Not Father

On Presence, Absence, and What I Learn Watching Through Windows

Christmas Day. I was on an early morning walk around the neighborhood. In the darkness of dawn, a light flicked on in one of the houses. I slowed my pace and through their living room window caught a glimpse of a family gathering to open Santa’s presents. From beyond the window, they looked perfect—the dad, the mom, and the son—a perfect family unit.

As I walked on, I began to wonder whether what I had witnessed was a carefully created moment of holiday joy, where all their troubles and worries, their broken promises and strained relationships, were set aside for the sake of their son. No way of knowing, because as the observer, my prying eyes see what I want to see—or what they want me to.

My thoughts wandered to the individual bonds within that family unit, bonds that might be reflected in the gifts wrapped under the tree. Do dads really know better than moms what to get their sons? Do moms get to pick for their daughters? Or do they decide together?

A few days later, at a coffee shop, I overheard a couple talking. The mom was bragging about the bow and arrow they’d bought their son, laughing about how the arrows would come flying out of nowhere and how much they hurt. The dad just smiled and said, “Well, boys will be boys.” That easy dismissal from dads—is it love, or pride, or a longing to relive their own childhood through their sons?—I wondered.

When I think about my own relationship with my father, I don’t know if he ever wanted me to relive his childhood, but even if he did, the times had changed too much for it to be possible. I’ve only heard stories of his boyhood escapades: endless days playing in the fields, climbing trees, swimming in ponds—simple outdoor pleasures that now feel like lost arts in a 21st-century upbringing.

Most of my childhood memories are from our expat life in the Middle East. There were no trees to climb or fields to play in. Still, the memories I have are not of a kid confined to closed quarters, indoor playrooms, or hooked on Atari video games.

While it was impossible for him to recreate his own childhood for us, my dad got to live a new one through us—one he might never have dreamed of. Because of that, he was there for us and with us. But even that is something I see taken for granted today.

Today, I see fathers who choose to be absent from their sons’ lives, some by choice and others because of circumstances that keep them away. I see fathers who have their hearts in the right place but whose actions are misplaced. Then I see those who make sacrifices to be there for their sons.

My younger brother, for instance. He is a devoted and dedicated father who does what’s right for his kids. He wants to instil core family values, even if it means uprooting his life and starting again. His family comes first; they are always his first priority.

My friend who is divorced has redesigned his life for his son. He often trades his own needs for his son’s happiness. He epitomises single fatherhood at its best. When he tells me that sons are usually closer to their mothers, I find it hard to believe. While fathers may not be accustomed to showing love to their children as much as mothers do, when they do, it goes beyond a father-son bond. They become the best of friends.

My schoolmate is the perfect example of this. I remember when his own dad passed away, and how that changed him, forcing him to become the responsible adult far quicker than anyone expected. He excelled in his studies, got a job before I did, climbed the career ladder quickly, and managed to retire before his 50s—a dream most of us had, but that only he could realize. Even cancer tried to slow him down, but he beat it. Now he lives a retired life focused solely on being there for his son every moment of every day. They vacation together all the time and create memorable moments that will last forever.

When these sons grow up to be adults, I hope their bonds with their fathers will only grow stronger. I hope to watch them from the sidelines and wonder: if I ever had a son, I’d want him to introduce me to them as his best friend, not father.

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My Childhood, Thanks to My Dad

Growing up in the Middle East in the 90s, my dad would come home after work and then take us all shopping. He would double-park at the video cassette shop and send us in to rent the latest Bollywood movie—censored copies with intimate romantic scenes or displays of Hindu temples and gods replaced with images of flowers. On the way back, we would stop by the street-side shawarma vendor or buy a KFC bucket (with their delicious garlic paste) for movie night.

I remember frequent visits to King Fahd Park, where we would play for hours with random kids. It didn’t matter if they were Arab or Pakistani or Indian, or any other ethnicity for that matter. All that mattered was the race to climb the wooden playpens and jump or slide back down onto the sand beneath.

When the cool October nights set in, we would drive to the corniche, where we could ride our bikes or roller-skate ahead of our parents as they watched and strolled along in the comfort of an Arabian Sea breeze. There would always be an ice cream treat toward the end of the night.

Another memory lives amid the desert dunes of Dammam, clearly etched in my mind: a cold night when we huddled together with our friends, sharing the warmth of grilled skewers of marinated meat as they sizzled against the eeriness of the dark.

These memories wouldn’t exist had it not been for my dad wanting his boys to be boys. They shape the stories that I get to tell you here.

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Cover Photo of Father and Son by Suhash Villuri on Unsplash