Category: Grandfather

On Wednesday, May 29, 2019, I conducted an in-person interview with my 76-year-old grandfather. My grandfather suffers from Heart Disease, COPD, and Peripheral Artery Disease. My grandfather has been a smoker since he was twenty years old and used to be very active. Since his diagnosis, he had been able to remain fairly active, until last summer when he had to have a partial amputation of his right foot. The amputation was due to his peripheral artery disease. My grandfather still lives on his own, but he now walks with a cane and is only semi-active.

Prior to sitting down to interview my grandfather, I conducted background research on the chronic illnesses he has, as well as gather some pertinent information from my mom. In my research, I looked at the pathophysiology of the diseases, as well as some of the common symptoms so I was better prepared to address the concerns of my patient.

Heart Disease is associated with the development of heart failure, which my grandfather now has. Heart Disease is the leading cause of death for men and women in the United States (CDC, 2017). Heart Disease, also known as cardiovascular disease generally refers to conditions that involve narrowed or blocked blood vessels that lead to heart attacks, chest pain, or stroke (Heart Disease, 2018). Common symptoms of heart disease include chest pain or tightness, shortness of breath, weakness or coldness in limbs, and pain in the jaw or neck.

COPD results from blockages of tubes in the lungs from swelling or excess mucus which can cause difficulty breathing. The sacs in the lungs called alveoli, become less flexible which can cause the airways to collapse, making it even harder to breathe normally. The main cause of COPD is smoking, but other factors such as dust, pollution, and chemicals can contribute (COPD, 2013). Symptoms of COPD include constant coughing, shortness of breath while completing daily activities, and the inability to take deep breaths.

Peripheral Artery Disease is a circulatory issue in which narrowed arteries reduce blood flow to the body’s limbs (PAD, 2018). People who develop peripheral artery disease usually don’t receive enough blood flow in their limbs, usually their legs to keep up with demand. The most common symptoms of PAD are leg pain and sores on the toes and feet that won’t heal.

For my interview, I used the PLISSIT model. Prior to asking any questions regarding sexuality, I just discussed my grandfather’s chronic illnesses with him and talk about some of the symptoms he experiences on a regular basis.

The PLISSIT model consists of four phases. The first phase of the model is the permission-giving phase. The permission-giving phase opens the discussion, to give the patient a safe space to discuss sexual concerns. For the permission-giving phase, I used the statement “It’s common for people with Heart Disease and COPD to experience difficulties regarding sexuality. I’m going to ask you some questions about this private aspect of your life; feel free to ask me questions in return.” to open the discussion. This allowed a platform for my grandfather to open up and discuss any concerns he was having with permission from me.

The next phase in the model is the limited information phase. During this phase I allowed my grandfather to open up and discuss his sexuality. During this phase, my role was to simply just listen as my grandfather told me about concerns he had and how his chronic illness affected his sexuality. My grandfather chose to focus on his physical appearance and self-efficacy, rather than the problems he may be having during intercourse. My grandfather stated that since he was diagnosed with chronic illnesses, he now feels weak and fragile. Due to his peripheral artery disease, he had to have a partial amputation of his right foot. He stated that he now feels “worthless, embarrassed, and cheated”. Since having his foot amputated he has had to cut back on activities he normally partakes in and finds that it takes more energy to get around and do things. He stated he gets tired and winded very quickly, so he often finds it easier to just sit inside and watch television, rather than go out to do things like mow the lawn or fish, which he loves to do.

The third phase in the model is the specific suggestion phase. In this phase, I explained to my grandfather how his chronic illness affects his body. I explained the side effects of each and gave him a little background in physiology to help enhance his knowledge of his diseases. I gave my grandfather some suggestions such as riding his four-wheeler to the pond rather than walking and taking breaks between doing things rather than trying to do them back to back. I explained to him that he was not worthless and that he was lucky that he only lost part of his foot because with his disease healing often takes a long time and many people lose more. I believe this helped him look at the brighter side of things.

The last phase in the PLISSIT model is the intensive therapy phase. During this phase, providers often refer patients to a sexual health specialist, therapist, or psychologist for more comprehensive support and guidance. Since I am not a medical professional and do not have any certifications, I directed my grandfather to other resources. I suggested that he discuss any problems or concerns that he has with his primary care provider and suggested that they look into motivational interviewing to help build his self-efficacy and hopefully set a plan to help him stop smoking.

After completing thorough research on COPD, Heart Disease, and Peripheral Artery Disease, and talking to my mom about my grandfather I felt as if I was well prepared to go into my interview. During the interview, I found it easy to discuss the background physiology and symports that come along with these diseases. I feel as if because of this knowledge my grandfather was a little more at ease going into this interview, knowing that I at least knew what I was talking about in regard to his diseases. Surprisingly, the easiest thing for me was being so close to the person I was interviewing. My grandfather has always been a big part of my life and I see him multiple times a week. He is one of my biggest supporters and I think this allowed me to be confident during the interview process.

Although sexuality is a broad term and encompasses many things such as biology, physical traits, beliefs, etc. my grandfather chose to only discuss concerns regarding physical traits and psychological traits such as how the disease made him feel. In the first week of class, we discussed barriers that prevent healthcare providers from discussing sexuality with clients, and I experienced several of them during my interview, including the patient feeling embarrassed and an age gap between the provider and the patient. My grandfather was born in 1943, nearly fifty-seven years before me. This created a large age gap between us, which before going into my interview I believe could be a problem. Another challenge I found during my interview was beliefs due to generations. I grew up in the 21st century, where sexuality became a topic that people discuss openly, and people are proud of who they are and what they believe in. When my grandfather was growing up, sexuality was not something that was openly discussed, and men and women didn’t even have equal rights. Due to this, I believe my grandfather was a little surprised by the topic of the interview which made it hard for him to open up and truly discuss the problems and concerns he was having regarding his sexuality.

Here stands the man who is full of rich knowledge that is worth spreading as family history. I am so proud to have this man with me today. This man is named Saad Ghanem Al – Saraf. He is my grandfather. I am about to know more about his golden knowledge. My Grandfather had three incredible and unbelievable highlights in life which made all the difference.

This was all about my grandfather’s childhood. Let’s start this adventure. These were the inspiring words he said.

“I was born in Baghdad in 1950. When I was born, I had two siblings– Wafa’a and Iman. Both of my sisters were bigger than me. Then Saffa’a was born. After that Monna was born. Until now, I was the only boy among my siblings. I did not have brothers at that time I only had 4 sisters. But then when I was 14 Hussein was born. He was my only brother. After two years I had another brother Mohamed. And all of those are my siblings I had 4 sisters and 2 brothers. I was the oldest boy. We all lived in Mosel, Iraq. My childhood was the best time of my life. I loved school. The best part was when I walked to school and caught up to my friends on the way. My friends were amazing at that time. We laughed together and played together and most importantly we got dirty together because in order to play and have fun you need to get dirty. I was not the smartest person nor the weakest person in school. I was an average student. I had fun bothering teachers. I use to laugh a lot in school and joke around. I loved to play with my friends more than to study. We always had fun during that time. These days were the best days of my life.”

My grandfather’s childhood looked amusing. In my opinion childhoods in the past are more enjoyable. These days most of the kids’ childhood is based on technology. Kids this time would rather play video games than go outside. Moreover, going to school walking seems enjoyable, but these days walking to school is not safe. The kids in the past seem to have a memorable childhood. My grandfather’s childhood seemed to have cheerful moments with friends and siblings.

“Growing up with my brothers and sisters was interesting because I got to see them growing up with me. I was close to my sisters only because my brothers were too young, but I still loved all my siblings. During my youth, I played sports with my friends and we got dirty together. The best thing was walking around in the street in the neighborhood and playing with my friends after school. Also, during my youth, I got into a lot of trouble. I got into trouble in school and in the neighborhood. I remember once I was playing with rocks in the street by mistake. I threw a rock at a window and broke it, then I ran away. Then the homeowner talked to my father and my father paid him. During that time no one cared if they were rich or not. Money was nothing during that time. My family was not rich or poor we were comfortable. I would rather go back in time to those enjoyable days than stay in this time.”

Well, my grandpa’s youth looked hilarious. I was curious about my grandfather’s youth. I wanted to know about the troubles he got into. Knowing about my grandfather’s youth was hilarious. I can tell that my grandpa mastered being a troublemaker. Besides that, I can tell that he was a great brother to his siblings. He cared about them.

“After studying in Mosel, it was a dream for me to study at Romana High School in Beirut. I managed to go to Romana with the help of my parents. Back in those days, it was safe to travel alone and young without communicating with your family. I met so many people and it was such an honor to study there. After high school, I went back to Iraq to study college. I studied business during college. My parents were always there for me and without them, I wouldn’t be here. I proposed a business plan and investment plans. I messed up so many times trying to find a great business that would make me successful. My father kept on giving me lessons to make a business that will give me a good income. But when I was 26 my father passed away.”

I am so glad that my grandfather accomplished his dreams and flew to Beirut to study. My grandfather seems to be overjoyed for going there and if I was there, I would be overjoyed too. Thank God I am in a great school. My grandfather really loved that school in Beirut. The reason is that he meets new people from different countries and cultures. He used to tell me stories about how he was full of joy going to this school. When my grandfather was a young adult, he seemed to be pleased with his life but not after the shocking news of his father’s passing. Moreover, he was failing in his business. He worked hard and made many business plans, but the response was low. These moments were hard for him.

