’s body was also found.

Despite the problems faced by the Turkish refugee community in Greece, which include trauma, financial difficulties, displacement, grief, depression, and an uncertain future, those I spoke with were deeply concerned with how to best help the Greek fire survivors and their families, in their new host country.

On a more positive note, six other Turkish refugees, one a 5-months pregnant woman, were rescued and brought to Greece after being stranded for four days without food or water on a tiny island between Turkey and Greece. Their boat sank and they made it to the island, where they slept on the muddy ground and survived by drinking river water. Another success story involved a young Turkish refugee who arrived on a boat, but his boat was pushed back towards Turkey by Greek officials (which happens on occasion). In an act of sheer desperation, he leapt off that boat into Greek waters, and to the cheers of spectators he too was rescued and brought into Greece by representatives of the UN High Committee for Refugees.

Despite the problems faced by the Turkish refugee community in Greece, which include trauma, financial difficulties, displacement, grief, depression, and an uncertain future, those I spoke with were deeply concerned with how to best help the Greek fire survivors and their families, in their new host country. They, along with the world, mourned with Greece. Another refugee, and former government official from Ankara, Çetin, explained: “The pain doesn’t differ. Language, ethnicity, religion, none of these are different. We suffered the same. When we see the pictures of the Greek babies [fire victims], we suffer just as we do when we see Turkish babies who sank in the Evros River.”

Humanitarian groups quickly began to raise funds for the survivors of the devastating fire. Help also came from an unlikely source: the Turkish refugee community. Historically, Greece and Turkey have been at odds. This has been fueled, in part, by Greek independence from the Ottoman Empire in 1832, a series of military conflicts including the Greco-Turkish war of 1912-1922, the Cyprus issue, and the current tensions between Turkey and Greece. Turkish jets have invaded Greek airspace on dozens of occasions this year alone, and the Turkish government has implied it might seek jurisdiction over islands in the Aegean occupied by Greeks.[15]

Despite that history, those refugees I interviewed were deeply grateful for the friendly welcome they received in Greece which, combined with Erdoğan’s brutal two-year purge, completely quashed any previously held feelings of Turkish superiority and/or xenophobia. Firdevs, a former teacher who crossed the river with her three children, told me that after arriving in Greece, she kissed the first tree she saw. She felt her burdens lifting, and that at that moment she could breathe for the first time in two years. “All Turkish refugees are thankful to the people of Greece,” Mehmet explained to me.

Zeynep, a divorced mother and former cook, confirmed that her refugee experience created greater empathy for others outside of those groups of people with whom she used to most identify. She said, “Before this [purge in Turkey], when we heard a refugee ship had sunk in the Aegean Sea, of course we were sorry. But we never thought that each person died had a family, children; we never humanized them, one by one. We used to just think about Turkey, what we could do for Turkey, but after this experience, we see what we can do for humanity.”

My 9-day trip was marred by several tragedies. The day before I arrived, fires in the region of East Attica, near Rafina, horrifyingly killed 99 people, with 200 more being injured. Seven Turkish refugees, including children, lost their lives drowning in the Evros trying to reach safety in Greece.

Similarly, Yesma, a former teacher, argued that being a refugee also made her more empathetic towards other refugees. She stated, “In our country we had Syrian refugees and we should have done more for them. We didn’t help them enough.” She also crossed the Evros with her family, and told me that eerily, she was able to feel the spirits of those who had drowned in it, but were never found.

Accompanying Mehmet, Gasparetto, and several other refugees with medical backgrounds, I toured the neighborhoods affected by the fire. They wanted to offer aid through their Hizmet-affiliated organization, Time to Help. In one of over at least 1,000 homes gutted by the fire, a burnt television sat askance on the living room floor, surrounded by charred furniture and debris. A brass teapot sat unscathed on a charred, round antique table. I was told that thankfully, the elderly resident of that home survived, carried out by her son.

Mehmet, who had organized the small group composed of two refugee doctors and one nurse, purchased water and paper goods to donate to Rafina’s city hall. We met with Ms. Vasiliki Beka, the Mayor’s Advisor, and Mehmet began by telling her that they were there simply to help, and that on behalf of Time to Help they could bring more doctors or whatever else was needed. He offered to organize a blood drive, paint homes, bring medicines, or provide victims’ families with financial aid. Ms. Beka graciously responded that they did not need more basic items such as clothes, food, or medicine, but rather volunteers to help clear the area of burnt wood, and of course, funds. Seemingly touched by the offers of assistance, she said that receiving global offers of support restored her faith in humanity. Exhausted, but smiling, she added: “There is more that brings us together than that which separates us.” Afterwards, the group visited a young woman in the hospital, who was badly burned on her arms and legs, and gave her mother funds to help her daughter with her medical bills.

