Scene 01
Uncle Shabo Shabo fled his village of Hah in Turkey with his wife and their newborn son, Petros—barely a month old—seeking refuge in Qamishli after surviving the horrors of the Sayfo massacres. There, he labored with all his strength, in construction, in harvest fields, and in orchards, determined to carve out a new life from the dust of loss.Two years later, a daughter was born. He named her Maryam, in memory of his late mother.
The years drifted by. Shabo and his wife had twins, but tragedy struck again—both infants died on the same day after a failed cesarean operation paid for by the church. It was a wound that never closed, yet it only deepened his resolve to raise Petros and Maryam with steadfast love and to give them the finest education he could afford.
Petros grew into a man of art, graduating as a teacher of fine arts, while Maryam became an elementary school teacher in Qamishli. She married a fellow teacher, but Petros remained unmarried, often repeating with quiet conviction: “My father matters more than marriage—more than anything in this world.”
Two years into Maryam’s marriage, their mother passed away. Soon after, Shabo was struck with grave illness—cirrhosis of the liver and an enlarged kidney. Petros, without hesitation, shouldered the full weight of his father’s care with unwavering patience.
One afternoon, Maryam brought a doctor to the humble room where her father lay upon a simple mattress on the floor. The doctor examined him, studied the test results, and finally spoke in a hushed, sorrowful voice:
— “His condition is very critical… he could pass at any moment.”
Maryam turned away, her tears falling silently by the window. As the doctor prepared to leave, a weak, broken voice called out:
— “Maryam…”
She rushed to his side.
— “Yes, Papa… what is it?”
With labored breath, he whispered:
— “Call your brother Petros… tell him to come quickly.”
Her son ran at once to fetch his uncle from the school. In moments, Petros entered, his face pale with worry. He knelt beside the bed.
— “Yes, Papa… what’s wrong?”
Shabo lifted a trembling hand, gesturing for everyone to leave. Then, with effort:
— “Maryam stays…”
The siblings exchanged a confused glance before the others departed and closed the door. Petros leaned close, his voice taut with fear:
— “Tell me, Papa… what is it?”
Each word Shabo spoke seemed torn from his chest:
— “Listen carefully… beneath the mattress there is a small bag. I hid it there when you were still an infant. Inside you’ll find a wooden cross engraved with your name, and a letter written in Syriac. Father Barsoum of Hah gave it to me. He told me it was important… so I kept it for you.”
His eyes lingered on Maryam, heavy with grief and silent understanding. Her lips trembled; she whispered faintly:
— “Papa… please, don’t say it…”
Shabo closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again with a look of final resolve.
— “Forgive me, Maryam… but it must be said.”
Turning back to Petros, his voice cracked:
— “Forgive me, my son… the truth that has burned my heart for years… Maryam knows it well. We kept it from you, afraid of what it might do to you. But… an angel has visited me three nights in a row, commanding me: ‘Tell Petros the truth.’”
Petros trembled, his voice breaking:
— “What truth, Papa?”
Shabo’s breath shuddered. Two hot tears slipped down his cheeks as he forced out the words:
— “The truth, my son… I am not your real father.”
The words fell like thunder. Petros felt himself plummeting into a bottomless abyss. He turned in horror toward Maryam, but she kept her head bowed, unable to meet his eyes. Silent tears traced her cheeks, confirming what she had long known.
Suddenly, Shabo’s body convulsed. His eyes lifted toward the ceiling as if they beheld something unseen. His body trembled once more, then stilled. With a final exhale, he closed his eyes… and surrendered his soul.