To my grandfather, Abou Saleh, to his land, to his olives in Nazareth and oranges in Beirut..
By the way Ghaleb, did you know that my mom lived in Mrayjeh as well,
Ghaleb: No way!
It’s true I’m telling you. They were neighbors to Abou Izzat..
Ghaleb: Wait.. Is your grandpa Abou Saleh?! Abou Saleh the Palestinian?!!
You know him!
Ghaleb: My father and my uncles talk so much about him. He was such a great man, a real man! Till now I hear great stories about him!
A little chat between my colleague and I.
I know my grandfather only through my mother’s stories, unfortunately. Stories that are mixed with soil, with seeds, fruits, herbs and lot’s of pride. Stories about a little boy responsible for his younger brother and sister after the death of their parents. About Nazareth and a generous heart..
Pardon me but I can’t hold my tears, and I can’t speak further.. What’s in the heart is hard to be converted into words.
But something about wrinkles fascinates me. I look at my grandma’s hands and I just smile.. I look at the face of the old man sitting next to me in the bus, he notices that I’m staring I look the other way, but some weird strings keep pulling me to watch, to follow the wrinkles’ lines, to get into the depth of his eyes. To live his life, to get all his experience, to ask why old people are this cynical?!
Is it life? Is it due to our “stupid” culture which strips the elderly of his/her vital roles, thus boredom invades their souls?
The following picture I drew from an Arabic magazine called Al-Arabi which I guess is still published till now.
The old man’s real name is Ali Abed Al- Rasoul, but my sister likes to call him Abdo!
I feel that my posts are always missing something! Don’t know what it could be, but words are failing me these days.