So that was it again. It all boiled down to hope. It was all we had. No fancy medical terms, no theories, just blind hope. I suddenly sensed that Dad was panicking. He wanted to get out of that room. I tried to wrap things up.
‘Do you have any more questions?’ Dr Masani asked gently. I shook my head. As soon as I did so, Dad more or less bolted from the room. I quickly told Hessam to go after him so I could stay with Mum. We had to somehow hold it together for them.
Dr Masani told us that we probably needed some space as a family, but that after that we could go in to see Hussein. Finally, I thought. Mum would get to see her boy and I could be by his side once again. I went to find Dad and Hessam.
Thankfully they hadn’t gone far, and I brought them back into the waiting room to be with Mum. As we waited to go in and see Hussein we gathered in a circle, just like we always used to do around the sofra. There in the quietness we looked into one another’s eyes. We’d get through this, I thought. We had to. I knew I’d do anything to fill that void in the circle where Hussein was supposed to be.
Then Dad said something I never thought I’d hear him say. Something that made me realise he was finally learning to face things head on.
‘Hamed, please will you let people know that Hussein might only have a few hours?’
Tears were pouring down his face, and it was all I could do to stop myself from crying. Was that it? A few hours? I couldn’t accept that this was the end, that there was nothing more they could do. But I knew that Dad had given me a job to do, and like always I didn’t want to let him down. I silently took my phone and left the room.
Once out in the corridor, I suddenly realised that I didn’t know who to call. I walked around the corridor, trying to think what to do. I just wanted to be in there with Hussein, but I knew that Dad felt this was important.
What would I even say? How could I tell our relatives that their nephew and cousin might have only a few hours left to live? How would I even say it? ‘My big brother only has a few hours’? Those words didn’t sound right. They couldn’t be true. I wasn’t sure I could do it.
I decided to call khale first. My fingers numb, I found the number on my phone and redialled, knowing there’d be no delay in her answering this time. Sure enough, she picked up immediately.
‘Fariba?’
‘No, khale, it’s Hamed.’
‘What’s happened?’ She sounded broken and tearful.
‘Khale, it’s not good. They have said he only has a few hours.’ I couldn’t believe these words were actually coming out of my mouth. I held my breath to stop myself from crying.
All I could hear on the other end was khale sobbing. Between the tears I could just make out her begging me to let her hear Hussein’s voice once more. But I knew this wasn’t possible.
‘He’s too sick, khale,’ I said.
Then I told her I had to go, and like a robot I moved on to the next call. Time was ticking on, and I didn’t want to miss my chance to see Hussein. I made call after call, first to my uncles, then to various cousins.
And so I progressed through all our extended family in Afghanistan, Iran and other countries, calmly telling them that my amazing big brother was about to die. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Everyone in our family loved Hussein. How could they not? He was the funniest, the smartest, the most alive. He was the kindest person any of us had ever known. The thought of him leaving us was unbearable. And yet somewhere, deep inside my shattered heart, I found something that made me carry on. I think it was the thought that, if I didn’t do this, Mum or Dad would have to. And Hessam and I had agreed that we’d put them first.
My calls done, I slowly made my way back to the waiting room to find Mum and Dad. Wiping my eyes as I went, I suddenly saw a nurse coming out of the doors of the CCU. Not wanting to wait any longer, I stopped her.
‘Please. Can we go and see Hussein now?’ I pointed to Mum, whose praying figure was just visible through the waiting room door.
‘Yes, two at a time,’ she nodded. She smiled at me so sadly. I rushed through to Mum.
‘We can go and see him,’ I said. She stood up quickly, wiping her tears. I knew she wouldn’t want Hussein to see her so upset. As we walked through the corridor neither of us knew what to expect. How would Hussein look? He’d never been this sick before, and I worried that he would just be a mass of wires and tubes.
Dad stayed behind with Hessam, terrified as usual of seeing his son in pain. I was secretly glad, as I couldn’t stand the ache of not being near Hussein for much longer.
Guided by the nurses, Mum and I made our way into the CCU room. Mum instinctively turned right as soon as we got in there, and I realised that only a mother would know exactly where her child would be.
And there he was, her baby, half-awake, with tubes coming out of him, while the nurses and doctors watched over him like guardians.
Without saying a word Mum went over to Hussein and took him in her arms. I heard her whisper ever so quietly, ‘It’s okay, Mummy’s here.’
Then Hussein whispered back, so quietly and hoarsely that I could hardly hear him. ‘Hey Mum, where you been?’ Even with all the tubes coming out of him he managed a smile.
‘I’m right here, baby,’ Mum said. Tears were running down her face.
Then Hussein saw me. ‘Hey bro, you good?’ I said. He took my hand. I had to hold back my tears, but I also knew that even on strong medication Hussein would know how I was feeling.
‘Yeah, I’m fine, bro. We’ve been here before!’ Hussein smiled calmly, still clutching onto my hand.