“My father taught me many lessons and I learned so much from the mistakes that I made. Then I made my business and it became successful. I wish my father was here to show him, that I did it and became successful. I want to show him that I learned from his lessons and from my mistakes. My business gave me a huge income and I started to make more companies. Since I was the oldest boy in the family and I took care of my siblings and my mother. I took care of my family as a father and as a brother. My sisters and my mother did not work, and my brothers were still young. But then my sisters got married and my brothers grew up and worked in business. With the help of lessons of my father, my business became successful. It was not easy to become successful. I worked hard to be on this level. After becoming successful I helped my brothers to become successful too. After my father passed away, I made sure that my siblings got good care and helped my brothers to become who they are. After being successful I got married to Ragdah who is your grandmother. Then I got three kids– Ahmad which is the oldest, then Tamara then Ghanem. After the kids were grown and got raised, I helped Ahmad and Ghanem to make businesses for themselves. After that my kids and I became successful. The best thing in the world is seeing that you made difference in this life, after seeing my kids growing up made me feel that I did something special in this life and I had successes in life. Then I and my kids shared many businesses and I realized that I chose the right path.”

Life can be marvelous sometimes. However, it can also be atrocious. During the time when my grandfather was a young adult life dragged him downwards into deep, dark, and heartbroken moments full of tears. But then there were no tears left to cry. It was time to switch paths and make sure he was on the right path. My grandfather then rose up. He worked hard and then jumped out of the deep hole full of depression. I am sure it was not easy to get out of this hole. With the lessons he learned from his father and the mistakes he did, he finally became successful. He made it out of the hole by working hard. This teaches me a lesson too that the person should never quit and always learn from their mistakes. My grandpa made a business that had a huge income. My grandfather was like the father in his family he was working to pay the bills. The most important thing in this world is family. What my grandfather did make me stand for a moment and think how incredible and unbelievable it was for him to work and have a huge income to pay the bills. Without my grandfather, this family wouldn’t be here and my father and I wouldn’t be here. The story does not end here. He helped his brothers to become successful too. Then the brothers became successful. My grandfather and his brothers became successful and paid the bills for his sisters and mother. When my father and uncle grew up my grandfather helped them to become successful. Is it unbelievable? My grandfather made so much for this family. He accomplished his dreams. The most important highlights he made was when he was like a father and a brother to his siblings. Also, when he made a business that had a huge income making he help others. Moreover, when his children and grandchildren were born, and he made sure that his children and grandchildren will have the best life ever. I am so glad that I have this inconceivable grandfather.

For 11 years of my life, I woke up to the permeating smell of cinnamon tea and the vigorous flipping of comic book pages. Stumbling distraught into the living room, I would find my grandfather in his favorite armchair at the same time each morning, tea and countless editions of comic books in hand. Despite my family’s annoyance at his obsession with “childish” literature and witty morning remarks, there was never a time when anyone imagined it would all disappear. Even my grandfather, who bravely escaped seemingly every peril in his life, could not escape the ravaging effects of PTSD. He tried for decades to suppress the agonizing memories that came with his childhood in World War II Italy, but even he succumbed to the invisible force. Although my grandfather was only in my life for a mere snapshot of time, his rather unorthodox lessons on how to deal with his hardships will remain in my heart forever.

Born right before the cusp of World War II, the first formative years of my grandfather’s childhood were spent in the midst of turmoil. His father served in the Italian army, leaving my grandfather with only the frail protection of a rundown bookstore and three older siblings. Almost every weekend, my entire family would gather in the living room and listen to his picturesque recounts of the war. Lost in the unbelievable trauma that came with recalling these stories, he would mumble the events of one day over and over; the day that left him without anything. I vividly remember the descriptions of the rumbling ground and entire tank divisions that flooded his street, the flares dropped only the slightest distance from the hiding place of the bookstore, and the gaping inferno that swallowed the lives of all his siblings. It was only by chance that he was able to flee to the basement of the bookstore. However, the days spent in the lifeless, sickly basement were ones that changed both of our lives forever. The underground bunker was mostly filled to the brim with various propaganda posters and newspapers set there just days ago, but also a box in the corner of the room that looked like it had been accumulating dust for decades. Little did he know that the contents of the box were ones he would treasure for years to come.

Inside the daunting old boxes were stacks of “fumetti” (or comics), imported to the bookstore from all across Europe. The gratification that came with reading about Capitan Trueno and stoic heroes that wished away their problems in the blink of an eye of the war problems was enough to distract him from the hunger and immensely painful aftermath of the last few days. Even in the midst of such an agonizing discussion, I remember the sheer passion and excitement in his voice when he talked about the days at a time he spent reading the “fumetti” and forming an unbreakable bond with their protagonists. The originality and inspiration within every page of the “fumetti” provided grandfather’s pliable 7-year-old mind with unbelievable hope and liberty. As the days and weeks passed, my grandfather remained in the basement, surviving only on the remains of care packages sent by relatives and these books, these bundles of life and happiness. Grandfather finished every storytime with the tale of one special hero who he credits with saving his life. Fortuomo was a superhero whose ability, fueled by self-confidence and perseverance, formed an impenetrable shell around him. These lessons of tenacity are the sole reasons he was able to escape from Italy a few years later.

Fast forward almost 60 years later, after the ramifications of World War II had settled in, and after my grandfather had escaped and started a family in North Carolina. My grandfather swore that from seeing the first sparkle in my eyes the day I was born, he knew we would have a unique connection. At about the same time in my childhood, I lost two of my siblings in a devastating car accident. For days, weeks, and months I lost myself in a spiral of despair. The realization that I was the only child in the family now, just like him so many years ago, was unbearable to me. Even at 8 years old, I felt that I’d experienced the pain of a lifetime, and saw no palpable future for myself. My parents sent me through months of countless futile treatments and therapy sessions, but nothing would reform my broken heart. When all seemed lost, they asked the grandfather to move into the house and help with my care. It was during these personal therapy sessions that our prophecized unique bond came to fruition.

Immediately, my grandfather introduced me to various forms of literature, intending to provide me with the hope and self-confidence he had experienced. Days went by where we perused through the family library, but I ingrained into my head that books were an utter waste of time, and could not possibly help my situation. When discussing their early relationships with literature, it seems everyone remembers their first nostalgia-instilling picture book or the first poem they successfully memorized. It was the norm for most readers, for everybody except me. Dr. Seuss, Percy Jackson, and the Magic Tree House had no significance in my mind and my condition worsened for months. My grandfather was adamant about relating my “rehabilitation” to some literature of sorts, but I was never satisfied by such simple fictitious books, rather I desired something to help me escape from my head and lead me to places where I’d never been, but also where I could relate.

As a last resort, my grandfather, against the instruction of my parents, introduced me to the horrors of his childhood. Instead of breaking my spirit beyond repair, hearing about such fantastical yet real-sounding stories acted as my shining light through the pit of darkness. The parallels between our childhoods were almost uncanny, and I was soon introduced to comic books. Along with the passing of my siblings, I was always shunned at school because of my skinny frame and unsociable outlook on life, to the point that being innately different from my colleagues was simply an expectation of mine. The image of my face plastered with pelted gum and bruises became synonymous with my name. I hid the extent of the bullying from my parents and confided in my grandfather instead, eventually growing on the verge of depression. It got to the point where I was relying on antidepressant medication, but my grandfather still honored my request to hide my pain from my parents and introduced me to the power of comics.

The first comic we bought together was a vintage edition of Detective Comics’ Batman: The Killing Joke. Alan Moore’s illustration of the Joker’s origin story did something no other form of literature could; it replenished my happiness. Until the waking hours of the morning, violent sips of hot cocoa and the rhythmic flipping of pages engrossed my thoughts. The irony would have it, reading such “insignificant” and “crude” stories made me feel reborn and gave me a purpose. After each new book I finished, a replenished flood of tears covered my face. Those nights, I no longer used pills as medication, but rather the special friendship I had with my grandfather. And just like my grandfather paved his path by relying on fictitious characters like Fortuome, I paved mine through him.

When my family moved to Illinois and I started middle school, my entire perspective on our relationship changed. It was also during this time that my grandfather was experiencing bouts of PTSD and related dementia. Both conditions ate up his brain, draining grandfather of the liveliness and sharp mind he always sported. The daily comic book reading faltered to a weekly occasion, and eventually a complete stop. There were no more living room storytimes, and I felt a gaping hole in my heart. My special relationship with my grandfather was like our own inside joke that only we were a part of. Losing the ability to interact with my hero was heartbreaking, as was the breaking of our personal tradition. After the first 4 months of his condition worsening, he no longer recognized the Alan Moore comics we bought together, and within a year, the Fortuome comic that saved his life in 1943 meant no more. It was during those months that I truly realized how different our relationship was from most. Many children and grandchildren only share the same hair color or eyes as their ancestors, but we shared something so much more lasting.

The next time I saw him was later that winter and for the first time in years, there was clarity in his eyes. Despite the ephemeral state he was in, I recognized the sparkle in his eyes that I had come to love so much. I will never forget the feeling of resolve that I felt when he was lowered to the ground, Fortuome rested between his arms. My relationship with my grandfather, from start to finish, defines who I am today. Without his guidance, I would have never fallen in love with comic books and become the person I am today. Although I cannot bring myself to touch a comic book anymore, my grandfather’s lessons about self-identity and dedication will stay with me forever.

In December and July, for the past 20 years, my grandfather ran one of Staten Island’s biggest blood drives which took place at my very own school, St. Clare’s. Ever since I was about four or five, my mother took me to the drive as I saw people walk in and out donating a pint or two of blood at a time. My grandfather limited my view of what was going on, but truly, I knew what was happening, I just didn’t understand why it was happening. As a matter of fact, the only reason I didn’t give my mom a hard time when she took me was that I was given balloons, stickers, and cookies when I went. However, as I got older, I became more involved and started enjoying it for what it was. Some days, after school, my grandfather dragged me into the rectory basement to put together a banner to hang outside in the school/church parking lot for everyone to see. This started when I was seven, and I continue to do so until this day. As I grew older, I began to do more, including standing outside the church and handing out flyers or even making posters to hang up around town.

