Friday, 13 May 2011
Doors & Keys of Truth
By Abd Migdad
Student In Palestine
Heavy when compared to an ordinary key like the ones we know and use today, simple in creation, safety is the reason of its formation, and it symbolizes the past. Tangibly maybe useless today, ok, but of means they are, for those keys symbolize the truth and hold the past that lives deep in the hearts of millions; the past that they have lived and died to erase, but mission impossible and will remain impossible; and they, they will live and die and continue that way, though the past they have been trying to eliminate will remain in their hearts and souls, and out of their will never disappear, for if that happens they win and we loose. The right could be lost when its not protected or not believed in. However, truth loosing is absolutely impossible in the Palestinian case; it is not an option. For the reason that we believe in, and we protect, so live and die, and live and die, and as long as the right is not retained, it will remain in our souls and hearts.
That truth is the key and the key is the truth; the key to Africa and the key to Asia, and just imagine what treasures each contain. Ask yourself why would someone want to steel the truth? Those keys open doors for houses, villages, and cities. They weren't able to steel the keys; however, mattering is of less to them. The keys they don’t need, for the door could be broken into, and as that happens the hearts of their owners break. "How come?", you may think. I say that their hearts with their homes are connected, so again they might have taken the homes, but the truth will remain in the hearts and connected to the souls, and as long as the truth is not retained, and it shall, they will remain living, dying, and failing.
Last year I remember my mother and her brothers opening an old room for their parents that had became too old and unsuitable to stay in beside the family villa, but the villa, for the old couple, was that room, and the so-called villa was what is not suitable to stay in. In the room were trays, plates, cookers, clothes, furniture, and balls. All old and beautiful, all fabricated and decorated beautifully. Everything was hand-made and hand-carved. I imagined a picture where everything is in nature, from nature, and natural is how it is done.
I love my mother, for she cares about every thing that means to her the connection to the land, and desire for return, and the soul connections to the parents. While they thought of most of the stuff in the room to be old and useless she took her share and the things they didn’t want. She sat in the room with a story to tell about each piece she holds between her arms, and all I did was dream standing, flashes of pictures crossed my inner-eye. My thoughts were like something recorded and I was going back in memory but it stopped at a very near point and how could it still rewind in the past and all I have lived was as if it was yesterday. I listened and stored her words that described the village and the house while holding decorative plates made of wood or aluminum between her arms as if there was a map she follows, she could see, but we could not.
Each piece had a story behind it to be told. She stood up, there was a cupboard, wooden and old, but I could swear that it is stronger than similar ones done today. She opened it, and inside there was the Palestinian thaw, I remember asking about its cost in a store, and it was worth more than a thousand Shekels. For god's sake, even the clothes told stories; however, the story to be actually told was beneath the clothes where the keys laid for years. Of no use they said those keys are; my sister grabbed them as if they're gold, of use they are to me, she said. To her, it is as if they were spoils of war. Happy was my mother to see the daughter carrying such concern, and in such speed reacting to save such treasure from extinction. Of no tangible use, that could be true, but the lesson I say, is what's of use for youth to learn, that we have a land we are obliged to return to, if not soon in real, then now in thoughts and soul.
That was a year before, and now and I swear: the taste is different, the smell is different, the dream is absolutely different, and let me tell you, the eye eats before the mouth and so does the nose, so if food looks and smells good the taste would be guaranteed; great. Last year when we brought some plates and cookers home from that old room of my grandparents, I used nothing but those old wooden bowls with this wooden stick to make my salad with some olives and its oil. With bits of salt sprayed I eat my salad, I live the dream, the dream that will become true. The truth will prevail because it’s a promise, not from me and not from you, but from our creator, so let's obey the Might to the truth.