I Finally Met My Father and Lost the Dream of Him on the Same Day.
Meeting my father later in life taught me the value of self-worth.
As I sit here writing this article, I’m celebrating my 29th trip around the sun. Writing has always been my go-to-happy place, so what better way to mark the occasion and reflect on what makes me, well, me? My inbox is buzzing with birthday wishes from all my favorite people, and I’m soaking in the love that’s been pouring in from the incredible relationships I’ve built over nearly three decades. If there ever was a reason to allocate the meaning of life, here’s one.
Now, with the big 3–0 lurking just around the corner, I’ll soon graduate from the “trial period” of my twenties to a lifelong subscription to adulthood.
And I’m buying into it, after all, the trial run of my twenties has come with its own set of costs, so I might as well embrace the end of adolescence with open arms and cheerfulness. But, it’s natural to do a bit of introspection. And when I think about the most impactful part of being alive, it’s undoubtedly the relationships we nurture, especially the ones we build with ourselves. That’s where my thoughts have been drifting lately, and they’ve led me to think about my father, the one person I haven’t heard from today. We have a complex, yet intriguing story. Let me elaborate. Now, hold onto your hats, because this is no ordinary family reunion tale.
I was a sprightly 7-year-old when I stumbled upon the shocking revelation that the man, I thought I shared DNA with wasn’t my real father. Yes, that’s right, my biological father hailed from a beautiful island called Zanzibar, a world away from my Danish upbringing with my mom, who had her own reasons for keeping his identity hidden. His name? Hassan Mahmood. Since that day, I made it my life goal to find him. Never mind my other father, he had left us behind when I was just a baby, so I had no attachment to him, and consider my mother to have been a single mother all of my life.
Fast forward a decade, and I found myself strolling through the narrow streets of Zanzibar with my mother, on a mission to find the enigmatic Hassan Mahmood, a former tourist guide in Stone Town who played a pivotal role in my existence. I’d always wondered what would happen when I finally met him. Would he be the key to unlocking the mysteries of my tumultuous childhood, a cure for my insecurities, and the answer to all my burning questions? My imagination painted a vivid picture of him, despite having nothing more than a few letters he’d written to my mom and the features reflected in my own mirror.
My quest for Hassan sprang from a deep-seated need for security, something I often felt was missing in my early years. No disrespect to my mom, who was a pillar of love and goodness in my life, but her choices, especially the one to keep my father hidden, left me with a jigsaw puzzle of questions, particularly about my own identity.
You see, not having a father figure around can lead to a condition like “fatherless daughter syndrome.” It’s a cocktail of abandonment, rejection, and the eternal search for validation and acceptance from other sources. It can leave you feeling inadequate, plagued by self-doubt, and with a shaky sense of self-worth.
Back to Zanzibar, where the breeze from the sea mixed with the scent of cinnamon and cardamom filled the air. I thought I was on the brink of banishing all my self-doubts, but little did I know, this was just the beginning. After hours of navigating the labyrinthine streets of Stone Town, we found ourselves on the doorstep of a man acquainted with my father. With his guidance, we finally made contact with one of my father’s childhood buddies, who gleefully informed us that my father had relocated to Switzerland years ago.
And then came the moment I’d rehearsed in my head, like an actor prepping for an Oscar speech. When I finally spoke to him on the phone, I found myself strangely speechless, and it turns out, so was he. It was a revelation that even now, knowing him, I find hard to fathom. My mother explained the situation, and he, understandably, choked up a bit, asking,
“Why now, after all these years?”
“I was scared.” She responded.
I won’t forget that initial conversation, but what stands out even more vividly is meeting one of my first blood relatives in person — my cousin. She was a vivacious young girl with cornrows and a radiant melanin complexion. When she learned who we were, she practically leaped into my arms with boundless enthusiasm, winning me over with her charm and love for my father.
For a brief moment, my father seemed like the gem I’d always imagined. I even got to see pictures of him for the first time, confirming that this was indeed the man of my dreams. But the bubble burst when my cousin spilled the beans — I was the fourth child among a total of seven siblings, with three of them living close by, while others resided in Switzerland and Comoro Island.
Yes, I was the second child to embark on this quest to find our elusive father. An uncle I met that same day exclaimed, “Typical Hassan! Children everywhere!” Talk about a revelation. As I continued to meet more and more family members in Zanzibar and learned more about my father, a strange irony took hold. I found myself pondering not just who he was but who I was in the midst of it all.
You see, it turned out that he had been married to another woman when he met my mother, and my newfound siblings painted a picture of a man who was far from a typical father figure. He chose to wander rather than settle down and provide for his family, although he did send money back home. Meeting these long-lost siblings was monumental, but it was overshadowed by a cloud of confusion and disappointment.