In the fifth grade, I reached the age where I was required to be in the Little Docs program. This program was something my grandfather had created in which he used the fifth through seventh-grade classes to make posters and thank you cards for the people at the drive. My class was very interested in how this man was my grandfather, and every year that he came, they remembered him and paid attention to whatever he had to say. Unfortunately, at the end of the 6th grade, he passed away, so he never came to my seventh grade the following year. In fact, when the people did come to talk to us, I was pulled out of the class so I wouldn’t have to listen, for

In December and July, for the past 20 years, my grandfather ran one of Staten Island’s biggest blood drives which took place at my very own school, St. Clare’s. Ever since I was about four or five, my mother took me to the drive as I saw people walk in and out donating a pint or two of blood at a time. My grandfather limited my view of what was going on, but truly, I knew what was happening, I just didn’t understand why it was happening. As a matter of fact, the only reason I didn’t give my mom a hard time when she took me was that I was given balloons, stickers, and cookies when I went. However, as I got older, I became more involved and started enjoying it for what it was. Some days, after school, my grandfather dragged me into the rectory basement to put together a banner to hang outside in the school/church parking lot for everyone to see. This started when I was seven, and I continue to do so until this day. As I grew older, I began to do more, including standing outside the church and handing out flyers or even making posters to hang up around town.

In the fifth grade, I reached the age where I was required to be in the Little Docs program. This program was something my grandfather had created in which he used the fifth through seventh-grade classes to make posters and thank you cards for the people at the drive. My class was very interested in how this man was my grandfather, and every year that he came, they remembered him and paid attention to whatever he had to say. Unfortunately, at the end of the 6th grade, he passed away, so he never came to my seventh grade the following year. In fact, when the people did come to talk to us, I was pulled out of the class so I wouldn’t have to listen, for my teacher felt it was going to be hard for me to have him not be there while someone else gave his speech. When I returned, some kids asked me where my grandfather was and why he didn’t show. I explained to them what had happened, for I only told my close friends that he died. My heart sank that day, for I realized that the blood drive would never be the same again without him, however, I continue his legacy by actively participating in the drive every year.

About a year ago, an award was created by the New York Blood Center in my grandfather’s honor and is given to those who have done something beyond what anyone could ask for, just as my grandfather had done. My mother, sister, and I attended the ceremony and we met the first recipient of the award. As I shook hands and hugged the man, he started to tear up and eventually started crying. He understood what my grandfather had done for the blood center and was honored to be presented with such an award. From that day forward, I understood the difference my grandfather made. He collected over 150 pints of blood each drive and statistically speaking, 1 pint saves 3 lives. I, personally, felt that I needed to continue his work and continue making a difference. Even though the drive is technically run by the blood center, each time I go to the rectory after school and I put up the banner, using the skills my grandfather had taught me ever since I was seven. In addition to that, I also work the front desk or canteen at every blood drive, along with some close friends of mine, who come for support. I truly feel my grandfather’s presence at these drives, for I am continuing his work and showing true compassion for God and also His (God) people’s lives.

My grandfather led a very inspiring life with many stories to tell. I plan to tell his stories and continue his work so that he truly will never die. He is in the hearts of many, and also who I try to base my life on each day. As Jesus explains to us, “Love one another as I have loved you. By doing so, everyone will know you are my disciples (John 13:34-35)”. This is how I try to live. In the end, what distinguishes us from the rest of the world isn’t just the uniqueness God gives to us, but the love and sacrifices that we give to others.

The Twentieth Century has been one of the most eventful periods of Jewish History. Write a researched essay on the life of ONE member of your family showing how that person’s experiences relate to the overall history of the period.

“Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and life to everything.” Plato

I have chosen to write, compose and dedicate my Hans Kimmel project to my maternal grandfather, Stanley Marks.

Now 84 years old, he remains spritely and engaged. He loves seeing and spending time with his 8 grandchildren, playing golf, and attending classical music concerts and lectures with my grandmother. Since an early age, he has loved jazz music like myself. We will often discuss and listen to his jazz favorites. Over the last 5 years, he has loved watching my cousin, brother and myself play in the Moriah College Jazz Bands.

Throughout his life, my grandfather has felt a strong connection to a number of countries. South Africa, his place of birth and place where he lived until he was 44, Australia where he has lived for the last 40 years, and Israel, a country that has always tugged at his heartstrings.

Fusion is defined as the process of combining 2 or more distinct entities into a new whole. Jazz fusion is a music genre that combines jazz harmony and improvisation with rock music, funk, rhythm, and blues.

My grandfather’s neshama is a fusion of these 3 countries and for this reason, I have composed a jazz piece, titled ‘Fusion’, portraying his life, love, and soul as a piece of music.

Stanley Milton Marks, my maternal grandfather, was born to Eva and Herman Marks on the 23rd of February 1935 in Johannesburg, Transvaal (now Gauteng). One of three children, Stanley had two older sisters; Myrna Eunice Rudolph and Barbara Joyce Victor.

When World War II broke out, South Africa was divided as to whether to join the war and which side to ally with. This resulted in the division of the United Party whose coalition partners disagreed on whether to stay neutral during the war or to join the side of the Allies. Fortunately, the head of the South African Party, Jan Smuts was successful, becoming Prime Minister of South Africa and joining the war on Ally’s side. Many Afrikaners felt closer to the Germans and wished to be on the German side during the war causing some tension in South African society. In the background of this, my grandpa’s only vivid memory of persecution was being called a ‘bloody Jew’ by one of his Afrikaner classmates during the war. Other than this one incident, during his childhood, my grandpa was never a victim of antisemitism and at his primary school Saxonwald, his class was 50% Jewish. South Africa had a strong vibrant Jewish community numbering around 120,000 at its peak in the 1970s.

From 1947 to 1951, my grandpa completed his secondary education at Parktown Boys High School, where many of his friends had transferred. He had his Barmitzvah and said both his Maftir and Haftorah on the 13th of March, 1948 at the Oxford Synagogue in Johannesburg. His celebrations continued the next day, in a marquee erected in the backyard. With all of his family, friends, and guests gathered in the marquee, the party ensued, only to be flooded by a downpour directly overhead. My grandpa recalls the lights going out and many guests running inside to escape the rainstorm, effectively ending his Barmitzvah. He then decided that he should just go to bed, even though drenched party guests were still present. A party never to be forgotten by all that attended.

Two months later, on the 15th of May, my grandpa remembers hearing about the Israeli declaration of independence. This coincidently coincided with his best friend, Ronnie Bethlehem’s Barmitzvah. He recalls the Chief Rabbi of South Africa, Rabbi Louis Rabinowitz, sitting with his father in the lounge listening to the radio broadcast of the news of the victory of the establishment of the State of Israel and feeling a sense of enlightenment. This led him to join a Zionist youth movement called Bnei Zion. In his youth movement, he quickly became a ‘madrich’ who ran the ‘Yaldei Zion’ group (boys up to the age of 13). He participated in and ran many different sessions, teaching the boys about Israel and its leaders, lessons in Judaism, and many songs that he remembers to this day.

During this same year, 1948, after South Africa’s general election, the system of apartheid was adopted as a formal policy of the South African Government. Laws were written segregating black South Africans from ‘whites’. The National party divided shops, benches, buses, toilets, parks, and restaurants into color, further alienating black South Africans. As a white man living in a segregated society, my grandpa lived a comfortable life even during the war years. In 1945, at the conclusion of World War II, he remembers being treated to two rarities, black jack gum, and white bread treats brought home by his father. He also remembers being told to go dance and play in his school’s playground for some photos to be taken for the Newsreels and shown at the cinema.

His primary and high schools were comprised of white-only children. His interactions with non-white South Africans were severely limited. South African citizens were prohibited from marrying or engaging in sexual relationships across racial boundaries and South Africans were classified as ‘Black’, ‘White’, ‘Coloured’, and ‘Indian’, which determined where they could live. Non-White South Africans were removed from their homes and forced into segregated neighborhoods, known as Bantustans, and lost their South African citizenship. To further demean them, various laws adopted by the National Party allowed only whites to vote.

Towards the end of school, my grandpa developed a keen interest in Jazz music. Although he never played an instrument, during his teen years he enjoyed listening to Bennie Goodman and Duke Ellington. At age 17, my grandpa exchanged records with a good friend, Ruth Cohen, who he gave his Bennie Goodman records in exchange for George Shearing. His passion for Jazz has never waned and he and I spend lots of time talking about and listening to old Jazz records together.

In 1951, my grandpa was appointed a prefect and then matriculated with a Bachelor of Commerce degree at Witwatersrand University. There were no Black South Africans or indeed women in his course. However, Wits was one of the universities which did allow black students, the most famous of which was Nelson Mandela. He commenced his law degree in 1943, only completing it in 1989 due to his sentence of life imprisonment which found him guilty of attempting to overthrow the government in 1962.

While my grandpa was at university, the African National Congress party started a series of peaceful protests where they would sit on ‘white only’ benches past the African curfew, fail to carry their identification passes, and enter places they were not allowed to. Later, these protests became known as the ‘defiance campaign’ which was the first large-scale, multi-racial movement against apartheid by the African National Congress, South African Indian Congress, and the Coloured People’s Congress. More than 8,000 protesters went to jail for “defying unjust laws”.

At the conclusion of his degree, my grandpa decided to become a Chartered Accountant. With the freedom of having lived a privileged life in South Africa, he was articled to Alder Isaacs, founding partner at Isaacs, Kessel, Feinstein & Co (chartered accountants) where he worked for three years.

After passing his Board Exam and completing articles, Stanley traveled overseas. He spent time with his sister and her family in America before arriving in London where he found a job at William S. Ogle and Company (chartered accountants) in Old Broad Street, London.

After working in London, he flew to Israel for the first time in 1959, where the love kindled in him from Bnei Zion was enhanced. Over two months, my grandpa spent time with friends from South Africa who had made Aliyah to Kibbutz Hasolelim and traveled around Israel, enhancing his appreciation of Jewish culture and Zionism. Israel during the late ’50s was a place of change. The new generation was rebelling against the old nationalistic and socialist views and was focusing more on individualism and self-expression. Israel was yet to win Jerusalem and was just recovering from the Sinai Campaign. My grandpa has gone on to visit Israel many more times seeing and appreciating the changes in borders, ideology, and the modernization of Israel.

