The Lebanese Willy Wonka
An Endearing Tribute to my father from his Godchild, Zaynah Najla Moussa.
Printed with full permission. Thank you, Zaynah.
My godfather, Doha Sleiman, could make magic. He once convinced my brother Jorge that the Easter Bunny was on the phone. “Hellooooo, this is the Easter Bunny calling!”, he said in his rich, beautifully accented voice. My brother repeated this story and phrase every Easter into his adulthood, it stuck with him as a moment of childhood magic. When my brother unexpectedly passed away, my godfather was one of the first people to come over, quietly sitting with me outside as we tried to process the grief and shock. Doha was steadfast and genuinely compassionate, and I hope we can collectively support Heyam and Tanya and Omar through this loss the way he supported so many of us.
Doha was a godfather in the truest and highest sense of the role — a father figure, a teacher, an advocate, and a spiritual guide. He taught me Arabic letters, explaining the beauty of our language and our culture, quizzing me about how the family was connected and which cousins belonged to each branch of the giant Nasr tree. He remains one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever known. His heart was equally impressive, he always took the time to call on every holiday, every birthday, and in the recent isolating years of the pandemic he would call my father Salah, his childhood best friend, every few days to recite poetry or listen to Orthodox chants. I learned something in every conversation with my godfather, whether it was a historical or political fact, an anecdote about village life with my dad and their endless mischief, or a Facebook update about a family friend. The bond with my godparents was so strong that my husband and I asked Heyam and Doha to baptize our youngest son, Matin.
Doha continued to make magic his entire life. Earlier this year, he stopped by our house (just on the porch out of his signature Covid caution) to bring a few goodies for our children and say hello. He was carrying a cane and my six-year-old asked about it, “Why do you need a cane, Amo Doha?” My godfather groaned and said he was a very old man, he dramatically walked a few steps and leaned heavily on the cane while they watched with some concern. Then, like a Lebanese Willy Wonka, he held the cane out and did a sprightly little dance. My kids were delighted and laughed, it was a bit of magic.
The Don was irrepressible and irreplaceable, someone who is remembered even after the shortest encounter. In his memory I hope that we can all take a long walk, visit a community garden, and have a conversation with someone who might need to feel heard. Doha knew about all of the big things in life and still cared so much about the small things, the human interactions that make us whole and make life memorable. I hope we can all make a little of his magic.