Refugees commonly suffer from feelings of humiliation and societal uselessness because of their dependence on aid organizations, especially when they are unemployed.[16] I noticed that being able to provide help to fire victims raised the spirits of the Turkish refugees I met in Greece; indeed, Mehmet much preferred to think about ways to help the Greek victims rather than about his own refugee status, or the fact that the rest of his family still remained in Turkey. Thankfully, Gasparetto was able to reach Germany, where he hopes to continue his medical studies after learning German. While he still struggles with depression and his traumatic memories, he is one of the more fortunate. While those that fled the brutal purge in Turkey have a long road in front of them, their horrible experiences have not yet caused them to lose their humanity. In fact, being able to perform even small acts of kindness helps them move forward.

The pain doesn’t differ. Language, ethnicity, religion, none of these are different. We suffered the same. When we see the pictures of the Greek babies [fire victims], we suffer just as we do when we see Turkish babies who sank in the Evros River.

Let’s conclude this story with the words of a refugee. Ahsen, a 33-year-old psychological consultant and mother of two, listened to the stories of purge victims in Turkey before becoming a refugee herself. Her hair turned white from the stress of listening to the painful stories of others. Her Kurdish husband, a psychiatrist, cried when I interviewed him, telling me he heard stories that were so terrible he couldn’t tell them to anyone. Before fleeing Turkey via the Evros, Ahsen told her seven-year-old daughter that they were playing a game of “Survivor.” Surprised with her daughter’s adult-like demeanor during the voyage, Ahsen recalled that after reaching Greece the girl calmly asked her who had won the game. Ahsen conveyed what she had learned from the harrowing ordeal: “Passing through the Evros taught us about other people. We had heard about the refugee experiences from Afghans and Syrians, but we hadn’t experienced it [ourselves]. Also, when we came here we found that Greek people are very kind, polite, believe in humanity, and offer us respect and understanding. They also help us, which is very important. [If granted asylum], we will go and carry out more service (Hizmet) in the countries we visit. I’m sorry I left my friends in Turkey, but I learned there is a great need here as well. A new life is beginning for all of us.”

[1] All names of Turkish refugees have been changed, for their safety.

[2] Deniz Zengin, “Turkish Refugees Crossing Evros River,” Politurco, August 2, 2018.

[3] Ibid.

[4] “Greece,” UNHCR, June, 2018.

[5] “Sea Arrivals Dashboard: Greece,” UNHCR, September, 2018.

[6] Leo Dobbs, “Fewer refugees arriving in Greece’s Evros region, but problems remain,” UNHCR, June 12, 2018.

[7] “UNHCR urges action to ease conditions on Greek islands,” UNHCR, September 8, 2017.

[8] Catrin Nye and Leo Sands, “UN urges Greece to act as Moria refugee camp reaches ‘boiling point,’” BBC Victoria Derbyshire Program, August 31, 2018.

[9] Ibid.

[10] Helbast Shekhani, “Ten Syrian Kurds in critical condition after attack at refugee camp in Greece,” Kurdistan 24, May 26, 2018.

[11] “Attica’s Devastating Wildfire Death Toll Rises to 99,” Greek News, September 12, 2018.

[12] Bill Hutchinson, “Death toll from fires in Greece climbs to 91 as investigation points toward arson,” ABC News, July 29, 2018.

[13] His real name.

[14] Tasos Kokkinidis, “Turkish Father Makes Emotional Plea for Family Missing in Greek River,” Greek Reporter, July 20, 2018.

[15] Yannis Babaoulias, “Greece and Turkey Are Inching Toward War,” Foreign Policy, April 18, 2018.

[16] Constanze Quosh, Liyam Eloul, and Rawan Ajlani, “Mental health of refugees and displaced persons in Syria and surrounding countries: a systematic review,” Intervention Volume 11 (3) (November 2013).

Combining sports and education, and motivated by faith, Hassan Fofana is helping dreams come true for students in West Africa.