On return to South Africa, my grandpa joined Fisher, Hoffman, Levenberg & Co as an accountant in 1960 and later became a partner in the firm.

Life for black South Africans continued to get worse. In the background of this, the Sharpeville Massacre took place on the 21st of March 1960. The African National Congress party wanted to revoke South Africa’s Pass Laws and decided to gather 20,000 black South Africans for a peaceful protest at a police station in Sharpeville. Peaceful turned violent when the police fired into the crowd of people, killing 69 and injuring approximately 190 people. This public and brutal demonstration led to a mountain of international criticism and is noted as the first and one of the most violent demonstrations against South African apartheid.

But family life continued and on the 9th of April 1961, my grandpa then 26, married my grandma, Zelda Davidoff who was 20. Over the next 10 years, they had four children; Kevin born on 19th March 1962, Richard born on 28th June 1964, Howard born on 22nd April 1968 and my mother, Gabrielle born on 15th March 1972.

In 1967, on the 11th of July, a few days after Israel’s 6-day war, my grandpa received a phone call from his mother, bearing the news of his father’s passing at age 75. He was devastated at the loss of his wonderful father who had been a mentor to him throughout his life. Tragedy struck once again in 1974 when his mother Eva, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. After 8 months of exploratory operations and pain, she passed away on the 4th of August 1974, aged 68 years.

Meanwhile, South Africa’s apartheid regime was earning deserved global disapproval. In 1974, South Africa was expelled from the United Nations. This led to a series of events and a deterioration of the quality of life for black South Africans as the government felt they had no moral code or responsibility for their actions.

In 1976, the police opened fire on school children living in Soweto, and over the next few months more than 600 students were murdered for retaliating against apartheid in what has become known as the ‘Soweto Massacre’. Steve Biko, an anti-apartheid activist, and organizer of this protest was murdered.

Although my grandpa didn’t witness this brutality firsthand and the news reporting was very censored, he was very much aware of the oppression and mistreatment of black South Africans. An act of persecution that he did witness with his two youngest children, Howard and Gaby (my mother) was when they watched white police officers arrest two well-dressed Africans, throw them to the ground, then into a van, claiming that they didn’t have the correct paperwork to be walking out on the streets. My mother doesn’t remember this incident.

While my grandparents were comfortable and happy living in South Africa, they were increasingly uncomfortable with the treatment of the black South Africans and were disturbed by the Soweto Massacre and the murder of Steve Biko. My grandparents decided over the course of a couple of years that it was time to leave South Africa due to the brutal treatment of non-whites. In 1979 this was brought to a climax due to the impending graduation of their oldest son, Kevin, my uncle.

Kevin had just completed high school and the South African parliament passed laws making military service compulsory for white males. In 1977, the parliament increased the term of conscription from 9 months to 2 years and a further 30 days annually for 8 years.

Whilst my uncle may have received a deferment until he had completed his university degree, whites were not given an exemption from military service. Kevin has told me that after he left South Africa in 1979, he was too scared to return even for a visit in case he was conscripted or even worse, arrested for failing to join the army. My uncle revisited South Africa for the first time to see his school friends and family in 2018.

Since 1975, South Africa had been involved in the Angolan Civil War, where my uncle would have served had he been conscripted. My grandfather did not believe South Africa should have involved itself in this war and had been told by friends whose children were sent to Angola of frightening conditions and brutality. My grandparents’ concerns were well-founded. In May 1980, the South African military attacked insurgents and launched a full-scale invasion of Angola in June of that year.

It was a tough decision for my grandfather to leave South Africa. He was a well-established professional, a partner in a large accounting firm, and owned his own house in a good neighborhood. When he was granted emigration papers to leave South Africa, he was only permitted to take out 30,000 rands, a secondhand car, and furniture with him. The rest of his assets were held in South Africa. They could only be accessed on trips back to the country. Over the years, due to inflation and the devaluing of the rand, the majority of the money left in South Africa by my grandparents lost its value.

My grandpa was sponsored to immigrate to Sydney by the accountancy firm Coopers & Lybrand in their Corporate Services division. He and my grandma decided that Sydney was a nice place to live and raise their children. Immigration left my grandpa feeling displaced and it took many years for him to feel at home in Sydney. He felt a great sense of joy and pride when Nelson Mandela was freed, became South Africa’s first black president and the African National Congress was elected at the first fully democratic election. He has watched with sadness as South Africa has not thrived as expected and violence and lawlessness have prevailed. Most devastatingly, the escalating violence in South Africa was tragically close to their heart when his best friend Ronnie Bethlehem, whose bar mitzvah he celebrated on the original Yom Ha’atzmaut was carjacked and murdered in Johannesburg. He still worries about his sister, her children, and grandchildren who remain in South Africa many of whom have been carjacked, held up at gunpoint, tied up, and robbed.

Many South Africans who were leaving that oppressive regime found Australia to be an appealing option. The ‘White Australia’ policy which had limited immigration by non-Europeans to Australia was abolished in 1973 and led to the embracing of multiculturalism. The Racial Discrimination Act of 1975 made discrimination on the grounds of race illegal. As a Jew who understood how brutal government-led racism could be, Australia was a breath of fresh air for my grandparents compared to South Africa. This was a common feeling within the South African Jewish community and is one of the drivers for Jewish migration from South Africa. The move to Australia also represented a well-worn path by Lithuanian Jews who had migrated to South Africa as his father had done at age 17 and then a re-migration in the next generation to Australia, known as ‘twice removed Jews’. My grandpa had many acquaintances in Sydney of this nature.

He arrived a few months before the family to start work and to provide a place for his family to live. When his family arrived a few months later, Kevin was registered into Shalom College, UNSW, Richard and Howard into Cranbrook, and Gabrielle into Moriah College. However, they moved out of their Old South Head Road apartment and settled on the North Shore, relocating Richard and Howard to Killara High School and Gaby to Masada College.

After working for six years at Cooper’s & Lybrand, my grandpa was offered a position at Trinity Properties Limited where he was appointed Finance director. On the 17th of July, 1987, The Australian newspaper posted an article under the heading “Block appoints a Brother Yarpie” which read in part:

“The South African Mafia continues to grow stronger. David Block, the first of an ever-increasing wave of Yarpies to make it to Australia, has appointed fellow countryman Stanley Marks to the board of Trinity Properties.”

From Trinity, my grandpa worked at Kalamazoo Holdings Limited, various chartered accounting firms, and finally at Haynes Norton where he retired in 2008.

In Sydney, my grandpa joined Monash Country Club and in 1997 was invited to join the Board of Monash Holdings Limited, the company that founded the golf club in the wake of malevolent antisemitism after the Second World War when Jews were denied membership to other golf clubs. He was elected vice president from 2002 to 2004 and President in 2004 and 2005 and again from 2008 to 2009. His strong Jewish connection and love of golf led to him seeking these higher positions and instituting Jewish cultural elements into the club such as serving matzah during Pesach. Throughout his golfing career, my grandpa has scored 2 holes in one, one in 1967 and the next 50 years later in 2017. He jokes that his next hole-in-one will come in 2067 when he is 132 years old.

In 2002, after Kevin had moved to New York, Richard to Brisbane, Gaby, and Howard to the Eastern Suburbs and their beloved dog Kimber had passed, my grandparents decided to sell their house in Killara and move to Coogee, where they could be close to the sea and their children who remained in Sydney.

My grandparents have 8 grandchildren. Daniel and Ben who live in America, and Adam, Sarah, Tammy, Rebecca, Jonny, and I who all went to or currently attend Moriah College and live in Sydney.

From South Africa to Australia, with Israel in his heart, my grandpa has lived a wonderful life.

My piece, ‘Fusion’

My piece, ‘Fusion’ incorporates elements of jazz including blues, swing, traditional modes, and staples of 20th-century jazz style. I have chosen to compose using this style as it embodies the spirit and dynamism of my grandfather which has enabled me to successfully integrate the different components of his identity.

To portray this to the listener, I have included famous phrases and elements of Duke Ellington’s ‘Satin Doll’, Die Stem van Suid-Afrika, Hatikvah, and Advance Australia Fair.

Intro

Simple Jazz drum kit. Having a cohesive jazz rhythm section, which includes guitar, piano, and bass is key in setting the foundation for a jazz song. The drums have not been shown on the score (check notes for added detail).

Bars 1-4

Written in 1953 by bandleader and jazz composer Duke Ellington, his simple jazz standard ‘Satin Doll’ has gained worldwide recognition and appraisal. The song tells the tale of Ellington’s love for his long-time mistress Bea Ellis as expressed in his flirtatious lyrics, ‘Swich-e-Rooney, Telephone numbers well you know, ’ which portray his forbidden romance.

The year this jazz ballad was written, my grandfather was 18 and already had a tape collection filled with his own jazz favorites. The simple riff and melody of Satin Doll are timeless staples in his collection and are a favorite of my own. By incorporating elements of Ellington’s piece into my own composition, I was able to create the foundation of my piece using a song that both my grandpa and I love.

I turned the piano swing riff at the beginning of Satin Doll into an unswung homophonic brass theme to serve as the opening melody of my piece. It has been modulated into the key of my piece and changed to suit a powerful opening brass theme rather than a melodic piano tune.

Bars 5-21 and 41- end

My grandpa has always been a bubbly, kind, and funny person. I decided to embody his traits in a jazzy trumpet melody harmonized in thirds by Trumpet 2. I have used this 5-bar melody to mold together the individual themes of the piece (Satin doll, Die Stem, Hatikvah, and Advance Australia Fair).

To fill out the sound of my ‘big band’, I composed different chordal melodies and played them in fragments throughout the piece along with pedaled chords played by the electric guitar. I added rhythmic blues harmonies over the melody in bars 33-40 adding contrast and a cool jazz feel to the section.

