I passed away on December 10, 1997. Nothing would be the same for my children, for mi and not even for Imad. Finished and moaning I had to decide if I was going to give up myself to sorrow and rage or rebuild myself, giving birth to myself again in order to start a new road in the search of my children.
I had to be born again, to return to my values and principles of life, to the beat of my heart with which my children were fed during nine months of gestation and which they will recognize, no matter the distance and desperation.
This was, undoubtedly, the longest path I chose, the most difficult: love. The essence that made us conquer new skies, cross desserts and arrive to that space that kept as together, linked: the space of love.
After the tragic day, I had to keep love clean and pristine, which was already big among us.
I travelled the world; I knocked on every door I had to knock on; I met with every world leader I could so they could raise their own voices and my three children would know that Mom was alive and was not ill nor dead and was trying to reunite with them.
I did it. A year later, among governments, ministers, ambassadors and bodyguards, in a real dark winter night, in Amman and in Ramadan, I arrived to a house where my children were waiting for me. Psychologists had warned me that my youngest boy, who had been abducted when he was only a year and eight months old, was not going to recognize me because, as he had been taken in a crucial moment of his life, probably – for having survived the tragic moment when he was separated from his mother – would have adopted a substitute mother. I went up the stairs of the Arab mansion and, at each step, the voices of theory appeared before my FAITH. During a whole year, I had betted for that special love that linked me to my children. My heart could not believe such a diagnosis.
At the end of the trip, a human wall of Muslim men welcomed me shutting out my complete view so, I threw to the floor. It was my maternal instinct that took me to the space where those men, without understanding what was happening, started to move so that I could make my way; and, there, I found Sharif!!! My Winnie Pooh was there, my teddy bear, a year older. I watched him deeply (our secret, since he was born, was to talk between ourselves with the eyes). I resorted to our most precious treasure: I looked at him and in while staring at him I told him: “my love, Mommy is here, finally I arrived here.” And, as I said the last syllable, he started running towards me shouting “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…” his kiss on my mouth surprised my soul. He turned back and, while I was still on the floor, he sat on my lap and looked at the Muslim men, like saying: “My Mom is here.” Abduction had not taken place in Sharif’s heart nor in mine. LOVE IS POSSIBLE NO MATTER THE DISTANCE. Miracles happen. I knew that we had won the war, but it would take time. Sharif never adopted a mother, he kept the one he had inside, the one who cradled him and called him from Argentina.
These nine years have been years in which destiny made us sort thousands of difficulties, not only in our own history but that of world events.
Today I can say that the story became a big story, and said story takes me. The story is the three of them: Karim, Zahira and Sharif and, in them, the right of every boy and girl to grow in contact with both his/her parents. This phrase, so easy to pronounce and with so much common sense, made me become the mother I am today who broke the Muslim wall in Jordan. The highest Islam’s authority received me, assuming the obligation of getting together for the children’s wellbeing, who carried a message and a world action, placing my kids in the center and as a priority issue for the dialogue. Each hug, each caress and trip marked in my deep feeling, the possibility of finding peace and conciliation.
Today my children grow in Jordan. We were able to sit at the table as a family while the legal actions were closed and there, the possibility of giving them freedom and rebuilding their identities. Karim, Zahira and Sharif are not western nor eastern people; they are both worlds’ richness. They will be able to go from one world to the other, with no alienation or xenophobe, free of a tragic past that could have made them lose totally their real life.
From my home in Argentina, and reaching the end of a painful and hard process, I renounced to all of my rights so that the three of them could be, finally, free and, in freedom, have the possibility to go in search of the identity they need to build their own lives.
Imad and I could not carry out the project of building and growing this multicultural family. Family and cultural traditions weighed more and tragedy arrived.
This is the reason why, along my journey, I sowed the seeds of conciliation and universality. It will be their issue to take them so that they reach their own humanity.
Let us hope that this story creates awareness that every child as Karim, Zahira and Sharif, deserve to grow up in contact with both parents. And at this point, everyone must do its own duty: presidents, human rights organizations, the different societies and the media. The story of the three of them evidences this. No culture must have more power than the other has no control the other. We should hold hands, bend our heads and, in this gesture, give children their primordial place as they deserve it and need it.