POSTS
Olive trees are forever
By hisham
Layal took small steps. She looked across a field of rubble, befallen houses and distressed foliage. “In that house, in that house,” she said, pointing with her arm outstretched at what remained of Uncle Sharif’s two storey mansion, “in that house my uncle, my three cousins, his wife and mother stayed.
“The enemy jets flew past, not missing a single house in their onslaught. The roof caved in in the attack, crushing them as they scrambled for safety…by daybreak the rescue teams retrieved the bodies…and I…I saw…” she almost collapsed if not for Hassan, an aid worker, by her side.
There was nothing that could be done. Nothing at all. Peace was a wish and no more. It was the great unattainable, a lost sacred artifact. Hope for peace was not within the realms of the here and now, the present danger, the world of today. It was not.
With each day that passed Layal’s heart took to hiding more and more. Like a child sitting tight in a corner, hands clasped to knees, Layal wanted nothing more than to be held again without asking to be held. To be held like Uncle used to hold her.
She remembered Uncle’s words: _peace is a fluid concept, one that can be taken with a grain of salt or with an incredible amount of faith. Whether we’ll ever achieve it is a question that can only be felt and answered in our hearts. Courage to believe comes from the heart, rises up to the mind where peace becomes more than a dream, where it becomes a possibility.
_
Layal lost all there was to lose. She returned to lay to rest the memories of her past. Not to forget them, but to remember them as they should be: amongst the ruins of Uncle’s house, by the burnt and broken olive trees, thyme shrubs and pine trees dotting the mountain.
I’m not hiding anymore, Layal told herself as she laid the wreath, _I’m here to let my memories rise up to the stars. To reach you, Uncle, to find you and let you know that I will never forget. And that no matter what happens, the hope for peace will remain. No matter what happens.
_
“This is where Uncle Sharif used to live, children. Twenty years ago, long before you were born, ” Layal told Sharif and Maya.
“Mama, you’re smiling…crying? Are you happy…sad?” six year old Sharif asked his mother.
“Yes…yes I am,” she replied, smiling, kneeling down to embrace both of her children. “I’m happy. I’m very happy.”
Dusk began to settle on the mountain, bringing with it hues of reds and yellows, silhouetting olive trees. Their branches had grown back to their old, natural splendor, ruffling under a gentle wind.
“Come, children. Baba is waiting for us in the car.” She nodded her head as Hassan started up the car.
Time graced the ruins of Uncle’s house. It shed tears, it remembered and it moved on to another place. To a place where hope prevails. For in whatever way time worked its strings through successes and failures, expectations and disappointments, it brought up the courage to hope again, to wish for better days and to dwell not on the past, but on a future so full of possibilities, including peace.