By incorporating a walking bass into my bassline, I secured the swing jazz feel which plays through the entirety of the piece. Essentially, through my original jazz composition elements, I was able to create a mix between swing jazz, cool jazz, and bebop which give my piece rhythmic momentum, drive, and interest.

Bars 22-26

Die Stem van Suid-Afrika was the former South African National Anthem from 1957 to 1994 throughout most of the apartheid era. It succeeded ‘God save the King’ and preceded ‘Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika’ which is in fact a fusion of the country’s former anthems. Translated to ‘The Call of South Africa’, Die Stem was disliked strongly by the black South Africans who associated it strongly with the apartheid regime.

South Africa was the country where my grandfather was born and spent all of his young, teen, and early adult life. It is where he received an education, met my grandmother, started a family, and cemented his own beliefs and values. While he hasn’t lived in South Africa for 40 years, Die Stem represents the South Africa of my grandfather’s time until he immigrated to Australia in 1979.

In order to fit the opening theme of Die Stem into my composition, I modulated and created my own rendition of it. It is backed up by layers of composition which have been altered from my main theme (bars 10-14).

Bars 27-32

Hatikvah, the hope, was instated as Israel’s national anthem on the eve of its foundation as a state. Based on Smetana’s Moldau, (a piece which coincidentally was played by my band, the Moriah Symphony Orchestra, last year at music camp) the poem turned song tells the tale of an age-old hope and the longing for a Jewish homeland.

My grandfather has always been vocal about his support and love for the Jewish homeland. He marked the momentous occasion of Israel’s foundation at his best friend’s Barmitzvah which subsequently led him to join one of the first Zionistic youth groups in South Africa, Bnei Zion. From identifying as an Australian Jew and being an avid member of Coogee Synagogue, Judaism has helped shape my grandfather’s morals and outlook on life.

In my piece, Hatikvah serves as a full tenor melody played by the trombones. As such, I didn’t provide it with any rhythmic or melodic harmony to fill out the phrasing. I have continued in the background with continuous chordal fragmentation and a walking bass to provide depth to the melody.

Bars 33-40

Advance Australia Fair was chosen as Australia’s National Anthem under a plebiscite by the people in 1977. Written by Scottish-born composer Peter Dodds McCormick, the tune written in C major has caused quite a controversial outlook on what it means to be Australian. The suppressed Indigenous Australians have commented on the fact that “fair” has been used to celebrate the British colonization in Australia, referring to the “fair” people as “pure” and more importantly “white”.

Having lived in Sydney since 1979, my grandfather has a strong attachment to Australia. He has set roots in the Monash Golf Club, and Coogee synagogue has made many friends, and has seen 6 of his grandchildren born in Australia. In my composition, Advance Australia Fair is used to represent the second half of my grandfather’s life and the coming of age of his children and grandchildren.

Layered under an original counter-melody based on the blues scale, Advance Australia Fair serves as the bedrock of this section of my piece. It has made way for interesting and rich harmonies to come through the melody and shine a diverse light on the timeless tune. As opposed to its usual ‘fan-fareish’ glory, Advance Australia Fair has been used to provide depth and foundation to the other layers of my composition.

Note

Using Logic Pro X, the music software installed on the Moriah laptops, it is impossible to change the volume during a composition. I have included dynamic and rhythmic markings such as crescendos, decrescendos, staccatos, tenutos, and accents into my score but they will not be heard on the mp3 recording of my composition. This is a technical weakness of the software.

Additionally, the swing drum set which is playing continuously throughout the piece is a software instrument automated by Logic Pro X. As I added this sound in and didn’t compose it myself, I have chosen to refrain from it being viewed on the attached score. I have composed every instrument that is presented in the score, this is why the drum kit is not visible.

Conclusion

Over the course of 4 and a half months spent interviewing my grandfather, researching historical elements of his story, and composing under the mentorship of Mr. Eagling, I worked tirelessly to incorporate all of these elements of my grandfather’s story into a tangible piece of work which would serve as my Hans Kimmel assessment.

At times, I was frustrated with my lack of progress and seemingly unproductive composition which resulted in many plans to delete my project and pick an easier alternative. However, once I took the time to delve into the reason why I decided to compose a Jazz piece as a tribute to my grandfather, I understood that my effort would result in a project that I would be proud of and that my family would appreciate immensely.

I persisted, spending hours modulating different tunes, adding compositional techniques, and searching for the hidden ‘out of tune’ notes which would ultimately result in my finished work. I am immensely grateful that I was given the opportunity to work on this project and understand my grandfather in a different light.

I dedicate ‘Fusion’ to Stanley Milton Marks, my grandpa.

I hope that I have made you proud.

‘A Handful of Dates’ by Tayeb Salih is a combination of both African and Arabic literature. It’s one of the best-acknowledged works of Tayeb Salih. The story is celebrated for its originality, literary features, and incorporation of aesthetic. The plot revolves around a child that witnesses the greed and ill nature of mankind. The image of idolization that the young boy has towards his grandfather is shattered when he realizes that his grandfather got his wealth by craftily observing a neighbor, Masood. Masood irresponsibility led him to be in continuous situations of great financial pressure. Meanwhile, the grandfather was taking advantage bit by bit of Masood’s property for forty years and is now in possession of two-thirds of his land. The grandfather justifies his exploitation scheme by stigmatizing Masood as an indolent and much-married man. The grandfather holds him responsible for his losses of land and wealth. Even though the story is brief but it exhibits a great amount of applicability to people of all cultures and ideologies.

T. Salih makes use of great symbolism when depicting the young boy. The character’s uniqueness lies in his behavior contrary to his peers he won his grandfather’s approval because he loved going to the mosque and was exceptionally well-behaved. The author was trying to engage the readers in a symbolic framework. The young boy’s idolization of his grandfather is graspable because of his father’s absence. The grandfather is filling the role, his father must be playing. This suggests the boy’s limited reaction by the end of the short story when he finally understands that his grandfather was exploiting his neighbor. The young boy gradually throughout the story starts to dislike his grandfather and move closer to Masood. When the young child realizes that his grandfather was taking advantage of Masood’s financial troubles, spewing out the dates he munched earlier in the plot was reasonable and a logical reaction given his limited power as a child. It’s also a representation of the guilt he felt since he didn’t idolize his grandfather because he’s a selfish person. He genuinely felt sorry for Masood, it seems that the child felt that it was unfair for Masood to be punished for his indolent in such a harsh way and certainly not by the hands of his hero.

The feeling of admiration the boy had for his grandfather is rather attributed to the human instinct to incline to supremacy and certainly because of the family ideologies to respect the eldest because they are the wisest. In sharp opposition to his peers, he is intelligent and observant, thus identifying himself to his grandfather as his male role model. The boy implicitly expresses that the reason for his admiration towards his grandfather is due to his social status within his social community and the authority within the domestic sphere. The boy identifies himself with his grandfather in the sense that he sees himself in the future as a man of honor like his grandfather. ‘I never saw anyone in the whole village address him without having to look up at him, nor did I see him enter a house without having to bend so low.’ ‘I loved him and would imagine myself, when I grew to be a man, tall and slender like him, walking along with great strides’. Thus the young boy’s admiration is pragmatic.

After the downfall of action, the boy notices the haughtiness of his grandfather and it was hard for him to believe that his idolized hero was capable of such an action. The young boy gradually dislikes the grandfather and moves closer to Masood because Masood is framed as an inhabitant whose innocence and simplicity made him a potential victim of selfish profit-seeking.

The Invisible One

I sit dejectedly on the sofa counting the minutes until this painful ordeal is over. The tick of the grandfather clock is muffled by the sound of cheerful guests and talkative relatives, joyous laughter and corks popping, not to mention the blaring music. I sit resentfully wondering how my mother had convinced me to come to this party, or as she liked to call it, “family-gathering”. I sit on the other side of the room, distancing myself as far away from any form of social interaction. My Grandfather sits across from me in his brocade armchair, barely saying a word. He has always kept himself to himself, as long as I have known him, anyway. I tilt my head as I try to decipher this mysterious man, my face perplexed with confusion.

“Who’s ready for lunch?” my Grandmother exclaims joyfully, followed by a cheer from the roomful of people. I think and wonder how such a lively woman could end up with such a mundane and frankly boring character. The avid party-goers stream out through the living room door and into the dining room – all except one person, that is – my Grandfather. The music fades as the playlist ends, the silence in the room becoming increasingly deafening. I look around struggling to fix my eyes in one place, distracted by the quiet in the room.

“So, how are you Granddad?”, I reluctantly ask, somewhat hoping to start a conversation, “I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

No reply. I try again.

“How are you, Granddad?”, I persist.

I wait for an answer but still nothing. His eyes are glued to the bookshelf in front of him. I give up and conclude he must be losing his hearing with age. I huff a petulant sigh and pull out my phone – my last resort at this torturous gathering. I flick grumpily through my friends’ stories, longing for freedom from this event. My eyes fall into the screen of my Instagram feed, my finger scrolling up and down the endless pages.

“I can still smell the cannon smoke hanging in the rancid air”, a low, deep voice cuts through the silence with its unmistakable tone.

I lift my head from the screen impulsively and do a double-take. I turn around and am once again startled by the low voice.

“We trudged through the muddy paths scattered with shrapnel and dead bodies. The rain spattered on the surface of puddles mixed with blood. Our march to the field was accompanied by the fleeting glimpse of sunlight, sadly overshadowed by the clouds of cannon smoke nearby. We thought the end was in sight, but it certainly wasn’t. A day-long battle was only just beginning.”

My eyes double in size. It can’t be, he can’t be. Is my Grandfather opening up about the untold truths of his past? This can’t be happening? This is an event that has been buried by our family for years. I am in shock yet want to discover more about the horrors of my Grandfather’s past. Imagine the riveting hand-to-hand combat, and the heroic stories, I am left wanting more!

