The Bubble Factory
In a quiet corner of a room heavy with worry at the King Hussein Cancer Center, Ahmed sat in his mother’s arms, leaning on her as if she were his last fortress against a strange and frightening world. In that moment, Ahmed was no ordinary child; silence surrounded him like a shield, guarding him from everything around, while his eyes stayed glued to the tablet screen—a tiny window to the world beyond.
When Dr. Naghama and I entered, the atmosphere was tense. His father stood in the corner, watching us with cautious, questioning eyes. His mother, despite her tenderness, seemed anxious, as if afraid that our presence might make Ahmed even more frightened.
I approached him gently, adopting my “Dr. Ashra” persona, speaking softly and reassuringly:
“Good morning, Ahmed. I’m here to see your beautiful eyes and play with you… If you want.”
But Ahmed didn’t look up, as if my words hadn’t reached him at all.
I exchanged a quick glance with Dr. Naghama, and with a subtle nod, we decided to start with something simple. I pulled a bottle of bubbles from my pocket and blew the first bubble. It was small and delicate, floating slowly through the air like a fragile dream.
A shy glance escaped Ahmed’s eyes—brief, tentative—but it was enough to crack open a tiny part of his shell.
Then came the second bubble, slightly larger, glinting in the sunlight. Suddenly, the whole room began to change. The air filled with dancing bubbles, twirling and sparkling like tiny fragments of magic. Ahmed lifted his head and watched them curiously, then slowly slid down from his mother’s arms. That was the beginning of a transformation.
Ahmed stood on his own, reaching out to catch one of the floating bubbles. A small laugh escaped him—a delicate musical note that lifted the heaviness from the room. Dr. Naghama challenged him playfully:
“Let’s see who can catch the most bubbles, Ahmed!”
In an instant, silence turned into movement, and fear turned into joy.
Ahmed ran, jumped, laughed, and chased the bubbles with unrestrained delight. Then he turned to his father, who had been standing at a distance, and said with a wide smile:
“Daddy, come play with me!”
The father hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer. He reached out, grabbed a bubble, and joined the game. Ahmed’s laughter rang out, pure and free. That moment was magical—walls seemed to exhale relief. The bubbles were no longer just a game; they were invisible threads weaving the family together, connecting hearts in a rare moment of pure happiness.
At the end of the visit, we stood proudly before Ahmed and announced:
“Ahmed is today’s winner!”
We presented him with a red clown nose as a symbolic prize, placing it on his small face. He laughed out loud, and his mother couldn’t hold back her tears as she watched him. His father, who had been reserved at first, approached and said, his voice heavy but sincere:
“Thank you… You made us happy today.”
We left Ahmed’s room, but the magic of that moment stayed with us. The visit was alive with colors, life, and hope. The bubbles were more than just play—they were tiny bridges connecting hearts, reminding us that our presence is not only about drawing smiles but about giving life new meaning.
By the end of the day, and at the close of a year of visits, I realized that the Bubble Factory was never just a toy. It was a symbol of everything we strive to offer: fleeting moments that lighten the weight of life, sparks of joy that create lasting change. Ahmed and his parents will remain in my heart, just as every moment we crafted a small, yet powerful magic.