For a moment then, all the noise and people seemed to disappear and we were overtaken by a moment of calm. The nurses seemed to sense the gap in the circle, and within minutes they’d gone out to fetch Dad and Hessam. Suddenly all five of us were together, forming our familiar family circle.
Instead of looking at each other, we all just held on to Hussein, gazing at him with unconditional love. ‘We’re all here, bro, by your side, no matter how tough it gets,’ Hessam whispered, and I remembered that moment when we’d promised to be musketeers.
Then we fell silent, and we all held on to each other, each one gripping an arm or a hand. Tears were streaming down the faces of the nurses, who watched from a short, careful distance.
Then it was time for the circle to break. The nurses gently asked if they could run a couple of tests on Hussein, and we all moved out of the way. Dad could no longer keep his emotions at bay, and he took that moment to go out and compose himself.
While the nurses were checking some monitors, Hussein said to Mum, ‘Can I just talk to my brothers for a minute?’
Mum smiled. She knew the special bond between us. ‘I’m just outside,’ she said, and kissed Hussein on the forehead before reluctantly walking away.
‘Come closer,’ Hussein said to Hessam, and we both took hold of his hands. I tried to forget what the doctor had said and pretend that this was just another brotherly pep talk.
‘I’m going to talk, okay? So I just want you to listen – and don’t argue back,’ Hussein said. He smiled weakly.
Hessam and I nodded gently.
‘I want you to forgive me for whatever I’ve done in the past that might have hurt you. And I want you to look after Mum and Dad after I’m gone …’
I had to interrupt. ‘Bro, please don’t talk like that …’ Tears were flowing uncontrollably down my face. Hussein looked impatient.
‘Just shut up and listen for once!’ he smiled.
‘Get married. Bring some happiness to them, please, and if I’ve upset anyone please ask them for my forgiveness. Oh, and look after Moe … he will find it tough being on his own!’ He was so calm as always. Hessam and I were weeping uncontrollably. This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be goodbye.
Although I’d always had to look after Hussein because of his illness, it had always been him who’d watched over me. Hot-headed and impatient, I needed Hussein to calm me down and talk sense into me. He was the only one who
knew how to do it. Despite his heart, I’d always seen him as the stronger one. He always pulled through, always made the most of things, always put others first. He wasn’t just my brother, my role model, my roommate. He was my hero.
Standing there, hearing him speak those terrible words, I just wanted the ground to open up and eat me. I didn’t want to go on without Hussein. What would be the point?
Not wanting to upset him, I held on to his hand and nodded. He knew me. He’d know what I was thinking.
Suddenly a doctor came in, and the spell that had kept Hessam and me glued to Hussein’s side was broken. But I had one more thing to say to Hussein before Mum and Dad came back in. I moved over so the doctor could do his checks.
‘You know I love you, bro? And I’m here, no matter what, till the end.’ Hussein just smiled. He’d taught me that.
The three of us had one more hug before Hussein said, ‘We’d better get Mum back in, she’ll be going mental.’ We all laughed through our tears. I knew I’d remember those smiles forever.
Hessam went to get Mum and Dad and brought them back in. I used those few moments to try and regain my composure. As Mum came back in, Hussein turned his attention once again to her.
‘Hey Mum, everything will be ok, you know,’ he smiled. Mum couldn’t speak, but just bent down and kissed Hussein on his forehead. As she did, Hussein looked over her shoulder at me. For a minute his eyes locked with mine, and I knew that he knew something was about to happen. We’d always been able to communicate like that, without a word.
I noticed that as he hugged her Hussein was clutching Mum harder and harder. Then suddenly some beeps went off. The doctors calmly came over.
EPILOGUE
In the weeks that followed, our time was taken up looking after Mum and Dad. We’d promised Hussein we’d care for them, and Hessam and I had also agreed that we’d deal with our own feelings later.
There was a lot to do. But I was grieving for my brother in a way I’d never thought possible. We’d promised Hussein that we’d stick together until the end, and we had. But apart from that last conversation, we’d never discussed what we were supposed to do after the end. The one person who’d know what to do was the one person who wasn’t there.
Those days felt empty. I missed being able to chat with Hussein about anything, and life without him felt flat and pointless. He was the only one who could have made it better, but he was the one I couldn’t turn to.
But as time went on things started to happen. We discovered other areas of Hussein’s life we hadn’t even known about. Strangers poured out their grief online and in person. We learnt how Hussein had brightened the day of the waitresses who worked in the local café, and how he’d always paid for a fellow student’s lunch when he’d hit hard times. We heard from the lady on the market stall who told us how Hussein had helped her daughter, and from countless patients and hospital staff who Hussein had supported.
Hannah and Beth, the nurses who loved Hussein and cared for him in so many ways, ran a half marathon in his memory, raising over £3,000 for the NHS.
During those weeks we found out more about our brother than we’d known when he was alive. We discovered that his heart had reached further and wider than anyone could have known. Although his real heart had failed, this other heart – the one that cared unconditionally for the people around him – was still here.