“We began the offense. We dug the foxholes, my closest friend Jack by my side. The units back then were smaller, and more tight-knit than those of the previous war. I suppose this appealed to my young, naïve sixteen-year-old self who was told about the comradery and solidarity of war, but this would only make the battles harder to win. The fighter planes above us droned in the grey September sky, reinforcing us from above.” My Grandfather readjusts himself in his chair, bracing himself for the remainder of his story.

I close my gaping mouth as I remember where I am, still in awe of the fact my Granddad is inviting me into his past life, a teenage soldier who lived through the horrors of the frontline. How could he have kept this to himself for so long? No one will ever believe this untold story of my Grandfather’s past.

“Piercing cries of wounded men in no-man’s land caused me visceral pain. I still remember how one man beside me came down with shell shock on the second day. The hapless soul threw himself into the crossfire to escape the relentless sounds of gunfire, the cracking of rifles, and the gut-wrenching rolls of thunder from artillery– it’s like it happened just yesterday.” He gulps just thinking about the tragedy he endured. “We had to retreat, we were outnumbered from the outset.”

He continues, “With another battle added to the list of lost chances, we trekked over the muddy grass once again, reliving the nightmarish walk through the battlefield. Our heads held low, we set up camp and played a game of three cards bragging to lighten the mood. I won, of course, but Jack sure did give me a run for my money. Back then, friendship was all we had in the face of such death and destruction, constantly grasping on to the tenuous link we had to live.”

I pull myself back in my chair. I had never thought about it like that until now. These men only had each other. Their togetherness is what kept them strong.

“We rallied together once again the next day, ready to meet on the battlefield. I had only been at war for a few months, I hadn’t yet mastered the art of shutting away my emotions and feelings, compartmentalizing the harrowing sights of war. I was tireless the whole night, but Jack being his shrewd self knew exactly what to say to cheer me up. He was motivated, ready, and devoted to the war. Me? I was dispassionate about the whole thing. Men pitted against men, fighting to the death for a battle that wasn’t theirs to fight, being forced to watch fellow soldiers die before their eyes.”

I gulp slowly as I realize why my Grandfather had never mentioned his past before now. It was just too heart-wrenching to relive. Or perhaps no one had ever listened to him before. People just moved on with their lives blissfully unaffected by his war.

“The day felt cold, not like the day before. We had no rations left for the day and the morale was low. But we had to fight. Sadly, it was our duty to do so and we had to protect our nation, as promised by the propaganda plastered all over towns. The machine guns rattled, and bombs dropped from overhead – it was a game of chance. Jack was killed that day.” He doesn’t even bat an eyelid, his face is completely still. War has robbed him of all feeling. “Jack died at the hands of the enemy soldiers, who were hapless souls like us. We were set up from the very beginning, we were expendable soldiers needed to save the lives of others. Our lives forever changed, our minds forever shattered.”

He was right about that. This war had far more to it than riveting combat and glorious self-sacrifice, it was about an entire cohort of men being lost to the war. I was wrong, he was right. Grandfather was one of the lucky ones, but even he did not leave unscathed.

“I am speechless,” I say in a single breath. “I’m so glad you told me, Granddad, that takes a lot of courage.”

“You are the only one to understand the true impact of war. We have forgotten veterans with medals long since thrown away as horrid memories of a time all too present. We cannot change the past, but we can change people’s views on war, and people’s views on us. They must be more aware of the psychological damage it inflicts upon us, and less astounded by our battle scars. The stigma must end”.

And with that final sentence, the giddy guests come dancing through the doorway back through to the living room, blissfully unaware of the revelation just made.

Word count – 1321

The Invisible One

I sit dejectedly on the sofa counting the minutes until this painful ordeal is over. The tick of the grandfather clock is muffled by the sound of cheerful guests and talkative relatives, joyous laughter and corks popping, not to mention the blaring music. I sit resentfully wondering how my mother had convinced me to come to this party, or as she liked to call it, “family-gathering”. I sit on the other side of the room, distancing myself as far away from any form of social interaction. My Grandfather sits across from me in his brocade armchair, barely saying a word. He has always kept himself to himself, as long as I have known him, anyway. I tilt my head as I try to decipher this mysterious man, my face perplexed with confusion.

“Who’s ready for lunch?” my Grandmother exclaims joyfully, followed by a cheer from the roomful of people. I think and wonder how such a lively woman could end up with such a mundane and frankly boring character. The avid party-goers stream out through the living room door and into the dining room – all except one person, that is – my Grandfather. The music fades as the playlist ends, the silence in the room becoming increasingly deafening. I look around struggling to fix my eyes in one place, distracted by the quiet in the room.

“So, how are you Granddad?”, I reluctantly ask, somewhat hoping to start a conversation, “I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

No reply. I try again.

“How are you, Granddad?”, I persist.

I wait for an answer but still nothing. His eyes are glued to the bookshelf in front of him. I give up and conclude he must be losing his hearing with age. I huff a petulant sigh and pull out my phone – my last resort at this torturous gathering. I flick grumpily through my friends’ stories, longing for freedom from this event. My eyes fall into the screen of my Instagram feed, my finger scrolling up and down the endless pages.

“I can still smell the cannon smoke hanging in the rancid air”, a low, deep voice cuts through the silence with its unmistakable tone.

I lift my head from the screen impulsively and do a double-take. I turn around and am once again startled by the low voice.

“We trudged through the muddy paths scattered with shrapnel and dead bodies. The rain spattered on the surface of puddles mixed with blood. Our march to the field was accompanied by the fleeting glimpse of sunlight, sadly overshadowed by the clouds of cannon smoke nearby. We thought the end was in sight, but it certainly wasn’t. A day-long battle was only just beginning.”

My eyes double in size. It can’t be, he can’t be. Is my Grandfather opening up about the untold truths of his past? This can’t be happening? This is an event that has been buried by our family for years. I am in shock yet want to discover more about the horrors of my Grandfather’s past. Imagine the riveting hand-to-hand combat, and the heroic stories, I am left wanting more!

“We began the offense. We dug the foxholes, my closest friend Jack by my side. The units back then were smaller, and more tight-knit than those of the previous war. I suppose this appealed to my young, naïve sixteen-year-old self who was told about the comradery and solidarity of war, but this would only make the battles harder to win. The fighter planes above us droned in the grey September sky, reinforcing us from above.” My Grandfather readjusts himself in his chair, bracing himself for the remainder of his story.

I close my gaping mouth as I remember where I am, still in awe of the fact my Granddad is inviting me into his past life, a teenage soldier who lived through the horrors of the frontline. How could he have kept this to himself for so long? No one will ever believe this untold story of my Grandfather’s past.

“Piercing cries of wounded men in no-man’s land caused me visceral pain. I still remember how one man beside me came down with shell shock on the second day. The hapless soul threw himself into the crossfire to escape the relentless sounds of gunfire, the cracking of rifles, and the blood-curdling rolls of thunder from artillery– it’s like it happened just yesterday.” He gulps just thinking about the tragedy he endured. “We had to retreat, we were outnumbered from the outset.”

He continues, “With another battle added to the list of lost chances, we trekked over the muddy grass once again, reliving the nightmarish walk through the battlefield. Our heads held low, we set up camp and played a game of three cards bragging to lighten the mood. I won, of course, but Jack sure did give me a run for my money. Back then, friendship was all we had in the face of such death and destruction, constantly grasping on to the tenuous link we had to live.”

I pull myself back in my chair. I had never thought about it like that until now. These men only had each other. Their togetherness is what kept them strong.

“We rallied together once again the next day, ready to meet on the battlefield. I had only been at war for a few months, I hadn’t yet mastered the art of shutting away my emotions and feelings, compartmentalizing the harrowing sights of war. I was tireless the whole night, but Jack being his shrewd self knew exactly what to say to cheer me up. He was motivated, ready, and devoted to the war. Me? I was dispassionate about the whole thing. Men pitted against men, fighting to the death for a battle that wasn’t theirs to fight, being forced to watch fellow soldiers die before their eyes.”

I gulp slowly as I realize why my Grandfather had never mentioned his past before now. It was just too heart-wrenching to relive. Or perhaps no one had ever listened to him before. People just moved on with their lives blissfully unaffected by his war.

“The day felt cold, not like the day before. We had no rations left for the day and the morale was low. But we had to fight. Sadly, it was our duty to do so and we had to protect our nation, as promised by the propaganda plastered all over towns. The machine guns rattled, and bombs dropped from overhead – it was a game of chance. Jack was killed that day.” He doesn’t even bat an eyelid; his face is completely still. War has robbed him of all feeling. “Jack died at the hands of the enemy soldiers, who were hapless souls like us. We were set up from the very beginning, we were expendable soldiers needed to save the lives of others. Our lives forever changed, our minds forever shattered.”

He was right about that. This war had far more to it than riveting combat and glorious self-sacrifice, it was about an entire cohort of men being lost to the war. I was wrong, he was right. Grandfather was one of the lucky ones, but even he did not leave unscathed.

“I am speechless,” I say in a single breath. “I’m so glad you told me, Granddad, that takes a lot of courage.”

“You are the only one to understand the true impact of war. We have forgotten veterans with medals long since thrown away as horrid memories of a time all too present. We cannot change the past, but we can change people’s views on war, and people’s views on us. They must be more aware of the psychological damage it inflicts upon us, and less astounded by our battle scars. The stigma must end”.

And with that final sentence, the giddy guests come dancing through the doorway back through to the living room, blissfully unaware of the revelation just made.

On a sunny fall day my grandfather, Venkateswara Rao Koneru, was born, on October, 26th, 1948. His family was a line of farmers. He had learned the most valuable of lessons in this family. Although the greatest lesson of all was to never take anything for granted because you can always lose it. He did many amazing things in his life, but the most inspirational was that he was able to get to another country, start a family, and had the will to never give up. This is the story of his amazing journey that has now led him to Los Angeles, America.

