The distance between us never made me forget to mention him. I still tell my children stories of his courage, sacrifices, and heroism when he was the commander of the Hittin faction in the Great Palestinian Revolt (1936-1939). I used to repeatedly tell them about his favor to the family and to me in particular. Without him, I would not have achieved the knowledge and academic status I enjoy now in the United States, and my children would not be reaping the fruits of their father's success in the most prestigious American universities and scientific centers, even though he came from a small village in northern Palestine, and from a modest mud house. Indeed, he was always the "father of the family" and its pride, even if he only acquired a little knowledge and ended up living in the camps. His struggle is no longer remembered except by some of those who lived with him in his youth or knew him closely. No, I would not have overlooked any of this. But, as if a twist of fate had willed this time to bring him back to my consciousness and imagination, forcing me to be humble before his picture hanging on the wall. As I returned to my home in New Jersey after the ceremony honoring me with a prestigious award from the American Academy of Sciences and Technology, the phone rang. On the other end was my nephew Saleh, speaking from Tulkarm in the occupied West Bank, informing me that his father—my older brother, Abu Saleh—had become seriously ill, and that he was mentioning my name in his delirium. He said nothing more. I realized that the matter was more serious than description. It is customary for people here to conceal, as much as they can, the great news when they inform someone absent and distant.