I first met Hassan Fofana in 2006, at a friend’s house in Baltimore, Maryland. Hassan was studying at Loyola College and I was at Temple University. The two of us were an unusual pair. Hassan, who was born in Guinea and grew up in Togo, is nearly seven feet tall; he was a center on Loyola’s basketball team. On my good days, I’m five feet, eight inches tall.

Despite the humor that ensued when the two of us stood side by side, we became fast friends, united by a shared passion for social justice. At the time, my experiences with the larger world were minimal, but at only 21, Hassan was already a worldly man. At the age of 14, when Hassan was still living in Togo, he’d been one of 55 kids to try out for an American basketball coach. The coach was offering one scholarship to a prep school in Massachusetts. It was, Hassan once told me, a hopelessly long shot. And yet, at the end of the try out, Hassan was chosen. Barely a teenager, he left his family and home to enroll at Hargrave Military Academy in Boston. He didn’t speak a word of English.

Despite being so far from home, and in a strange country, Hassan embraced the opportunity. He won a scholarship to play basketball at the University of Maryland, under hall of fame coach Gary Williams, and after that he transferred to Loyola College, where he earned a degree in International Relations and Philosophy.

Throughout his journey, Hassan was shocked by the kindness of people he met along the way – especially the Gibbons family and his mentor, Mike Zona. Generosity wasn’t unusual for Hassan, of course. He grew up with devout Muslim parents, who taught him both the value of an education and the generosity that their faith preached.

“For as long as I can remember, my parents ha(d) always ha(d) 1 to 3 guests in our home. They w(ould) stay there for as long as they like(d) for free housing and food,” Hassan told me.

These lessons, and the continual generosity he encountered, left a deep mark on Hassan. While he was at Loyola, he began to have an inkling that he wanted to spend his life serving others.

Shortly before Hassan and I met in 2006, he returned to Togo for only the second time since leaving for the U.S. The trip, which would change his life, had been made possible by a dear friend and businessman who had asked Hassan what he missed most about his home. Hassan said he missed the sense of community – the way that everyone knew everyone else’s name, and how neighbors watched out for each other – and he missed his family. Hassan has many siblings, and he missed their large, sprawling family meals and the easy camaraderie that brothers and sisters have together.

While back in Togo, Hassan and a friend were watching a group of kids – most of them around twelve years old – play soccer. Hassan still knew most of the kids in his town, and was curious why some children weren’t out there with their friends. His friend told Hassan that many of the children had been taken out of school. Because their families were struggling for money, the boys’ fathers had decided that school was a waste of time. They weren’t playing soccer because they were working – many of them for less than five dollars a day.

Hassan was troubled by this. Sports and education had always been linked in his mind. After all, it was a sport that had allowed him to pursue a higher education in America. Watching that soccer game, Hassan began to get a sense of what he wanted to do with his life. When I met him that fall, he told me that, inspired by his trip back home, he wanted to open schools for athletes in Africa. He wanted to help young kids, just like himself, to get a real education.

“I was convinced that this was my mission on this earth,” he says.

Now, eight years later, Hassan is beginning to make his dream a reality. In 2012, after a few false starts, Hassan formed Time2Ball Foundation, which aims to connect student-athletes in West Africa with prep coaches in the United States and Europe. The hope is that these kids will use their athletics to get the kind of world class education they can’t get in Africa – and through education, open up all kinds of opportunities for themselves and their communities. With the help of donors, educators, coaches, and local community leaders, since 2012, Hassan has brought eleven teenagers from Africa to study at high schools in the United States and Europe.

Though Hassan lives and works in the U.S – and though all his student-athletes are coming to study in the U.S. and Europe – Hassan still has his gaze focused on Africa. He firmly believes that the continent can fix its problems through its young leaders getting better educations. Inspired by his own devout faith, Hassan stresses the need to give back to others. He encourages the student-athletes that he works with not just to pursue their own goals, but to be generous and to help others achieve their dreams, too. Through this intense focus on community and generosity, Hassan hopes that many of Time2Ball’s student-athletes will ultimately return to Africa to help open up more avenues of opportunity in local communities.

I recently spoke with Hassan and asked him what has been the best part of his work. He told me a story about a young man who had dropped out of school in Togo and had found work cleaning roads. Time2Ball was able to connect him with a basketball coach in the U.S., where he’s now a junior in high school, with a B+ grade average and possible college scholarships on the table. As Hassan told me, being able to help someone like this boy achieve his dream of a better life is “a true blessing.”

