The Daily - One Million Lives

Episode Date: October 4, 2020

They came from Tel Aviv, Aleppo and a “small house by the river.” They were artists, whiskey drinkers and mbira players. They were also fathers, sisters and best friends.Today, we hear people from around the world reflect on those they’ve lost. For more information on today's episode, visit nytimes.com/thedaily.

My father, Christopher Dannemann, was born on December 31st, New Year's Eve, in Berlin, Germany. My father's name was Simcha Ben-Shay, and he was born in Israel, in Tel Aviv. My friend is Doreen Addisa Lugaliki. She was born in Kenya, in a little town called Ndalu. My father, Cemil Taşçoğlu, was born in Turkey, in a small house by the river. My father's name is Charles Dautel. He was born in Aleppo, Syria. Both my dad and I are from Zimbabwe, and we're from the Mondoro area more specifically. And we both speak Shona.

I'm Bianca Gaver, and I'm a producer on The Daily. This past week, we hit a tragic milestone. One million lives lost to coronavirus. All around the world, we lost musicians, artists, actors, doctors, nurses,

parents, and best friends. Today, we remember a few of their lives through the people who loved them. The first time I met Doreen, we were both 14 years old. We were in high school, and it was a boarding school for girls. One of the British-type system of boarding schools where it's very disciplined.

You wear a school uniform from morning to evening. You are brought by your parents with your suitcases and left there. So everyone is still unsure, uncertain, looking around, nervous, waiting to see what will happen. I noticed Doreen because she seemed more sure of herself. She was curious, looking around, trying to make friends, trying to make jokes. And then she went and wrote on the chalkboard Dr. Adisa Lugaliki. And everybody started laughing. It was a joke at the time, but she knew what she wanted and she was professing it. Doreen and I were

competitive. The two of us were always fighting for the top position in class and teachers noticed that and teachers would make jokes about it. When we were doing a sample question in math, the teacher would say, okay, if Doreen cannot get it, you know, Vera, do you want to try? We got closer because she was so, so good in physics, and I struggled with physics, so I started working with her. We bonded over that time, and then I'm learning, I'm trying to see how diligent she is, and I'm trying to understand, where do you get this drive?

So, you know, when my father was young, he was very handsome. He had big eyes. And I remember when we were growing up we would spend summers in Wuhan and it would be so hot there and he would come home from work and he would ask me to help him massage his shoulders and pound his back and because of that I always associate with

this sort of sweaty smell with him. This might sound a little bit odd or off, but my earliest memory of my father was him hitting me. But he said, you know, he used to hit me all the time. But I'm actually very thankful to him for it because those early experiences with my dad he taught me how to be tough inside and so that's why I feel like I'm still speaking out now my dad's name is Cosmas Magaya from Zimbabwe he was happiest when he was playing his music. He used to observe his cousin play.

And then when his cousin is gone, he would go in and he would take the instrument and try to do the things that he saw his cousin doing to a point that he started being able to play some songs. So then one day, his cousin found him playing and he realized that, oh, he actually could play some songs. So then that got his cousin really excited. Then from that point on, he started to teach him and show him how to do it because a lot of that music is passed down orally. So he stayed with it from that point on. He always had an instrument with him. He played every single day.

When I was around seven or so, he had been in a car accident. So we were all home. And it also turned out that the power was out. So we were actually using candles. It was just so quiet in the house. We were all feeling sad that he had just gotten into this accident. And he picked up his mirror and he just started playing. I don't remember the songs he played. All I remember is mirror being played and it being really, really quiet and finding that to be

very soothing and comforting on a day that had quite a bit of sadness for us. I had my children in 2006 and 2007. And Doreen had her twins in 2007 as well. So we had our kids around the same time. He went into the diamond business. And because of his business, my sister and I were born in Hong Kong. He also saved the synagogue in Hong Kong. He lived in rural China

and life was very difficult. Everyone at that time didn't have much to eat. And when he was 18, he joined the army. He had, you know, the blonde hair, slicked back,

liked to wear sunglasses. He played bass and drums and guitar. And he was in band. She was outgoing. She was sociable. She was kind of like a party animal at the right time. She knew how to have fun. Meat and wine. He was in love with them.