It was time for a new pact. From that day, Hessam and I made a promise to ensure our brother wasn’t forgotten. We would do everything we could to create a legacy for Hussein’s life and ensure that his second heart would live on.
For Hessam, that meant continuing Hussein’s work with the hospitals he was involved with. He took steps to become a governor for NHS Bristol, the very role that Hussein had done with such compassion. His first board meeting, sitting in the very seat where Hussein had sat so many times, was a momentous occasion.
As for me, my goal was to celebrate Hussein and share his story with as many people as possible. We knew that Hussein’s passion was always to help others. So that’s what we’d do. But we’d also make sure that Mum and Dad remembered his life as filled with laughter and love rather than sadness and sorrow.
I decided to write. I would share the story of our family’s journey to the UK and Hussein’s own personal journey trying to overcome his illness. I’d write about the lessons Hussein taught me, and the positivity he brought to life. Getting my thoughts on paper helped me to process everything that had happened, but over time I realised that other people should hear about this boy with two hearts too.
BBC coverage of the nurses’ half marathon led to more publicity about Hussein. This led to a production company creating a documentary film which will be commissioned by the BBC and shortly afterwards the Wales Millennium Centre, one of the biggest theatre venues in Europe, creating a stage adaptation of Hussein’s story. Finally, a meeting with developmental editor Sophie Bradshaw and publisher Icon Books led to the book being published.
Hussein’s story isn’t just about our family. It isn’t even about the incredible love that underpinned everything as we fought for our freedom. It’s about a journey into hope, and a love for life even when life is hard.
Love is a strange thing, especially when it’s felt between total strangers. In my life with Hussein and through writing this book, I can see now that love crosses borders. It crosses religions and families, and can occur between people who’ll never see each other again. It brings hope, even in the darkest moments you can face.
Love is also contagious, jumping from one person to the next and never dying out. Hussein spread love to many people in his life. I caught it too, and through his story I hope it can be passed on forever.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost, praises and thanks to God, the Almighty, for giving me the strength that I so badly needed during the darkest moments in my life.
Mum and Dad – you have done so much for all three of us over the years, from making sacrifices beyond my comprehension to always being there to protect us. Hussein, you will never read this but I know you are somewhere up there looking after us. While you were here you were always there for me, even though at times I didn’t see it and after you left us you somehow not only gave me the strength to get through your loss but the drive to make sure your legacy lives on. Sharing your wisdom, laughter, unconditional love and strong will is the true purpose of this book. Hessam, my younger brother, you have stood by me like a rock. The countless hours we have spent re-living those dark moments have been some of the hardest we have had to endure but I know I only managed it with you being there.
Danial Khoshkhou, Fahim, I know Hussein was like a brother to you both and I can’t thank you enough for believing in this book, fuelling my fire and offering advice in my low moments.
Azzy, your friendship, advice and constant presence over the years has helped me more than you can ever imagine. Yours has been the voice on the phone whenever I needed it.
Mo Jannah, we are only getting started on our journey but already your crazy vision and belief has helped me see this through.
Samantha Toombs – thank you! I know you think you didn’t do anything but making me look forward and always pushing me to put my thoughts into words eventually resulted in this book and that wouldn’t have happened without you.
Amy Salter, somehow in a very short period of time you not only became my go-to person for advice, but also the voice I would always seek out for encouragement.
Sophie Bradshaw, I don’t even know how to thank you. Not only did you believe in my story but you brought it to life, taking my chaotic, emotional words and turning them into a beautiful piece of writing.
This acknowledgment w
ouldn’t be complete without mentioning Ellen Conlon and Icon Books. Thank you for taking on my story and helping to share it with the rest of the world.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hamed Amiri was born in Herat, Afghanistan, in late 1989 and grew up under Taliban rule before fleeing to the UK at the age of ten. Despite his traumatic childhood and disruptions to his education, in 2011 he gained a BA in Computer Science from the University of Glamorgan and now works as a Senior IT manager at NewLaw.
Hamed has become a role model for the younger generation and an influencer in the education sector. He is a board member at Coleg Gwent and a motivational speaker in schools and universities. In 2016 he was awarded the Inspiring the Next Generation Award by the University of South Wales for services to education and young people. Inspired by his late brother’s passion for positive change in society, Hamed’s mission is to share his family’s story with a wider audience and change perceptions surrounding refugees and diversity. This is his first book.
COPYRIGHT
Published in the UK and USA in 2020
by Icon Books Ltd, Omnibus Business Centre,
39–41 North Road, London N7 9DP
email: info@iconbooks.com
www.iconbooks.com
Sold in the UK, Europe and Asia
by Faber & Faber Ltd, Bloomsbury House,
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London WC1B 3DA or their agents
Distributed in the UK, Europe and Asia
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Distributed in the USA
by Publishers Group West,
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Distributed in Australia and New Zealand
by Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd, PO Box 8500,