There are “dad jokes,” and then there are “Arab dad jokes.” The worst thing a dad joke can do is make you roll your eyes at a stupid pun—the worst thing an Arab dad joke can do is give you trust issues for a few decades.

My whole life, my dad always had this mischievous, youthful energy. As much as he played soccer with us, hugged us tightly, made us laugh, took us on bike rides in the summer and sledding in the winter, he also would terrorize us with his “practical jokes” that really only he found funny. 

For example, I got a case of the hiccups once as a kid. I remember my dad coming around the kitchen corner with the cordless house phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, saying “okay” and “goodbye” and hanging up. He told me that that was my best friend’s mom, calling to say that I’m not allowed to play with her daughter anymore because I was a “bad example.” I had no idea what I did wrong. My eyes started to fill with tears. Within seconds, my dad’s stern face suddenly contorted into a suppressed smile; his eyes lit up with a strange kind of victory, as he pointed to me and declared—as if he did me a favor—“Your hiccups are gone!” 

There’s no way to explain to an immigrant Lebanese father that, in America, getting rid of someone’s hiccups is supposed to be like a fun and silly “boo!” kinda thing, not exactly a terrorizing spiral into psychological trauma.

This whole “hiccup” thing became a trope in our household. Any time my dad would tell us something (anything, really), we would suspiciously glance around and interrogate the whole room, “Hold on—before we believe him—does anybody have the hiccups??” 

Given what an energetic, silly, and committed jokester my dad is, it’s been really tough to watch his health deteriorate these last couple years. 

In November of 2023, my dad got a stupid cough. Then, the cough didn’t go away. Within months, his lung capacity had severely decreased, the scarring tissue had spread, and his lung function was dangerously close to failing. He’s now on oxygen full-time, can barely do the stairs, and gasps for breath like he just ran a marathon rather than made it to the end of a sentence. 

Jokes are a little harder to tell now. 

The last six months, I’ve been going home a lot more frequently to spend time with my family, and also to help out; we have a family business and, with our dad unwell and our mom being his caregiver, they’ve been shorthanded at the shop. My brother, sister, and I were working the other day while our mom and dad were at the hospital for some updated tests—they went in at eight in the morning, and swore they’d be done by eleven. Eleven came and went, and then noon. Around one, the phone rang, and I answered.

“Good afternoon, this is Medawars’, how may I help you?” 

It was my dad. He sounded weak, and tired. He was calling to say that he was sorry they were running late; the tests took longer than they thought. 

“That’s okay Baba, don’t worry, we have everything under control, there’s no need to rush. It sounds like you’re in the car, is everything okay?” 

He said everything was fine, that they were just transferring him to a different facility for a few more unexpected tests. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry… You must be exhausted. You and Mama just go home when you’re done and get some rest, we’ve got everything under control here, okay? Don’t worry.” 

I hung up and both my siblings appeared behind me. 

“Was that Baba?” 

“Yeah.” 

I told them about our conversation, how he sounded really weak and tired, and that the doctors had more surprise tests they wanted to run before they would let him leave. 

Hearing my dad sound so frail on the phone affected me in a way I wasn’t expecting; while I was talking to my brother and sister, my throat got kinda tight and my eyes started to burn. I immediately turned back to my desk to distract myself with paperwork. They kept talking: 

“I wonder what else they’re testing?” 

“I wonder if they’ll keep him all day?” 

“I wonder if they found anything really bad?” 

Suddenly, we heard the back door unlocking behind us, and in waltzed my dad with a big stupid grin on his face (he knew what he did) and his hands victoriously in the air.

“All those other tests went so quick, huh, kids?!” 

We were not amused. 

My sister scolded him. “So, you weren’t in the car on the way to more tests? You were in the car on your way here?!” 

My brother let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. “Baba, you can’t be doing that.” 

But it’s so hard for us to be mad at him when we suddenly see he’s okay, and that despite everything he’s been through the last couple years, the decrease in lung function has not affected his heart, or his one-of-a-kind, all-Lebanese, mischievous spirit.

My dad walked over to me, his portable oxygen machine slung over his shoulder, and wrapped me in a huge hug, still laughing. I just shook my head and made eye contact with my mom over his shoulder. “As long as he thinks it’s funny, right?” 

She smiled as only she can, a smile that simultaneously said, “I’m sorry he scared you” and “I tried to stop him.” But what she actually said aloud was, accompanied by a shrug, “You know your father.”

Sophia Medawar

Sophia (‘19) double-majored in theatre and religion and insists that her life is a “storybook.” She lives in an apartment above a flower shop in downtown Chicago and has multiple roles working across the arts in comedy, music, theatre, film, and visual art—though her greatest passion is writing. Her work includes stage plays, screenplays, and articles, focusing mostly on cultural trends, comedy, reviews, and religious satire. She loves road trips, visiting her family in Grand Rapids, hunting for the perfect latte, and rescuing plants from the flower shop’s dumpster.