And shoes. He had maybe, I think, maybe 50 pairs of shoes. Always wore an afro. He loved wearing cowboy hats. How do you get me feeling better? All his walls

were all of paintings. When he buys a painting, he was just sitting three meters apart of that painting,

having a glass of wine or a glass of whiskey and he was watching it. My dad, I would hug even though I was the initiator of the hug.

He would never initiate that. Ever hug people that, like, they have to lean on their shoulders, but the butt's, like, getting ready to leave? It's like it's a half a person you get to hug there. That was my dad. He was just so there for me. there for me. She went back to graduate school after her twins were born

because she wanted to specialize and be an OBGYN. Over all those years, she was the first person I ran to when I had issues with my husband or just fights, newlyweds. The first person I would run to was Doreen and say, oh my God, he did this, he did that.

And she would also do the same thing. Our two husbands didn't like that we were friends. Each one of them felt like there's three of us in this marriage, I think. Her marriage ended and then mine ended you know when my father died she came to the village she popped up uninvited because she knew I would be there she knew it was important to me I lost a brother and she did the same thing. Then I lost a sister in Nairobi. I didn't travel to my sister's funeral, but she found the church where they were having a church service for the funeral. And she sat by herself in a corner,

and my family said, oh, your friend was here. I didn't know she was going to go. We arrived in Wuhan on January 17th. And at that time, there was no sense that there was this threat that was expanding in the city. The last three days leading up to my mom's funeral, he was in bed pretty much the entire day. It was very weak. My room was next to his, and even though we couldn't see each other because I had COVID, at the same time, we were always separated through walls. But I could hear him cry, you know, many, many hours.

And then I arrived to the Syrian border. I had to cross the border walking. I arrived in Aleppo, but he passed away already. He was the first health care provider to die due to COVID here in Kenya. You know, it's interesting, her passion being a doctor from the time she was 14. She fulfilled that dream. And even in death, she was shining as the doctor she wanted to be. Excuse me. Because I was already in the hospital every day

to look after him because of his surgery, I was able to spend hospital every day to look after him because of his surgery. I was able to spend his last days with him. When he passed away, you know, I was looking at him then, and he was just wearing a hospital shirt and nothing below. I felt that my father, I just wanted to have my father to be able to pass away with some dignity. So I changed his clothes and I put socks on him. And I laid him on top of a yellow sheet. And we were waiting for the car from the funeral parlor to come for a very long time.

And so I was just sitting next to him and talking to him. And I just said to him that, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have brought you to Wuhan. I had no idea that what was happening. And I just was so regretful for bringing him to Wuhan. I think so many Chinese people, they think that saying I love you out loud is sort of humiliating. But if I had the chance now, I would say it so loudly to him.

I would just say I love you so much. so in the last two or three years every phone conversation we have just before hanging up he was saying i love you son and as an adult man i wasn't able to say i love love you. I was just saying, thank you, dad. The day before he was taken to the intensive care unit in hospital, he asked me to bring him underwear. And I prepared a bag of underwear for him. And I also put a note into that bag saying that, father, please get please as soon as possible

and I have been forgetting to tell you I love you in our phone conversations I love you so much it bothers me to this day the last conversation my dad and I had, which was all around him being put into an artificial coma. And he called me from the emergency room.

You know, this is everybody learning or reading really for the first time what this virus is doing back in March. I was overwhelmed. My mom had passed just a couple of days before then. And he got very angry with me on the phone. He said, you know, just have to deal with it. And I'll see you on the other side. And then that's when he hung up. And that's the last time I ever spoke to my dad. Yeah. He passed on a Friday, which was July 10th. That Thursday, I got a call saying he's not feeling well, and it was after midnight there. So I instructed them to tell the closer family

members that they were going to travel to Harare, which is the capital city, to seek medical treatment, because I knew if they were calling me after midnight, that is not well, that it's not a good situation. They ended up getting to the city a little after, I think, three in the morning, got some initial help, but part of the request was for him to get a COVID test done. And until we get results from a definitive one, we're not going to be able to do anything. So they were able to go get a COVID test done, but were told that it will take 24 to 48 hours to get results of that. So literally from that moment on, they drove from one clinic to the next, one hospital to the next, could not get anyone that was willing to help. We had finally gotten to a point where there's a hospital or clinic

