Twelve hours. That's all it took for my world to be turned upside down.
Like many Lebanese living abroad, I had a flight booked to Beirut for the holidays on December 18 at 9am. The plan was to land in Lebanon early and go straight from the airport to the hospital where my 51-year-old uncle was being treated for cancer.
I was packed, I was scared, but at least I was going home. I'll feel better once I'm with my family, I kept telling myself. Once I see and speak to him. No one could cheer him up like I could, after all. He was my best friend.
My uncle died on December 17, at 9pm sharp. A mere 12 hours before my flight. Twelve hours before I got a chance to say goodbye. The most ruthless 12 hours of my life.
I didn’t sleep that night. I was in shock, in disbelief. I remember staring at the obituary as if it were written in a foreign language. I read his name over and over again, but it refused to register. It felt like a nightmare, one I have yet to wake up from.
The flight from Abu Dhabi to Beirut the next morning was a blur, both literally and figuratively. I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. I couldn’t listen to a word anyone was saying to me. I honestly still don't know how I made it to my gate. I just knew I needed to get home.
The excitement of surprising my uncle upon arrival was soon replaced with the dread of attending his funeral. All the scenarios that had been playing in my head of how he'd react and what I'd say to him were meaningless. My uncle was gone. Twelve hours too soon.
My brother picked me up at the airport, and we drove to our town in South Lebanon. It was an eerily quiet ride except for the occasional sniffle or sigh.
I finally broke the silence.
“How did this happen?” I asked.
“He was very tired”, my brother answered. “I tried to tell you, but I didn't want you to worry.”
But had I known, I wouldn't have missed him by a mere half a day.
We arrived at the family house. My grandparents. My aunts and other uncles. My mum. My cousins. My uncle's wife. Everyone looked defeated. They had been by his side in his final days. They had seen him in agony. I hadn’t, because I arrived 12 hours too late.
Now here I was, under the same roof, in the same room as my uncle. I said my one-sided goodbye. I gave him one last, non-reciprocal hug. That was it. Twelve minutes with him. That’s all I got.
In the days that followed, I spent every waking hour replaying our conversations, listening to his voice notes just to hear his hearty laugh and scrolling through photos to find his warm smile.
My mindless scrolling eventually took me back to 2021, where I found a starred message he had sent me just days before I moved away.
“Ana ma feene eb3od 3anik walla ya khalo,” he wrote – meaning “I can't be far from you”.
That’s when it hit me. All the guilt and the grief I had been desperately trying to keep at bay came rushing in, washing over me like a furious winter wave.
Why did I not fly back home sooner? Why was I not there when he needed me most? Why was I far away? How could I leave him and my family behind?
Had I known the last time I saw him would be the last ever, I would have hugged him longer, held his hand tighter, and savoured every second. But I thought I had more time. I never imagined that 12 hours would separate me from my best friend forever.
At his funeral, my mother said something that has stayed with me ever since.
“Your khalo knew you were coming to see him. I told him on the day he passed, and he gave me a wide smile,” she said. “But your khalo loved you so much that he didn't want you to see him like this. Even in his sickness, he was protecting you.”
Knowing my uncle – and knowing the bond we shared – I choose to believe it.
The last time I saw my khalo was during the summer. We were having lunch at my grandparents' house. We knew he was diagnosed with lung cancer, but he never let it define him. He was feisty, with an unbreakable spirit. He had the kindest heart and most generous soul, and he was loved by all who knew him. His laugh was infectious, and his playful, mischievous nature meant he always had a story to tell.
This is how I want to remember him. Had I landed 12 hours sooner, the last image of my uncle in my head might have been completely different – and I don’t know if I could have carried that.
So to Khalo Hassan, the man who always had my back, the man who always made me laugh, the man who taught me to stand for what's right, even if it meant standing alone, this one's for you.
And I know for a fact, if you were still with us, you'd be sharing this column on all your socials with the caption: “Proud of you, habibet albo la khalo” (khalo's beloved), a nickname I will always hold near and dear to my heart.