Why, you ask? Well, because the image I’d constructed of my father was quickly crumbling. People around me told tales of his storytelling prowess, even though everyone knew his stories were pure fiction. They found it amusing, but for me, it shattered the authenticity I’d been hoping to find.
To his friends, he was the life of the party, a jovial and lively companion. But to his three children, he was a specter — one who had criticized them endlessly and blamed them for a marriage he never wanted. It left me wondering where I fit into this complex puzzle of a man.
Leaving Zanzibar, I carried a sackful of questions, primarily about how to come to terms with all I had learned. Even now, 12 years later, I’m still seeking answers about him — answers I may never find.
Through the years, as I’ve met up with him, I’ve come to understand that my dad is quite the talker, but he rarely delves into matters of real substance. He’s not exactly a walking calendar, often forgetting birthdays and dates. He has a penchant for storytelling, a love for his children, and impressive linguistic skills — he speaks six languages fluently.
He’s not one to thrive in routine, and he refuses to be pigeonholed by his career. He’s a dreamer, a trait I’ve inherited and cherish. But with all this said, I still can’t claim to know him. He’s like smoke in the wind, vanishing when you try to grasp him.
Recently, I paid a visit to my two brothers in Switzerland and discovered that my bond with them could thrive independently of our father’s influence. During my stay, we stumbled upon a street singer belting out “Lemon Tree,” a catchy tune that had everyone singing along, including us.
One of my brothers cheerfully revealed that this was one of our father’s favorite songs. I couldn’t help but murmur, “Really? Well, that’s one more fact I can add to my list of newfound knowledge.” It’s funny how a song can connect us in unexpected ways.
“Lemon Tree” is a special song to me. A song, I now have come to associate with him. You see, “Lemon Tree” is about a singer’s struggle with depression, possibly stemming from losing his wife in a car accident involving a lemon tree, or perhaps a simple breakup. The details remain unconfirmed, but one thing is clear: it’s a song born from profound sadness, cleverly concealed by an upbeat melody. It was quite a shock for me, considering I’d always thought of it as a cheerful tune.
But now, I view it as a song that encapsulates the essence of life’s struggles and the refusal to let go of them and move on, while knowing deep inside you must.
I’ve come to relate to “Lemon Tree,” when it concerns me and my father’s story. Ever since the day I met him, he’s been making up stories about himself and his life, which I know aren’t true. I’m longing so deeply to know him, and while he keeps telling me about the imaginary abundance of his life, all I see are lies. I suspect he has another reason for relating to it, and maybe not too far from it. His penchant for constantly shifting and avoiding life’s challenges might stem from an underlying sorrow, a disconnection from his true self, and simply accepting what is. A quality I used to live by myself.
Through this journey, I’ve learned that my dad is human and prone to making mistakes. I’ve come to terms with them, realizing that I couldn’t tolerate them because I saw myself reflected in those mistakes. It’s a phase all children go through, the moment we realize our parents are just people doing their best, not infallible superheroes. We do however have a choice to either repeat or learn from those mistakes. Is it then okay for him to forget my birthday? No, but I know that while his head is in the blue skies, I’ve built my own value system, and I don’t require a birthday message to bring me that validation.
My mother, who kept my father’s identity hidden out of fear, is no exception. She was scared of the unknown, something I myself have come to understand and accept. I no longer harbor anger toward my parents; they are simply navigating life’s complexities, just like the rest of us. In my case, I was searching for qualities in my father that I hoped to find in myself, a journey I would have embarked on even if I’d known him all my life. I will though note my eternal gratitude to my father and his family for taking me in, and letting me become a part of them. They always present me as their daughter and sister, a thing that could have easily been denied.
What I associated with my father during this quest was, in reality, a journey of self-discovery, an exploration of what I would come to cherish most about myself. I was the disrupter of my own sadness. My therapist once told me that we’re destined to experience moments of loneliness in life, a kind of loneliness that’s inherent to the human condition. Deep feelings of sorrow and anxiety can leave us feeling isolated, and we’re born alone into this world, leaving it in the same solitary manner.
But this doesn’t mean we shouldn’t cherish the relationships we build with partners, friends, and family — they are, after all, the cornerstone of a fulfilling life. However, depending on others to define who we are and shape our identity can lead us down a dead-end path. So, here’s to embracing life’s twists and turns, celebrating the relationships that enrich our journey, and discovering the beauty in the quest to find ourselves. Cheers to embracing the unknown, and, of course, to more lighthearted adventures ahead!