that a friend of mine had contacts there, and we had understood that they would be able to take him and help him. But it was outside of Harare, so they were now driving on their way there. And as they were driving there, at some point, he said he wanted to use the bathroom. And bear in mind, he wasn't able to talk much the last two days. So at that moment, he was able to talk and the last two days. So at that moment, he was able to say, to talk and say what he needed. So it was in that moment when they stopped the car and my brother was helping him get out of the car and go use the bathroom. It was within those minutes that he passed. And I was actually on the phone,

and I was able to say hi to him and tell him that we were really, really working hard to try and get him help. And all we really needed from him is to keep fighting, to keep holding on. And we were going to do everything in our power to get him the help that he needed. And I remember at the time thinking that I think he wants to say something, but I didn't know whether it was because I wanted to be able to talk to him and I was making something up in my head. be able to talk to him and I was making something up in my head. So that was my last somewhat real interaction with my dad was just me talking to him and trying to say something to me and

he just couldn't. I felt confusion. I felt confusion, shock, anger. Anger because I could hear the groaning and the gasping for air the whole time. hear the groaning and the gasping for air the whole time. And for someone that spent a lot of his life helping other people, it really hurt me that in his final hours, no one was willing to help him. them. The good thing with the hospital here, they let you say bye. It was just me.

They would only let one person come, and I was able to sit by his bed. In the Jewish religion, it's a big thing to say atonement kind of thing before the person dies. So I said the whole thing with him I really didn't think I was really saying bye I really thought he'd get out of it I guess it's kind of a gift that I was able to say bye and I didn't have to... Like he had like this smile that went from ear to ear. And I had the last memory that I don't know about. And then like a minute later, it's not there anymore. And the funeral was just like a bad sci-fi movie.

So on July 10th in the morning, around three in the morning, my phone started buzzing. Everybody said, your friend is dead. So I was thinking, OK, maybe it's a bad joke. So it didn't really register. It's like three in the morning, and I'm shaking. I'm shivering. I was in my apartment in Octon, Virginia. That's right about 10, 15 miles outside of Washington. I went out for a

walk. It was so dark, but it was warm. It was summer. Just walking. Then I started running. I think I probably did 12 miles that day just being out. I realized there's no one to talk to anymore. There's no one to confide in. It's like a part of you died. And I'm thinking about how she struggled so hard. She got herself out of a bad relationship to create a happy life for her children. And I'm thinking about just, it's all for nothing. And you wonder, what's the meaning, what's the purpose of life then?

And then I'm wondering where she is, is she happy? Can she see us? If I still do it, I still do the walking or the running. Maybe three hours, Every single day. Every single day. I walk and I run and I just, I should stop. I know I should stop.

Maybe I'm looking for something out there and I just haven't found it yet. Until I do, I'll still keep waking up in the morning and I'll still go out and it's going to be winter soon. And I'll see how that goes. But I feel like there's a reason why I can't, I can't go back to bed and I try. I'm trying to understand if she's okay yeah I feel that I'd like to know if she's in a good place and I hope that I get the sign.

I don't know what it is, but I think I'll find it. I still wake up and I still go out. Terima kasih telah menonton! My friend Doreen Adisa Lugaliki died in Nairobi, Kenya, on July 10th of 2020. She died at the age of 39. My father, Simcha Benshay, was 75 and he passed away in the Ichilov Hospital in Tel Aviv on the 8th of April. That's around 2 in the morning. So my father's name was Christopher Dannemann, and he died at the age of 81 on March 29th

in Sinsheim, Germany, just outside of Heidelberg. My father was John Lee Fa. He was 76 when he died. He died on February 1st at 5.28 p.m. at a hospital in Wuhan. My father's name is Charles Dautel. He died on the 14th of August in Aleppo, Syria, because of the coronavirus. My father's name is Cosmas Magaya. My father's name is Kosmas Magaya. He died on July 10, 2020, in Harare. He was 66 years old. My father passed away on April 1, 2020, in Istanbul. 2020 tarihinde İstanbul'da vefat etti.

My father passed away in Istanbul in April 1, 2020. When he was 68 years old. Thank you.