MEMORY Aïda…

Haunting images flashing back

Tenacious scents sneaking in

Loud voices tumbling out

Colors, sensations, and emotions abound

Hard to stop, erase, or forget them.

Emerging unrelentingly, unaware…

Returning persistently, recurringly…

Despite us,

Despite everything

How old were you… on that April day of 1948?

Three years, no more.

What were you doing? Do you remember?

Were you lightheartedly playing with a doll?

Were you dancing, frolicking, laughing?

Oblivious to the tragedy that was unfolding

Around you?

You do remember all of it, right?

I KNOW that you do, Aïda.

Then you see your grandmother

Fixing her eyes on your innocent face

She takes you by the hand…

And calmly invites you to follow her…

She brings you to the first room…

And asks you to close your eyes…

You close your eyes and she asks you to take a deep breath…

To fill your lungs with all those familiar odors…

Perfumes… scents of marine humidity

Orange peels…

Then she orders you to open up your eyes…

“Look,” she tells you…

“Take a good look at the ceiling and walls…

The curtains and the blankets

The furniture and the souvenirs

The carpets and the pictures

Take it all in, my child

And most importantly remember it all…”

Then she grabs your hand

And takes you from one room to another…

She finally brings you to the garden

Your beautiful garden with its lemon and orange trees.

Then she gently whispers in your ear

“Fill your lungs

With this salty marine scent

Blended with the divine smell of orange blossoms…

It will all bring you back to JAFFA

Wherever you go, my child…

Behold these parts of our house… and fill yourself with them…

ONE LAST TIME…

And most importantly never forget:

OUR HOME IS MADE OF LOCAL STONE

AND TILES…”

Then she slowly closes the door

Turns the keys…

And gives them back to your mother.

That was the last time

You saw your house

In the old neighborhood of “Al Rachid” in JAFFA

On that April day of 1948.

Epilogue

AÏDA! AÏDA!

There you are, finally

I saw you AÏDA

I found you

At the bedside of a century in its death throes

I heard you calling out

Now that you’re nearing the end

Will you do us justice at last?

You ought to, quickly, now

Or else the spark will ignite a fire so fierce

So intense and blazing

That no one and nothing will ever be able to quench

The epic of stone-throwing no longer holds

I saw you, my proud AÏDA

Amid mobilized young recruits

Distributing ammunition and rifles

I spotted you among the bleeding and wounded

Dispensing care and advice

I saw you rescuing

A stone-thrower child in pain

I saw you consoling the bereft mother of Al Dorra

I saw you by the side of a girl shouting out in the face of an insolent soldier

For daring to debase the Orient Home

I recognized you amongst

Those whose lands were ravaged, and homes destroyed

Whose olive trees were recklessly uprooted

I looked at you besieged behind the bars

Of a piece of land

Whose frontiers they were resolved to draw and fix

I saw you as a grandmother

Standing still, caught in a hail of bombs and gunfire

Holding the hand of your bold granddaughter

The daughter of JAFRA

Shielding her with stories despite the racket and uproar

Telling her the story of that stone-built house

The one they claim is dead and gone

I heard you telling her to close her eyes and only picture what you depict

Then you go on portraying

Its rooms, its furniture, its colors and flavors

The dawn and its twilight reflecting on the curtain pans

The gentle dusk and the ensuing moonlight that slides onto the pillows

Then you describe to her the savory and delicate

Taste of your grandmother’s sweets

And the soothing sound of your mother’s melodies

Then you gently whisper to her

Forget my dear, for a moment

The acrid smell of gunpowder

Exhale and satiate your lungs with the marine breeze

Blended with the orange blossoms’ perfume

This is the incomparable scent of JAFFA

Have no fear, my dear

To it we shall return, we shall return to it.

Then I see you AÏDA, lifting your head up

Fixing me with your eyes

While saying

I am alone with my people

And you, where are you?

Would tears redeem our land?

Would dreams shield our children from slaughter?

Would words eventually bring back what the serpents snatched?

What did you do?

Where are you, you who once sang to me?

“Where have you gone, my friends?

What has become of you?

Why have your voices grown faint?

Why has your anger faded away?

Why have you relinquished in disgrace?

Why is your hope subdued in the shadow of despair?”

Then you see me stammering, confused, and puzzled

What can I do?

I stretched out my hand; they severed it 

I offered my blood; they dispersed it

I raised my voice; they quelled it

With their deafening squabbles

And dull discourses.

So, I settled for counting the dead

And defying oblivion

I shall admit, AÏDA, that they made of you

The stale protagonist

Of a TV soap opera

I do admit it

But what shall I do?

What shall I devise to get to you?

How do I overlook my fears?

And overcome my cowardice?

How do I bear this life

After the loss of my beloved ones?

How do I defy death as you did?

AÏDA, my dear life-lover

Don’t turn your back on me, please

Don’t give in to despair

You are my guiding star

Now more than ever

Now that the sky is being clouded

And the earth is being shaken

Under the treading boots of a cynical, arrogant, and blinkered enemy

Blinded by rage

For at last, between the eyes, he has just been smitten

He howls, belches, and threatens

All those who stand their ground

And promises, the moron

A pitiful shred of land to those who will be docile

And keep their mouths shut forever

But you, AÏDA, you will not comply

You will never be quiet

You want JAFFA and nothing but JAFFA

And to JAFFA you shall return

Silence

They banished you, they shut you down…

They have forsaken you and feigned forgetfulness…

As if you do not exist, you do not belong anywhere

You have NO RIGHTS, to return home one day…

But your unwavering determination

Will not let you renounce your rights

The home is yours

And you have the key.

You shall never forget, AÏDA

"YOUR HOME IS MADE OF STONE

AND ITS ROOF OF TILES"

Surrounded by an orchard

Of lemon and orange trees

Overlooking the sea.