No matter how far apart we were, I never forgot him. I still tell my children stories of his bravery, sacrifices, and heroism from his days as the leader of the Hittin faction in the Great Palestinian Revolt (1936-1939). I would repeatedly speak to them about his benevolence towards the family and to me in particular. Were it not for him, I would not have achieved the level of education and academic standing I now enjoy 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 renowned scientific centers, he who came from a small village in northern Palestine, from a humble mud house. Yes, he was always the "father of the family" and its pride, even if he gained little knowledge and ended up living in refugee camps, with his struggle remembered only by those who lived through his youth or knew him closely. No, I would not overlook any of this. However, it seems that the ironies of fate this time wished to bring him to my heart and imagination, obliging me to humility before his picture hanging on the wall. As I returned to my home in New Jersey after receiving a high 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 elder brother Abu Saleh – had become gravely ill and was mentioning my name in his delirium. He said nothing more. I realized that the matter was more serious than he described. It is our custom for people to mask the gravity of great news when informing a distant absent person.