She writes not like a celebrity’s daughter defending a brand, but like a grieving child trying to reclaim a memory

from the world’s hands. Her words acknowledge the fractures: the allegations, the documentaries,

the arguments that still erupt at the mention of his name.

Yet instead of demanding that people

choose a side, she quietly insists on complexity — that a man can be both wounded and loving, legendary and lonely.

What lingers most is her refusal to let anyone else define either of them.

She has carried the masks, the gates, the loss, and the weight of

his last name into her own art and activism. In choosing compassion over

combat, she offers a different kind of legacy:

not a pristine narrative, but a human one. In the end, her father is

not a verdict to her. He is a memory, imperfect and cherished, that she refuses to surrender.