People need to know what has been taken from us ı Tribute by Marc-Joseph Assouad

Hey man,

I've been writing and rewriting this in my head for a while now. Everything has been so surreal since you left us. Our lives have shifted on every single aspect: emotionally, spiritually, professionally, even politically. The impact of your death has hit us and has hit the entire country like a shock wave. It felt like an earthquake that shook us into disarray.

It's difficult to put into words how I'm feeling about all of this. It's difficult to put into words how I'm grieving even. The most difficult for me has been to explain the bond that we had, that I felt that we had.

We were born on the same day you and I. The same day, the same year. January 11, 2001. There was a couple of hours of difference between us, 2 I believe. I made sure to remind you of that during every family lunch when we were kids. And man do I have some memories of the time we spent then. The memories I made with you, hanging out at Téta Aida's place when we were kids, playing on Jeddo Ernest's old computer, doing our homework together till we were teens (you helping me with biology and chemistry and me helping you with mathematics) playing around in the garden, sleeping over at Teta Aida's place and throwing pillows at each other during the night..... which ended up with me throwing up because I got food poisoned from one of the restaurants we went to. This felt like we were making memories that we will share to our kids later on. I'm reliving every moment while I'm writing this, with my heart pounding with every living memory. I could also add family lunches on Sundays at Jeita Country Club, or dinners at ATCL.

Everything feels so nostalgic, so old, and yet so fresh. I just look at all the time spent. I remember those family lunches on Sundays at Teta Aida's, where we would sit down with the adults and discuss so many topics.

Where I would act like the rash and rebellious teenager I was, and you would sit there observing every detail, looking at me with a reassuring smile while I'd be expressing loudly my opinion and how I would feel, whether it was about my relationship with my parents, my professional aspirations, politics, or something else. I would sit closer to the adults, as I was (and still am) deeply interested in politics at the time. Then, when desert came, we'd look at each other and realise that we didn't talk much throughout, and we'd sit closer to one another and discuss our current lives together: school, exams, scouts, university, career aspirations, even our love life.

I'd realise throughout my conversations with you that I was rushing so much to behave and be treated like an adult, while I forgot how enjoyable it was to talk with someone my age, that is kind, loving, caring and mature. Same thing during Christmas lunches and dinners. It was enjoyable to get back to earth during our conversations, while I would be trying to fly higher than I should and trying to converse with adults thrice my age.

I miss those conversations. I miss asking you about uni, and us locating common friends and acquaintances that we had. I miss us talking about our experiences during scouts summer camps, our aspirations and memories, our totems ceremony.... And then, it hits me how long it's been since the last time we've had a proper conversation. And that's because I've been far away from our family and this country for a while now. And I've stayed far away for maybe longer than I should have.

It hits me that the last times we've spoken and interacted was to wish each other happy birthday and congratulate each other on our degrees. I can't tell you how happy I was for you when you got your master's degree. I remember how we used to talk about our aspirations in university, how you told me you wanted to go into med school and then changed your mind and continued with biochemistry because you had a passion for it. Your passion for your major was truly inspiring for me, especially considering that I was looking for my main professional passion throughout my youth up until my early adult years.

I'm not the only one who enjoyed talking to you: my mom used to love talking to you too. She used to enjoy the conversations she'd have with you over lunch, and tell me how much she appreciated you being kind, sweet, sensitive and mindful. And I agreed. So did my dad. So did Michele. So did all of us.

I've already told the story of me stepping on ant farms in Teta Aida's garden and you getting me at me for hurting them. And how you would straight back into the house to tell Teta Aida what happened. You had the soul of an angel, because you were an angel among us. Always so mindful of others, always making efforts to accommodate everyone, to take care of the weak and vulnerable like you used to do during your scout days.

I remember everything. My heart breaks with every single letter that I type in. But people reading this need to know how good of a person you were and how much you were loved. They need to understand that what happened to you shouldn't happen to anyone ever again, in Lebanon or outside of it. They need to understand the pain and suffering that we live in, knowing that I'll never have the opportunity to sit down with you, eat cake or knefe, and talk about our lives together. They need to know what has been taken away from us, so that it never gets taken away from anyone in these circumstances again. I know you'd agree too, especially knowing how vocal you've been about your political opinions for the past couple of years. I know you'd think the same way towards the people who took you away from us, how it is absolutely disgusting that they're still armed and hurting our countrymen. But I digress. Because this isn't about them right now. It's about YOU.

Everyone has a different way of grieving. My way of grieving has been being vocal on social media, contacting the press, engineering ways to get information out about your case on social media through activists and politicians. I didn't have the chance to sit down and talk about what I'm going through with anyone because I've been grieving alone. I didn't get the chance to stop running at 100 km/hour and just think about all of this. That's why it hits so hard. It hits hard because I didn't realise how big the hole you left in me was. It hits hard because I realise that I won't be able to enjoy my birthday the same way again, because you should also be there, among us, enjoying your birthday too.

It hits hard, and maybe harder than I expected. And maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's proof of how good of a person you were. The most reassuring thing for me is that you left a legacy intact. Everyone knows how amazing you were. And everyone is grieving. I just hope you realise how much you were loved and revered.

I've written too much. But it's still not enough for me. And I don't think it'll ever be enough.

I promise you, from the bottom of my heart, that we will honour you and we will protect your memory and legacy. And that no other brother, cousin, and son will ever go through what you went through again on our soil.

Te quiero, hermano.

Hasta que nos encontremos en el más allá.

Marc Joseph Assouad.

"Try to leave this world a little better than you found it and, when your turn comes to die, you can die happy in feeling that at any rate you have not wasted your time but have done your best."

~ Robert-Baden Powell, founder and Godfather of international scouts.