Despite its early success, Time2Ball still faces plenty of challenges going forward, such as funding and housing for its student-athletes. Because it’s still small, unfortunately, there are many student-athletes Time2Ball hasn’t been able to help. Hassan says that he’s constantly looking for new solutions to these problems. He’s hoping that, in the future, a stable network of donors and schools will allow him to focus more on finding student-athletes. But he’s not there yet, and is looking for all the help he can get.

Even with these challenges, Hassan has big dreams for Time2Ball. Within the next five years, he’d like to expand Time2Ball’s influence by helping athletes in many sports connect with coaches (for now, Time2Ball only works with basketball and soccer players). He’d also like to help aspiring artists in Africa find better opportunities to develop their talents.

The long term dream, though, is still the same as it was when Hassan and I met over eight years ago: he wants to open a series of schools in Togo and West Africa that will utilize kids’ love of sports to improve their access to a quality education. Driven by faith and the generosity of many people he has met along the way, Hassan Fofana is helping dreams come true, one education at a time.

Please feel free to contact Hassan if you have any questions or you would like to contribute to our effort in helping young men and women improve their lives through education and sport. Contact via email: Time2Ballinc@gmail.com or via skype: fhassan16.

After that question, I found myself at the doctors.

“If your heart is OK, then your body is OK,” she told me with worrying eyes.

“I’ve never had pain in my chest for this long,” I told her. “It feels as if somebody is sitting on my heart. But if I put my hand on my chest, that warmth helps to alleviate the pain.”

She was concerned. We stopped and she urged me to go to the ER immediately.

“I need to pray,” I told her. “It will take ten minutes and I will be at the hospital praying room. There are always a few people there, so don’t worry.”

She nodded. “I believe in the power of the prayer and meditation,” she added. And she ensured that I see a specialist for the chest pain.

I left that building and crossed the road to go to the other building. I was holding my heart, thinking the metaphors that we think of as a mundane saying. None of the metaphorical descriptions were solely poetry or were merely linguistic elaboration. Rather, they all meant what is untold and unseen and indescribable. At that moment I realized this heart was given to me. I was doing my best for a month to satisfy her needs and to ease her tension. But she was behaving as a separate and independent unit that has her own free will. I realized this for the first time in my life. Maybe the metaphor for this case would be extending a helping a hand to my heart, or to surround her with muscles. Maybe I forced too much on her, or did not appreciate the help my individual organs, my body as a whole, have given me.

That night, a friend of mine, not knowing what I had been thinking during the day, told me that we should talk to our bodies. “You should thank your feet that carried you all those years, my friend,” she said. “You should appreciate your eyes, which never gave up on you. You should thank your arms and hands since you would be speechless without them as a writer. You should thank your brain, for she listened to her Owner all these years and served you to be a better human every day.” “You know,” I added, “you are so right. After all, the one who cannot thank people and things cannot thank their Owner, the Beautiful, the Merciful, the Wise, the Choice Maker!”

I have been reading a lot lately. But there is something we learn from life and other people that no book can cover. Thus, I believe humankind is a unique book, its own kind of scripture. Humans read the universe with one eye, and the Scriptures with the other. Thus, we are given double eyes. And humans stand at the conjunction of these two books of meaning, being ourselves the third book which is uniquely because it is not just a book to read but also a reader. The more humans read these two books, the more we become a readable book.

So what is written in me? I suppose the basis of all lines is this sentence I heard from my doctor today: Save your heart, if the heart is good then your body and mind will be healthy. I wish I knew the language of the heart that would make my body healthy and would make my mind a reader and my self a book. The heart is at the center of human life, both in the physical and metaphysical senses. The heart is at the heart of the fact that humankind is a book to be read and discovered. The heart defines what we feel and motivates us in life. The heart defines which way the mind will travel. The heart is the teacher of the mind. Do you think we can unravel the language of the heart?

“Mom! Mom, wake up!” I cried shaking her by her shoulders, determined to stop her dreaming before something terrible happened to the boy.

Mom sat up robotically, opened her eyes, and as the contours of her room sat in place under the moonlight, she took a deep breath and urged me back to sleep. Alas, I spent the rest of the night wondering who the lost boy was. Was it my brother, the only son in our family? Did the dream mean that something bad would happen to him?

Although my curiosity almost killed me like the proverbial cat, I dared not ask Mom about the dream which continued visiting her in the following months. For one thing, dreams good or bad were never told in our family. Mom believed that if you put a dream into words, if you articulated it even in a whisper, you pronounced an undeniable invitation for the dream to become true.

