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Lonely L�Ied of a Orphan Child

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Lid geworden: 18 oktober 2006
Locatie: Nederland
Online status: Offline
Berichten: 18
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    Geplaatst op: 19 oktober 2006 om 12:20

 

To those forsaken by the festivities.


Dear Father, It is the first feast, where I wake up on the hymns of crying and sadness, and on the scent of incense that is filling the graveyard. I did not wake up on the feast's supplications, or on the happy wishes for its blessed return.

I miss you so much at this time daddy, and I feel a dreary loneliness inside while I am holding the hands of my mother and my brother on our way back home after reading Al-Fatihah (the Opening Chapter of the Noble Quran). I see children playing since the early morning, happy with their new feasting clothes. Others are holding their fathers� hands seeking protection from the road hazards.

I see everyone happy, wishing each other �A Happy Feast,� I ask myself: �Will I one day feel the feast delight, will I ever wait for it as I once did, and will I sleep near the new clothes which you had bought me?� So many questions make my heart heavy. I cling to mum's hand and look at her face to see that she is absent-minded; I know that she is recalling the old days when you were here with us.

Ramadan was weird this year dad; neither its celebrating lights were reflected on our house nor did the transparent coloured curtains move with the wind on our windows. We could not hear the happy songs; even the Mesaharaty [A man who walks around the streets before dawn with a drum to wake up the people to have their pre-dawn meal] whom I always waited for, my curiosity stopped from pushing me to wait for him any more. It was a month of faded colours, silent hours and sad nights.

This year dad, I reached the age of puberty that you always told me about, and guided me on how to shoulder its responsibilities. I wore Hijab (veil) and started doing my religious duties. Oh, how long I waited to reach nine so fasting becomes obligatory, and to be able to wake up with you at dawn without having mum banning me from it, and sending me back to my bed to make sure that I will not be late for school in morning, and so  I used to go back unwillingly to my bed.

I used to stand behind the window waiting for the Mesaharaty to come, calling: "Wake up for your pre-dawn meal, Ramadan has come visiting you," while banging a big drum to awaken all those asleep. At sunset, from behind my books, I used to watch my mum busy preparing food and if I offered help, she used to ask me to concentrate on my studies.

We had gotten used to your absence.  Your Jihad responsibilities made it a necessity for you to spend most of your days and nights out. But in Ramadan you were always with us so that we would not miss you, and if you had to spend the night out, you used to surprise us by your arrival at breaking of the fast while holding a box of sweets telling us, "One hour and I will have to go back," or to come at midnight if you could not come in the evening to awaken mum for the pre-dawn meal. I used to wake up on the warmth of your kiss on my cheek while saying to me �I missed you so much. How are your studies going?� I used to hug you while drowsiness gently moved on my eyelids and replied with coquetry, "good,� then went back to sleep.

Now I bury my face under the sheets trying not to hear the Mesaharaty, wishing that my mum did not wake me up to sit with her, both of us silent, trying to hide our grief from each other, fleeing from talking about you through a silence that we travel within to reach you; I feel her agony and she feels my pain. The tears frozen in her eyes kill me, which she does not shed to protect my brother and me, and buries it onto her pillow that knows no way to sleepiness.

At sunset, I help her in preparing the food, and when we sit down around the table, I keep looking at the door every moment although I know it will not be knocked and you will not come back, and that there is nothing, nothing daddy behind the door except the wailing of the winter winds and some rain droplets.

In Ramadan, you always urged us to pay visits to relatives to maintain the ties of kinship and reminded us of the orphans and the needy. I remember when you used to gather with your companions in Jihad (striving), wrapping gifts for the children of the martyrs on feast night, and how you always kept visiting them and asking about them. Today we are your orphans, dad. We started waiting for your friends to smell your memories out of their scent, to listen to stories about you: how you were, how you spent your life in Jihad, how you fasted during the month of Ramadan while walking hundreds of meters carrying the weapons on your shoulders on the dark nights after breaking your fasting on little food and drinks. A lot of stories about a long journey of Jihad and struggle till you met your Maker, as a martyr.

What more can I tell you dad? It is a long talk, while my heart is shattered by deep yearning and burning by painful torture. The road is about to come to an end and I have started to see the roof of our house where we spent with you the most beautiful days of our lives; the house that was once filled with liveliness, happiness and warmth,  it is now a cold terrace over looking a valley of memories.

My mum looked at me and said, "We will have some rest and then we will go to visit your grandparents." My little brother asked her: "Will dad not come, O mum, to go with us? Or will he stay in heaven even on feast day? Doesn�t he want to bring me new clothes as he did every year, and to take me to the feast fair?" I drew him near, trying to make him be quiet for the sake of us all. The tears were already rolling down mum's face, while saying: "He will visit us sweetheart; of course he will. And I will take you wherever you want�"

What kind of a feast is this dad? When I can feel nothing but the bitterness of separation, what kind of a feast is this, when I miss the warmth of your kindness and the peace of your hug, I feel nothing but the coldness of the tile on your grave while my tears wash the separation dust on it. What kind of a feast is this, when I cannot make my mum smile, and when I cannot give my brother a good reason for not having you with us? Our feast is strange dad; our feast is sad dad; as if all of its meanings are lost after your departure. I have stopped feeling anything of it except the deep sense of loneliness and orphanhood. I never thought that you would leave without us. I never thought that life had lines other than the ones we write on whatever we wish.

Forgive me daddy, if the birds of yearning have rebelled inside my heart. But it is enough for me to know that the Islamic Resistance is fine, so may each year come while you are fine in the memory of those who are sincere to your blood.

 

meskiena zo'n onroerend verhaal vind ik dit dat ik het met jullie wil delen.

Gair insa Allah

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