Let’s start with his childhood. My grandpa grew up in 2 villages in India; one was called Satyanarayanapuram, where he stayed from ages 0-11, and the other was Idap Gulu where he resided from ages 11-15. Satyanarayanapuram was a very small village that only consisted of 50-60 families. It was amazingly green with wildlife and had very nice farmlands. Sadly these beautiful luxuries that you can get in the Village come with quite a few disadvantages. For example, this village didn’t have any running water, which meant that all their water had to be harvested from a well that they had at home; because they didn’t have irrigation canals for watering plants either, they would use a large main well which would have a large pole on top of it and would be attached to a long rope. This rope would be attached to boxes, which would help pull the bucket out of and into the water to help gather it. They didn’t have any electricity either, so everyone would use kerosene lamps for light. These are small lamps that you can carry in your hands and put on desks that run on kerosene. My grandfather didn’t have the luxury of smooth roads like we have today. The roads he had endured as a child were very bumpy and were loaded with sharp rocks. Most people would usually walk barefoot too, so that was a large inconvenience. The majority of people in this village, (apart from teachers, nurses, and doctors), were farmers. They would farm tobacco, peppers, rice plants, and vegetables. Some of these plants would have been harvested for the farmer’s family to eat, some would be harvested for their seeds, and some would be sold. The other village my grandfather lived in, Idap Gulu, was much better. This village had better roads, and the schools were nicer. Although, this village still had its share of difficulties. This village still had no electricity, they used the same irrigation system, and life was pretty much similar to the average citizen. Most people were also farmers, and the food, and caste system were the same. My grandfather’s childhood was in these two villages, and he still tells me that he learned the most in these places and will never forget the many experiences he had here that he couldn’t have gotten anywhere else.

When my grandpa was born his parents, or anyone for that matter didn’t give him a name. In fact, he didn’t have a name until he was five because in those days people, especially in the villages, would call children “the younger sister’ or “the older brother” instead of using names. They would also use nicknames. My grandfather first got his name when his aunt and uncle were enrolling him in school.

All throughout Elementary, Middle, and High School my grandfather had to walk to school on the terrible dirt roads I had told you about earlier. It was these roads on which he had to walk barefoot, 2 km to and from school. The roads he used to take didn’t have much room to spare either. Apart from these daily problems, my grandfather had his schooling was very standard, and he enjoyed a lot of it. His Elementary school, Maulknoor, only consisted of about 150 kids in total. He started going to this school in 1953 and finished in 1959. Some of his classmates were Shivaji and Bose. These were also the boys he grew up with from grades K-6, and grade 12. He would also come to have an everlasting friendship with them for the rest of his years. His worst classes in Elementary were; Art, and L.A. In art he would usually get B-‘s, B’s, and B+’s, this was not highly accepted by his family since they all had very good grades in school and would seldom get a B. In Language Arts, he would usually get better grades than art but his usual grades were in the range of A-‘s, and B’s. Whenever my grandfather got these types of grades his father or grandfather would give him more work to do on the farm, and would hit him with a stick or by hand. This would ensure that he would learn his lesson and never make these mistakes again. As for school, if my grandfather ever disrespected the teacher or didn’t follow the rules provided he would be hit with a ruler in his hand by his teacher. While Elementary had its disadvantages it also offered many classes that my grandfather enjoyed. Such as; Math, Gym, and Social Studies.

My grandfather’s middle and high schools were combined into one school. He started middle school in 1959 and ended high school in 1965. He went through grades 6-9 in a school called Zilla Parishad, which was in Idap Gulu for grades 10-11 he joined a school in Satyanarayanapuram called Kota Peta. During the time he was taught at Satyanarayanapuram, some of his closest friends were Basavankara Rao, Rama Rao, Bose, and Shivaji. Basavankara Rao had dark black hair and eyes, he was a little shorter Than my grandfather and had Cocoa-colored skin. Rama Rao had dark brown hair, and eyes he was an inch or two shorter than my grandfather but always knew how to make the best of the day. In grades 10-11 when my grandfather moved to another school, Zilla Parishad located in the village Idap Gulu, some of my grandfather’s best friends were Venkateswara Ramakrishna and Sekhar Yalamachilli. Sekhar was technically my grandfather’s uncle even though he was a year younger than my grandfather. This is because after my grandfather was born his grandmother on his mom’s side had a child which was Sekhar. Sekhar looked much like my grandfather although he was a tad bit skinnier, and he had grown up in one village until he was 18. These were some of the nicest friends my grandfather ever had.

This essay is about two sides of my family; My fathers’ side and my mothers’ side. I have obtained information on my fathers’ site that dates back to the 1890s. My paternal great-grandfather moved from Afghanistan to India in 1895 as a child and later settled down and eventually having my paternal grandmother in 1939. My paternal grandfather’s family moved from the northern part of India during the 1890s as well due to economic reasons. After the partition between India and Pakistan, both my paternal grandmother and grandfather moved to Pakistan in 1947, staying there for 48 years. The paternal side of my family moved to various locations between 1986-1996, including my father who came to Canada seeking asylum in 1996 because of the persecution of Ahmadiyya Muslims happening in Pakistan at the time. My maternal great-great-grandfather moved and lived in what is now Sialkot. He remained there for some time before having my great-grandfather. My great-grandfather then took part in World War II until 1944, the year he had my maternal grandfather. He then moved to Lahore after the war and not soon after he moved to Karachi after the India/Pakistan partition in 1947. Finally, my mother and her family immigrated to Canada in 1997 due to the persecution of Ahmadiyya Muslims in Pakistan and they have been living here since.

This essay will explain that the reasons my father’s family relocated were the Pakistan-India Partition, persecution of the Ahmadiyya Muslims, and economic/social reasons. In addition, it will also explain that the reasons my mother’s family moved were because of the Pakistani-India Partition World War II, and the persecution of Ahmadiyya Muslims. First, I will begin by discussing how World War II affected my family, and more specifically my mother’s side of the family. My great-grandfather resided in India during the war and was enlisted as a soldier to fight for Britain in 1943. World War II was a conflict that involved nearly every part of the world and spanned from 1939-45. The war was fought between the Allies, which consisted of Great Britain, France, the United States, and the Soviet Union, and the Axis powers, which consisted of Germany, Italy, and Japan. Before explaining how this event had an impact on him and by extension the rest of his family, I will explain the historical significance of WWII in the context of India. India was under British rule since 1858, holding various territories and states. When Britain declared war on Nazi Germany in September of 1939, the British Raj is a part of the allied nations that participated in the war and sent Indian soldiers to fight under Britain against the axis powers. It is also worth noting that the Viceroy of Britain at the time, Lord Linlithgow, declared war on behalf of India without consulting with the Indian leaders. This leads them to protest by resigning. In contrast, the Muslim League was in full support of Britain.

During the first 8 months of the war, 53,000 men were enlisted into the Indian Army, and by 1940, 20,000 men a month were joining resulting in over 2 million soldiers for the army by the end of the war. Many soldiers came from different backgrounds and played various roles in the war. Some were doctors in Indian military hospitals, teachers teaching languages, mechanics fixing vehicles, etc. and the non-combatants were cooks, tailors, washermen, etc According to my grandfather, my great-grandfather was a soldier at the time and was battling with others against Japan in 1944. He mentioned that the battle was near Burma and upon further research, I concluded that this battle was most likely the Battle of Imphal. Based on his description, the battle took place from March to July, which is also about the same time the Battle of Imphal took place. The Battle of Imphal took place in the city of Imphal, which was the capital of the state of Manipur in India. The Japanese were trying to destroy the Allied forces in Imphal and invade India but were driven back, resulting in heavy losses. According to my grandfather, my great-grandfather was close to being killed in this battle as he was shot twice. However, he ultimately managed to survive his injuries and decided to return to his home in Sialkot later in 1944. Men who enlisted in the army enlisted for various reasons.

Many came from pro-British families and felt pressured by landlords or overseers and others saw it as a guaranteed source of food and shelter. A place in the Indian Army would also provide enlistees with a job, which means people were able to support their families back home properly. My great-grandfather was one of these people. His family lived in relatively poor conditions because no one in his family was working at the time. He saw joining the war as an opportunity to make a steady income and be able to provide for his family back in Sialkot. He planned to make enough so that he could move out of the poor conditions he was in and relocate to a different area. After the war, he took his family and moved to Lahore, where he resided until 1947. The impact WWII had on my family was minor compared to the other major events in this essay, but it allowed my Great-Grandfather enough income and stability to move out of his poor conditions and migrate to a different location, one that was ultimately better for him and his family. His relocation was short-lived, however. In 1947, India was partitioned into two, forming Pakistan, the country that would become home to my family for many years. Next, I will discuss how the partition of Pakistan and India affected both sides of my family. First, it is important to understand what exactly the partition was and what effect it had on the geographical location at the time. India was under British rule from 1858 until it became independent on August 14, 1947.

The British announced in February of 1947 that they would be ending their rule in 1948 and will hand over the reign to the appropriate political representatives. The Viceroy of Britain, Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten, was charged with deciding the boundaries between India and Pakistan. He advocated for the transfer of power to occur earlier. This was because there was increased violence and tension between Hindus and Muslims in the provinces of Punjab and Bengal. Thus, the date was set for transfer to mid-August, 1947. The Viceroy announced the plan on June 3rd, 1947 and it was publicly endorsed by various political leaders such as Nehru and Abdul Kalam Azad, (representing the Indian Congress), Muhammed Ali Jinnah, (representing the Muslim League), and Sardar Baldev Singh, (representing the Sikh). According to the plan, the Muslim Majority provinces in India which included Bengal, Sind, Balochistan, and the North West Frontier Province would be asked to decide whether they wanted to have a future constituent assembly based on India or have an entirely new and separate constituent assembly. The provincial assemblies would meet separately to vote on whether the province would join the existing constituent or form a new one that will frame a constitution for Pakistan. Essentially, the majority vote will decide whether the provinces would be partitioned or not. Once it was decided which provinces would be partitioned, a boundary commission would be appointed to set the boundaries of the dividing lines. At the end of June, The boundary commission finally announced its decision on August 17, 1947, after the Independence of Pakistan and India.