“Dreams,” Mom often said, “should be left alone. Dreams are tricky. Everything you see in them stand for something else in the real world. Rats stand for money, money for gossip, crack and holes in houses for deaths in the household.”

So I kept my peace and never talked with anyone about the matter.

One day, long after that night, I was looking for a dear necklace of mine which I couldn’t find, having hidden it too well for my own good. As it often happens, if you look into all possible hiding places in a household, you are bound to find unexpected things—like your sister’s secret diary in the wardrobe or your brother’s savings under the mattress. But what are the chances that you will find pictures of a brother you never knew!

At first, I couldn’t make sense of those two pictures. One was a photo of a baby in his crib with eyes half open and the other was a shot of the same baby with Mom, in her younger years, leaning over the crib as if to place a kiss on the baby’s face. Mom’s face seemed so sad that I wanted to tear up the photo right there.

I went to my older sister instead and asked her, “Who is this baby?” My sister snatched the photos from me and reproachfully said, “Why can’t just you leave anything alone?”

She immediately headed toward mom’s bedroom, apparently knowing the hiding place. Then she stopped midway and replied without turning around, “He is our brother. He died from a fever when he was ten months old. And don’t ask Mom about him. After all these years, she still cries when she speaks of him.”

A tender feeling of longing, gripped my heart. “What was his name?” I asked.

“Leonard,” she replied. “He would have been fifteen-years-old now, had he lived.”

I wanted to take another look at the photos and stroke with my fingers the little face of my brother, but I dreaded my sister’s anger. She went into Mom’s bedroom and closed the door shut.

On the days that followed, I started fantasizing about what it would have been like for me to have another brother, four years older. I imagined us going to school together, his arm on my shoulder, me proud of my protective brother, daring the bullies to come even closer.

I imagined covering up for him when he came home late and he telling me first, before anyone else, about the girl whom he loved. I smiled as tears welled up in my eyes when I thought of those happy moments that never came to pass. It was then that I willed myself to believe death couldn’t be the end of all things. A sweet hope invaded my heart that one day I would see him, hug him, and catch up on missed happiness.

I wanted so much to share this hope with Mom so that she could accept her loss, so that her nightmares would stop tormenting her, so that those two photos would come out of hiding and join the light in the family album. But I never had the courage to confront her grief. I had understood by then that no matter how many living children a mother has, her heart will always mourn the death of a child.

One afternoon, five years later, I overheard my aunt talking in low tones to Mom. “He would have been twenty years old today,” she said while she stroked Mom’s hand in sympathy.

“It’s kismet!” Mom said, taking a deep breath. “It’s the destiny.” Her voice quavered, but she did not cry. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

After this, the photos came out of hiding and took their place on my mom’s dresser. Yet, Mom’s nightmares did not vanish. They continued to torture her. One thing remained a mystery to me. Why did Mom never ask, “Where is my boy?” It was always the boy? And during all these years, why hadn’t she uttered his name in her dream even once?

Every time I heard her search in the darkness of the night for the nameless boy, I wanted to whisper into her subconscious before waking her up, “Mom, you have to let things go. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t meant to be.” But I never did. ***

Tonight, Mom is having another of her nightmares, but I won’t wake her up as I have before. I watch her turn in her sleep, hoping that her dream, left undisturbed this time, will relieve her from the burden of her conscience. Tonight, I know Mom is looking for some other boy. One she doesn’t dare to own.

We were talking this afternoon about how life had changed for her and Dad after each of us, their children had married and left home. Mom didn’t enjoy her empty nest as much as one would expect.

“People always remarked that my five children were too much for any normal person to handle, but look at us now,” she said, taking in the tidy and spotless living room. “The house is quite, empty, just me and your Dad and… the memories. It would have been nice to have another child for our senior years, someone who would tie us to life with bittersweet worries.”

A wave of sadness covered her face, a feeling of regret I couldn’t quite grasp. Did she remember Leonard? But he still wouldn’t have been the child of my parents’ senior years. What else?

“It wasn’t meant to be,” I said insinuating on his death. “Destiny.” Mom’s eyes watered and her voice trembled. “Sometimes you pick your destiny.”

“But what could you do? The doctors couldn’t reduce his fever and…”

“I am not talking about Leonard,” she interrupted and then paused in pain. Seeing my shock, Mom, with great difficulty, told the story of her last child. While listening to her, I realized that a house cannot hold enough hiding places for the secrets of the past.

