Dr Borhane Belkhiria

Today, my youngest daughter Lilia left abroad to join her sisters, to complete her master’s degree and enter professional life. She is now stepping fully into adulthood, with its joys and its sorrows. She was the one I spoiled the most, and paradoxically, she was also the one who criticized me the most. I, who find it hard to accept criticism, avoided answering her, telling myself it was just adolescence—the age when children judge their parents, and especially the father, who embodies authority. While the mother receives all the affection, the father remains the misunderstood figure who doesn’t know how to show his love other than by giving gifts. That is why I decided to write an open letter to my daughters, and to all children, to explain in my own way what a father’s love truly is.

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My dear daughters,
And you, children of every home,

I write these words because I know that one day you will understand that there exists a silent, patient, and indestructible love: the love of a father.

A father is not always the one who speaks much, who easily shows emotions, or who covers you with tender gestures. Often, he loves from the shadows—through his actions and sacrifices, through everything he gives up so that you may go further than him.

A father is the one who rises early, sometimes before dawn, to secure your future. He is the one who comes home late, exhausted, yet still smiles when he sees you, because nothing can erase the joy of being with you again. He is the one who chooses to carry his burdens in silence, so you will not have to carry them too soon.

A father is the one who takes life’s blows without ever showing them to you, because his role is to protect you—even from his own wounds. He is the one who sometimes deprives himself, so that you may have. He is the one who trades his dreams to nourish yours, who keeps his pain to himself so your laughter may remain untouched.

A father is a sentinel. Always there, sometimes in the background, but attentive to every step you take. When you fall, he lifts you up; when you succeed, he applauds in silence, sometimes with a tear he wipes away discreetly.

Understand this: a father’s love is not weaker than a mother’s—it is simply different. The mother gives tenderness, the father gives strength. The mother cradles, the father pushes you to rise. The mother protects in her arms, the father prepares you to face the world.

Often, children only realize with time the extent of a father’s sacrifices. One day, you will see that behind every meal placed on the table were hours of work. Behind every new piece of clothing were sleepless nights. Behind every school, every book, every trip, there were difficult choices and silent renunciations.

But do not think these sacrifices weighed on him: for a father, there is no greater pride than to see his children grow, rise, become free, and be happy. His only reward is your smiles, your successes, and the certainty that he planted in you seeds that will bear fruit.

My daughters, and all children, remember this: a father’s love is not measured only by what he says, but by what he does, by what he endures, by what he builds for you. It is sometimes silent, but it is deep, immense, and eternal.

One day, perhaps when you are parents yourselves, you will understand the weight and the beauty of this love. You will then see that nothing—truly nothing—can replace a father’s love and the sacrifices he makes, often without expecting thanks, only with the hope of having been for you both a shelter and a springboard.

And I love you enough to give everything without expecting anything in return, except to see you happy.

With all the heart of a father,
A man who has found in his children his greatest treasure.

Sous la lumière froide d’un bloc opératoire,
Un ballet se joue, précis, sans hasard.
Le chirurgien, maître des formes et des traits,
Redessine des rêves, éveille des reflets.

Son scalpel danse, léger comme une plume,
Sur la peau fragile, douce comme la brume.
Chaque geste, mesuré, porté par l’art,
Transforme le doute en un nouvel espoir.

Au cœur du silence, seul le souffle murmure,
Un battement discret, fragile mais sûr.
Le bistouri trace, tel un pinceau d’argent,
Des lignes de beauté, des instants éclatants.

Mais derrière le masque et les gants d’ivoire,
Un cœur écoute, soucieux de l’histoire.
Car sous les courbes qu’il sculpte avec soin,
Battent des âmes, des désirs humains.

Ainsi, le bloc devient un lieu de renaissances,
Où l’art et la science mêlent leurs présences.
Chirurgien esthétique, artiste du vivant,
Tu redonnes au miroir un regard triomphant.