Thread by @JamieMcIntosh

Here in Jordan today I met a man working in a small shop delighting customers with his craft.
“Canada,” I replied to his query of where I’m from. “You?”
“Syria.”
“What city?”
“Homs.”
“Oh wow.”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Seen pictures. It was beautiful before the war” I replied.

After watching him work silently for a bit, I gently inquired “Did your family make it safely out of Syria?”
“Mostly.” He said softly. “My brother died.”
A pause. “So did my daughter.”
“Oh. I am so sorry.” I said. After a moment, “How old was she?”
“Six months.”

Six months? His little girl? Only six months old. Just a baby. Killed in the conflict. I wasn’t prepared for that. I suppose —far more deeply — neither was he.
“I’m so sorry.” I whispered.
“What was her name?”
“My daughter?”
His eyes lifted and looked beyond the window.

“Tasnim.” The name floated through the glass.
“Tasmin?”
“TasNEEM.” he gently corrected.
“Did her name have a meaning?” I asked, cursing myself for using the past tense.
“A meaning? It’s from the Qur’an. It means...” he stammered a bit.

“It means...” His hands sprung upwards, fingers outspreading, as his tongue dug to find the words. “When you find water...in the desert.” Hands motioning again.
“Oh, a spring?”
“A spring? Yes.” He said haltingly.
I swallowed, tears escaping my eyes. “That’s lovely.”

He slowed to finish my order with a delicate touch.
“May you see her again in Paradise,” my soul offered.
“Inshallah” — God willing — he nodded.
“Inshallah” I averred, “Inshallah.”
He wrapped my purchase with care.
We shook hands as I lifted my eyes to meet his with respect.

Then they slowly broke away in reverence.
“Come again tomorrow” he said kindly.
“I will. I will. Inshallah.”

I crossed the street to my lodging. Hooked onto wifi and punched in “Tasmin”.

“Tasnim is a Muslim baby name.” Meaning of Tasnim: “Fountain of paradise.”

Inshallah.

As I think of our encounter — brief yet eternal — tears begin to flow.

Dear sweet Tasnim. May heaven hold you tenderly, close to your divine Father’s breast. Until your loving earthly father joins you.

And know this. He has not forgotten you. Your name hovers on his lips.

And somehow from your place in Paradise, your name cascades ‘cross lands stripped bare of love, barren of kindness, as a sign of life — and a promise of healing peace.

May you rest in peace, Tasnim.
May your land of #Syria & hearts of her mothers & fathers find peace.
Inshallah.