Yesterday was the 9th anniversary of my dad’s passing. I had to count the years on my fingers because I was sure it was the 8th until a Facebook memory showed me that I had lost track of time. 
I spent the entire day dazed and shaken while wondering how to mark the occasion. I decided the best tribute to him was to share his autobiography with you. But since some of you had already read it, I’m adding a blog post he had written many years ago and sent to me to proofread.
I had completely forgotten about this piece until I came across it while cleaning my writing archive. I have left it as is to preserve his voice and style of expressing himself.
Here’s the link to Crossroads, Dad’s autobiography:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/19cJhqiTXquDfnVA0yGFurwUxdau73HZ2/view?usp=drivesdk
And this is the blog post that my dad had written entitled The Polish Priest and I.
Hugs,
Landa
The Polish Priest and IBy Muawia Ruweha
If you live long enough in an apartment building in Warsaw, you are bound one day to have your home blessed by a Catholic priest. One winter afternoon , I opened my door to find a tall distinguished priest asking me to bless my apartment. I invited him in and with my broken Polish I enquired whether we could communicate in English?
With spotless English he asked me if I am a Catholic?
I: No I am not a Catholic but would you like to take a seat and have something to drink?
Priest: Yes, thank you
After some small talk, the priest returned to his favored subject and enquired about the church I belong to?
I do not belong to any Church.
Priest: How come, you talk like a Christian, you drink wine, you know passages from the bible, and you are not a Christian, why did you invite me to bless your home?
I: it is a bit complicated and I need some time to explain.
Priest: I have all the time in the world. I am listening. Go ahead
I took a sip from my glass of wine, and explained that when I was ten years old my father decided that I should study for high school at the American Missionary School of Latakia.
At the first Sunday in my new school I was asked to go to the Church, which I did reluctantly and as soon as I returned home I went to my father protesting that I am a Moslem so why should I be made to go to the church. My father smiled and asked me whether I wanted to be a Moslem only because my father is a Moslem, then he went on to explain that my faith should be my own choice, that I should educate my self with all the available choices and then select what I want to be.
I spent the next six years in the school, learning the Old Testament , the New Testament and all the details of the Protestant Christian faith.
My journey to my own faith took much longer, I read extensively about Islam and Judaism, and to my surprise I found at the end of my journey that there is a common thread that connects these three religions together and that this common thread is actually the back bone of each one of them: worship one God and obey the ten commandments.
Now my faith is Islam, but it is a faith that is very different from what you read about. It is a faith that allowed me to live in harmony with modernity, living with and accepting people of a faith different from mine.
I could see the surprise on the face of the priest, so I finished my explaintion by indicating that while I welcomed him blessing my home as a man of god, I would also understand if he did not want to do so.
He went silently from one room to the next, blessing each room in my home, accepted my contribution to the Catholic Church and departed.