My uncle Beyene Haile belongs to the heavens now

By Huriy Ghirmai - Nephew

My uncle Beyene Haile belongs to the heavens now and his spirit walks among those of his dear mother, father and brother – uncles and aunts and cousins too. As I think of the absolute finality of death and realise that I can no longer speak to him, I rue the missed opportunities – the conversations I could have had with him but never did. I suppose that is the cruelty of death – and life.  My uncle is no more and I shall never see or speak to him again. I cannot tell him how much I loved him – nor could I ask him what he thought about one idea or another. You see, in my mind, I spoke to him everyday – sometimes twice and three times a day. And now, while my only wish is to write to him a million emails, I no longer can.

My uncle was but he no longer is – and before that very moment when he drew his last breath and the rhythm of his breathing broke, I had so many opportunities. I could pick up the phone, drop him an email and expect to hear his voice or read his wonderful notes of love. But now, my uncle is no longer with us except in spirit – and I feel the pain of the loss churning deep inside the base of my stomach. No amount of tears can wash away the wound of losing the dearest man in my life but I still cry – and at times, it's difficult to stop.

Right now, I am almost unable to imagine his face – his smile. I am almost unable to recall clearly his deep appreciation of his own life and the joy with which he appropriated everything that it brought to him. Because when I close my eyes, that pervasive image of him – supine, lifeless and his face cast in a black shadow – invades my mind and my only relief then becomes a gut-wrenching grief. I cannot stop crying for the man who represented everything that was beautiful in this world to me. My heart cannot accept the passing of my greatest idol – my mother's most cherished brother – my eternal mentor – Beyan – a beloved brother to his sisters and brother and a beautiful uncle who was loved and worshipped by his nieces and nephews – and most of all, his dear, dear wife Frani, as he always called her endearingly.

Beyan my uncle approached his own existence armed with a great deal of delight and wisdom. He had the most beautiful sense of humour. He could make the most mundane of events seem the most interesting with his gift for storytelling.  No one could relate a story quite like he did. He utilised his great sense of humour to inspire people too – to instil in people that nothing that they aimed for was unattainable.

He cherished each sunrise and sunset and described nature with great thoughtfulness and a hint of mischievous glee. He delved deep inside life itself with the sole intention of retrieving its inner beauty and displaying his discovery for all to see. He created the most beautiful works of art and stringed together the most beautiful prose poetry. My uncle formulated some incredibly thoughtful concepts in three books and various essays.

In Duquan Tiberh, he talked about the Stage of Absolute Possibilities. My uncle always thought that the attainment of one's goal was not predicated on the fulfilment of any conditions. He once told me that Eritrea – the country that he loved so, so much came into being because of that very philosophical drive. How my uncle loved his country. He always said that he had made a pledge to do all that he could and much more for his country. When I look back now and remember the intensity with which he worked, I suspect that he was always mindful about beating death to the punch – to accomplish so much before it struck. He did anything and everything all at the same time – and that took so much out of him. Even as he was gravely ill during the last week leading up to his demise, he was focussed on finishing the things that he had already started.

In the last ten years only, he managed to write two great books, a play and various essays. At the same time, he felt so passionately about developing and improving Eritrean organisations and worked very hard to make Ercoe a great success. He travelled to and fro Embatkala and never tired. He enjoyed what he did so much and once wrote to me, "I am mostly at Embatkalla conferring with the mountains and valleys. I write a bit during the little time that remains after training. Ercoe is assuming quite a good reputation as a leader in organisational development and leadership."  And that was my uncle – always thinking about giving.

But first and foremost, my uncle was an artist – a painter, a sculptor, poet and novelist. Beyan, just like Gulay in Duquan Tiberh, always strived not just to see the obvious, but also to feel, hear and think about the hidden gem of life in all its vagaries. My uncle relied on his inner eyes and saw the world and life in so many different ways and cherished every bright day and every gloomy day equally. He was so generous and always eager to share his discovery with everyone. My uncle spoke to a child in the same way he would an adult – he never saw any distinction between people – poor-rich, man-woman … they were all equal in his eyes.

My uncle loved ideas too. Once, he wrote, "Life without the spice of thought is stale. It is when it is enriched with ideas that the quality and level of life assumes sweetness of grace." And that was one of the greatest gifts that my uncle gave me – and I suspect, all his nephews and nieces and the many people that he came into contact with – the drive to think and have one's own ideas. When my uncle discovered that my sister's unremitting desire to read and read had led her into the clasps of Gone with the Wind at the age of 13, he lovingly marched her to Vecchietto Bookshop in Asmara and bought her Sartre's La Mosca – The Flies. Having finished reading the book, puzzled as she was by the ending, she asked him to explain it to her. My uncle refused and when she proceeded to beg, he told her that she needed to think and have her own understanding. Now, years later as our uncle laid dead, she would recount the story between her sobs and tell me that one of the greatest gifts our dearest uncle had given her was a belief in the power of ideas.

My uncle mattered to me more than any man has in the past and ever will in the future. As I write this, I am yet to properly appreciate quite how I'm feeling. I feel very numb. My grief for the man who represented everything that was beautiful in this world to me is almost unbearable. I know very well that, although dead in flesh and blood, he may somehow live on. Back at school, I was once so fascinated by a friend's concept of immortality. He said that as we meet different people in that great journey we call life, we impart a little bit of ourselves in them and once we pass on, we never cease to exist because we live in their memory. That, my friend said, was immortality.

Beyan imparted much too much of himself. He gave so much and inspired so many people. That Beyan belongs to the world and in the years to come, as more and more people discover and rediscover the huge body of work that he produced, he will continue to inspire many more people. That way, his immortality will be ensured. To me, us – the entire family – we lost a man who had a deep, deep reserve of love. We mourn him because we will miss him terribly – because life will never be the same without him. For his country, his passing represents the loss of a national treasure. My uncle should have lived a bit longer because he had so much more to give. When he placed his pencil on the table and switched off his compute for the last time – perhaps because he felt tired or poorly – I suspect that he intended to go back to his work once he was rested or felt better. But tragically, he never quite managed to do that and with that, much work remains unfinished.

Farewell my dearest Beyan – my uncle, my mother's beloved brother – my father, my greatest idol. Like you once conferred with the mountains and valleys, may you now walk with the spirits of your ancestors.