Brotherly love

Images of children being brought up in orphanages conjures up pictures of sad and neglected waifs.

But when Maddy Yervant, of Loughborough, talked to her father about his traumatic upbringing, she came to understand how the emotional legacy it left, made her admire her father even more.

The wind was howling restlessly outside, winter has finally come with all its glory. I wish, only, that I could tuck my arms and feet further into the creases of the warm couch.

Opposite me, capturing the flickering lights of the TV, is my dad, with his pipe smoke curling in the room, illuminating the dust in the air. The quietness dims the noise of the television and a sense of home inhabits itself.

My concentration diverts back to my father; he's a small man, and cuddly build and a face patterned with gentle creases that wear his eyes a constant smile.

I look upon the man in admiration. I admire the strength in that familiar and reassuring smile and I often wonder what carved his life, to make him smile so.

In the year 1952-53 in Beirut, Lebanon, my father was just two years old. His mother had taken him and his two brothers Avo and Jean, to the Danish Bird's Nest Orphanage, run by missionaries.

My father remembers, vaguely, his mother standing in front of the missionary personnel, presenting her three sons. The missionary chose my father and his brother Avo, claiming Jean was too old.

The significance of this day meant no more to him than any other, too young to wonder or question why. He remained at the orphanage with his brother Avo, while his mother left to go home, without him.

My father has always appeared to fit into fatherhood so naturally, his posture, cuddly yet stern. And yet, he himself has never had a concrete father as a role model to learn from.

The only memory he has of his father was when he had began to settle into his orphanage; he remembers his brother and himself being called out from school.

He recalls this memory as if from a Western - dust coating the waves of heat rising from the ground - amongst this was a silhouette of a tall man emerging from the distance.

Neither of the brothers were aware of who this man was - no one said anything. Thus, apprehensively, they approached him. Terrified, the walk towards this man dragged seconds into hours; my father's legs - small with age - took little clumsy steps towards him.

As they reached near enough, they saw two large arms open - like a door to one's home. They instinctively ran towards him. He cradled the two small boys in his arms. "I felt safe," my father recalls, "for the first time, I believed nothing could harm me."

For that moment, they were the only three people existent. My father heard a voice confirming the thought spinning in his young mind. His father then said: "I am your daddy."

This was the last time he ever saw his father.

A look of remorse clouds my father's eyes; he tells me how he manages to have a positive look on those hard years of his young life. He talks of his brother fondly; the orphanage brought them closer together and soon became, as my dad describes it, soul mates.

I turn my body to face him and encourage him to continue his story; his eyes fall a little: "Well," he said, "the years went on, the orphanage became one big family to me."

The pipe smoke once again began twirling in the TV-lit room; he then went on to tell me about another significant milestone in his life.

He recalls being seven at the time; he had been called into the principal's office. Being so young, he could only assume that he was in trouble for a reason he was unaware of. He was called into the office, and awaiting him was the principal.

The principal said: "How would you like to go to America?"

Without considering the consequences, my dad replied "Yes," intrigued by the sense of adventure and excitement.

My father was then introduced to his adoptive father and the principal said: "This man is going to look after you from now on."

After what seemed like months, the day finally came when my father had to leave for his new home. (Although he did not realise at the time, his mother had received 2000 Lebanese pounds for his adoption, which hurt him deeply.)

On the day of his departure, he arrived at the airport in a green check suit with his trousers tucked into his socks. He saw his family, whom he had not seen for ages, his mum, and siblings.

He does not remember much of his siblings, but he remembers his mother crying and holding onto him, not letting go, till finally he had to be dragged away.

Before being escorted on to the plane he remembers being introduced to a petite three-year-old Armenian girl, who was to be his adopted sister.

They arrived in New York and both his parents were waiting for him, his adopted father, he remembers, was more excited than him, picking him up and throwing him on to his shoulders. While walking through the airport my dad saw shops for the very first time. His eyes fell upon a very shiny toy plane and pestered until he got it, this was his first toy.

He remembers finding it hard to settle in and feeling lonely because he always went home to an empty house. It was then that he befriended a neighbour. They fed him anything his little heart could desire.

When his new father found out, he pleaded with my dad to stay at home, that if he ever wanted anything, to just ask.

It was from this moment, my dad warmed towards his new father. However, his relationship with his mother did not develop the same way.

I look at my father as he takes a pause and ask him if there was ever a moment he felt close to his adopted mum.

He looks over at me and smiles. "There was this one time." he said. "It was one school morning when I felt sick, she didn't believe me until I was sick. She felt so guilty that she hugged me, I mean the kind of hug only a mother can give.

"It was from that moment everything changed, suddenly we became a family from then on."

Just nine months after arriving, my dad received a letter, which his adoptive father had been reluctant to give him.

His brother, Avo, had written to him and, bravely, my father asked if he could go back to Beirut. His memories of his family were still fresh and he desperately wanted to see them again. His adoptive father tried many diverse tactics in order to put him off going.

But being the stubborn man my father is, he would not take no for an answer and, finally, his father gave in.

When he arrived in Beirut, all his family were waiting for him apart from Avo who was still in the orphanage.

When he was back at home, his brother, Mico, was supposed to take him to school every morning, but instead he took him to the beach every day. For two months, my father never knew he was supposed to be at school. He recalls this as the happiest time of his childhood.

It would all come to an end, when his mother innocently asked what he had done at school one day. Excitedly my father replied: "I didn't go to school, Mummy! Me and Mico went to the beach."

He remembers being proud telling his mother this and was surprised when she chased Mico angrily around the house with a slipper, screaming: "Do you want him to be stupid like you, Mico, you're supposed to take him to school?"

Because of this, my grandma became worried about my father's education and sent him back to the orphanage in hope that he could catch up.

My father recalls having somewhat of a difficult time settling in: "But this didn't matter to me," said my father, his eyes shining with sincerity. "I had Avo again and he had me, and that was all that mattered to either of us."

My father got up from the settee and went into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, I followed him in and tried to get him to tell me what else had happen to him.

My dad turned to me and smiled with those gentle creases turning up at the corners of his eyes, they sparkled mischievously.

"Well," he said, "I would love to tell you but it is getting late and unlike me, you're not skiving school tomorrow."

He ruffled my hair and went to sit back down in the living room, sipping his coffee and smoking his pipe.