“When you were nine years old, I discovered I was pregnant again,” Mom continued.

“Everybody was so against the idea of me giving birth to that baby. Your father worried about our already strained finances. My doctor warned me about the difficulties of a labor at forty-one. Your eldest sister, who was newly engaged at that time, complained of how ashamed she would feel to tell her fiancé’s family that her mother was pregnant when it was her own time to have children. My friends told me that women my age often gave birth to children with disabilities. I felt so helpless and scared, so alone.” She let out a sigh.

Gathering her strength, she continued. “People push you to take one definitive step and leave you to bear the burden alone afterwards. It was hard for me. I regretted it the moment it was done.” Mom sniffed and closed her eyes, struggling for a deep breath.

“As I was about to leave the hospital, the nurse told me the baby was a boy. It was then that I remembered Leonard, my son whom I had lost in infancy. I know, it sounds crazy, but at that moment I felt as if the soul of Leonard had made a second attempt to come to this world, to my arms, and I had brutally rejected him.”

Mom couldn’t continue any longer. Her chest was heaving for air. I took her hand and stroked it lovingly. Who of us hasn’t done things that we terribly regret? Don’t the tears of remorse expiate the past? Shouldn’t we forgive ourselves as we are asked to forgive others? Mom listened, nodded, but she did not speak a word. She excused herself and went to her room. Tonight as I lay in the dark by her side, I pray Mom will find the boy in her dream, present her tears to him, and find peace in reconciliation.

“What would you do if you were told you had only 72 hours to live?” was the theme we announced in the last year’s essay contest. The winner of this contest is Joseph Salter, who participated from behind bars. Yes, this is true. He is the author of five unpublished novels he has written during his term in jail. Read what this talented author, who is serving jail-time for a period unknown to us, has to say about if he were told he only had three days remaining to live. We will continue to publish other interesting essays submitted for the contest in following issues. Each of them responds to this question – which is somewhat distressing for many – with unique content, revealing unaccomplished dreams, regrets, and thankfulness.

We would like your attention and participation as we announce a new initiative that our magazine is introducing: The Fountain Talks. Organized by The Fountain and other participating organizations, The Fountain Talks is the name for locally organized seminars in which we will discuss any of the essays published in our most recent issue or any of those themes we generally stress in our publication. The first of such events took place on February 20 in Ohio in cooperation with TASCO, which featured Dr. Nuh Aydin, who made a presentation on his book review published in the previous issue. The Fountain Talks will be held very soon in Singapore, Australia, Indonesia, and Malaysia in the form of a series of panels starting from March 29. TCC in New York will host Julie Ann Cunningham who will speak on her “Music of the Spheres” article (issue 76) March 31. Please contact your local representative for The Fountain to learn about the details.

Once there was a man, a long time before, who killed ninety-nine people. One day he began to feel remorse for his actions, and he began to search for the most renowned scholar of the area. He was told that he should go to see a certain priest. When he went to the priest, he told him that he had killed ninety-nine people and asked whether his repentance would be accepted. When the priest said “No,” he killed the priest too. In this way, the number of murders he had committed increased to a hundred.

After this, he was again full of remorse and inquired who the greatest scholar of the time was. A prominent scholar was recommended to him. The man told the scholar that he had killed a hundred people and asked whether his repentance would be accepted. The scholar told him that (of course) he could repent, that no one had the right to stand between a person and his repentance, and told him to go to a certain place where people who worshipped God were living. He told him; “Worship God along with them. Don’t return to your village, because it is an evil place.”

The man set forth, yet he died halfway (through his journey). Upon his death, the angels of punishment and the angels of mercy disagreed about (what to do with) the man. The angels of mercy said: “this man has come here as penitent and has turned to God with his heart,” while the angels of punishment said: “He did not perform any good deeds.”

Meanwhile, an angel in human form appeared. The angels of mercy and the angels of punishment agreed that this angel should judge the disagreement.

The angel in human form said: “Measure the distance from both sides, and compare them. He will belong to whichever side he is closer to.” When they measured the distances and compared them, they saw that he was closer to his destination by the length of a hand, and the angels of mercy took him away.

According to another report, the last part of the hadith is as follows: “After God ordered the former village to recede, and the latter to come nearer, the angel in human form told them to measure the distance from both sides. When they did as they were told, they saw that he was closer to the village of good people by the length of a hand. In this way he was forgiven.