On August 17, the new borders were officially demarcated and split the provinces of India, Kashmir, and Punjab into two. Not only was this partition one of the most complex ones in history, but it also had long-lasting effects on the areas and people it affected. Not soon after the partition, there were riots, violence, and mass migration. Millions of people were moving to either India or Pakistan, depending on which was the safer option. For Muslims, Pakistan was the ideal option as it was created for Muslim minorities, while Hindus and Sikhs opted for India. Around this time, many migrants were killed by members of opposing groups or their own families. This was largely due to the tension caused by religious, familial, and territorial ties. “Choosing a side” would mean one would have to abandon these ties, thus potentially resulting in violence by others. Both my paternal and maternal families experienced this because they were residing in Punjab. They were forced to migrate to Pakistan largely to escape the violence and persecution they were experiencing as Muslims at the time. Violence near the Punjab border was especially high as it had high concentrations of Muslims, Hindus, and Sikhs alike.

The tension among the groups resulted in countless amounts of murders, arson, rape, and abductions in the area. Fearing for their lives and the lives of their families, paternal and maternal great-grandfathers ultimately decided to move from safer locations. My paternal- Great-Grandfather decided to move to Faisalabad and my maternal-Great-Grandfather moved to Karachi, both cities being far away from the violence. It also is important to note that neither of my great-grandparents knew each other at the time of their relocations and were residing in separate locations near the border prior. This further adds to just how broad of an impact this partition had on the people of Pakistan and India as countless lives were lost and millions of lives were changed forever. The fate of my family was most certainly changed forever. Both my great-grandfathers had moved to what would become their home for many years, residing there until they would be forced to relocate. Both sides of my family lived in Pakistan for over 50 years following the partition, but there were still many issues within their newly formed home. Issues such as discrimination because of their religious identity, which I will discuss next. Now, I will explain how the persecution of the Ahmadiyya Muslims in Pakistan led my family to relocate one final time and immigrate to Canada. Mirza Ghulam Ahmed founded the Ahmadiyya movement on March 23rd, 1889 in Punjab. My family was residing in Punjab around the time the Ahmadiyya movement was conceived, with my maternal great-great-grandfather even having met Mirza Ghulam Ahmad, according to my grandfather. My family was indoctrinated into the Ahmadiyya movement by their community and has been Ahmadi ever since. The Ahmadiyya movement is also one of the more controversial movements in Islamic history. This is because in Islam, a Mahdi, or promised Messiah, is to appear near the end of times.

The Mahdi is supposed to bring forth peace and rid the world of evil by killing the Dajjal, or the Anti-Christ. Unlike the other sects of Islam, who believe that the Messiah has yet to appear, the Ahmadiyya believe that this messiah was Mirza Ghulam Ahmad, the self-proclaimed Mahdi. Because Ahmadi believe Muhammad was not the last Prophet of God, many Muslims consider all the followers of the Ahmadiyya as non-muslims and treat them unjustly. Ahmadis are widely persecuted in many countries and are subject to systematic oppression as well as violence. In particular, I will discuss how Pakistan subjects persecution to Ahmadi because of its relevance. Pakistan has the largest Ahmadi population in the world with 2.5 million people being followers of the Ahmadiyya movement. While all of its followers identify as Muslim, the Pakistani Government officially declared them non-muslims and the rights and religious freedoms of Ahmadis have also been significantly reduced. In 1984 General Zia-ul-Hauq, the military ruler of Pakistan at the time issued an ordinance that forbids Ahmadis from calling themselves Muslim. Because of this Ahmadi was not allowed to freely practice the Islamic faith in public. Ahmadi was also not allowed to worship in mosques or prayer rooms, use the Islamic greeting in public, and was supposed to declare an oath claiming that Mirza Ghulam Ahmad was a fraud and that all Ahmadis are non-muslim before applying for an ID or passport. Violation of these laws can result in an Ahmadi being jailed for up to 3 years or even receiving the death penalty. All of these laws and regulations had a significant impact on the way the public viewed and treated Ahmadi as well. Hate crimes and violence against Ahmadis were the norms.

People would often vandalize their mosques, threaten or hurt followers, and even sometimes resort to killing or arson. According to my parents and my grandparents, violence and hate against them and others in their community were frequent. My mother and father were often discriminated against in college by other students because of their Ahmadi identity. My uncle was also even severely beaten by a group of men yelling and calling him “Qadiani” which is a derogatory racial slur for those who follow the Ahmadiyya movement. Both sides of my family did not feel safe in Pakistan because of the violence. This is why many of my family members, like many other Ahmadis in Pakistan, decided to seek asylum in other countries. Mother and her family were the first to seek asylum in Canada as my maternal Grandfather made an asylum claim for himself and his family in 1995. Individuals seeking to make an asylum claim do so at an inland CBSA (Canada Border Services Agency) or an IRCC (Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada) and after which a CBSA or IRCC agent will determine the eligibility of the claimant based on various factors. After which the claimants will receive a hearing at the Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada (IRB) where a case is evaluated based on the evidence and arguments presented. My grandfather had a hearing and after evaluating his claim, he received a positive decision.

This meant he and his family received a protected persons status and could apply for permanent resident status, which they did. My father also made the same claim and succeeded in 2000, the year I was born. Ultimately, the persecution of the Ahmadiyya was an event that not only had a major impact on many Ahmadi in Pakistan but on my family as well, leading them to decide to immigrate to Canada and settle here. While all of these events affected the world and their respective geographical location in some way shape or form, the most important aspect of them is how connected they are to one another. Britain decided to let go of British India only after WWII, which led to the eventual partition of India and Pakistan, causing mass migrations and changes in both nations. The Ahmadiyya movement was also conceived during the British rule over India, and after the partition, they became persecuted in the very country that was made for them. All of these events clearly illustrate the path that my family took. From British Punjab to Canada, along with all the effects the events had on the location and world at the time. Ultimately, my family’s story is just one of the many in the sea of stories these events create, which shows that not only did these events have long-lasting effects on the history of the world, but also the history of individuals that lived through them.

How a Relationship Can Influence Your Future

“No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away,” wrote fantasy author Terry Pratchett. The impact and influence that family members leave with you while alive and also after they have died can change and develop your life to great degrees. My grandfather has been one of the people in my life who has shaped me into the person I am today and who continues to influence my development as a person though he is no longer here with me.

I was born on July 15 1991 at 8:33 pm at Riverside Community Hospital in Riverside, California. My mother was in labor with me for 12 hours after I almost arrived early at 6 months and then a week later than the original due date of July 8, 1991. Other than my mother, my grandfather was the first person to hold me and I was told that it was a very touching moment. Since that day, I never went a day without seeing him.

I have lived with my grandparents since I was born and have always had an amazing relationship with my grandfather. We were the type of people who could sit in a room together without talking and feel completely at ease. I have very fond memories of sitting on his knee and a child asking for a sip of his beer. To this day I can still taste the bitterness from the first and last time he let me try it. These moments always made me feel special because I was the only grandchild that he ever did this with. As I got older, our relationship grew even more.

When it came to schooling, I was never a studious student and never really liked school, doing the bare minimum just to get by. My grandfather was very adamant that I put effort into graduating because he himself never graduated. Opting to leave high school at 17 and enlist in the Vietnam War. It wasn’t until years later after the war that he finally went back and obtained his G.E.D. He always stressed that he wanted better for me and to exceed what he himself had done. I can still remember the smile on his face at my graduation in 2009. I honestly never thought I would get to that point but he always told me that he knew I could do it and that there were more accomplishments to come.

After high school came community college. I was in my first semester at Moreno Valley College when my grandfather first got sick. His illness took me and my family by surprise because he did not show any symptoms of being ill. To this day I still believe he masked his symptoms while my grandmother was sick herself. His diagnosis came back as throat and nasal cancer, this diagnosis was devastating to me. The idea that someone whom I viewed as so strong may not recover from this and that a man who put everyone else before him did not deserve this to happen to him. Against my grandfather’s wishes, I dropped out of community college to become his primary caregiver. I know that this was a disappointment for him and he felt guilty but I felt and knew that it was my time to take care of him as he had done for the last 18 years.

The next 6 months were dedicated to driving him to Fontana, California every day for radiation while combating radiation side effects which had taken a good deal out of my grandfather. Many days were spent in antiseptic-smelling hospitals and sick trips to the bathroom. After treatment, he was declared in remission.

Though my grandfather was “cancer free”, the aftermath was just as devastating. My grandfather was now stuck on an oxygen concentrator confined to our home. Nights were spent trying to sleep through the concentrator’s loud hum and the worry that he wasn’t able to breathe. Things seemed to eventually get better and I was once again able to take him out to enjoy his favorite activity, people watching. Shock hit a few years later when we learned the cancer had returned and had spread to vital organs. I went from his caregiver to his hospice caregiver. He eventually passed in February 2017, two days after learning the cancer had returned. It was hard to lose him but I gained some acceptance in knowing that he was no longer in pain and could now be with the love of his life of 50 years.

The illness and death of my grandfather was a terrible experience to go through, losing someone who means too much to me is not easy to get over. I do find myself feeling sad and the pain is still present. After the passing of my grandfather at 26, I went back to community college where I graduated, and am now attending California State University San Bernardino at 28. Knowing how important schooling was to my grandfather pushes me every day to be the best that I can be, growing into the person he knew I could and making him proud. The relationship and influence that I still carry of my grandfather is something that I will always cherish and love.

References

1. Pratchett, T. (2013). Reaper Man: A Discworld Novel. New York: HarperCollins Publishers.