What should I take with me, and what shouldn’t I?!
Since yesterday afternoon, I’ve been gazing around my house, room by room, corner by corner, unsure of what to take with me and what to leave behind!
Everything that shaped my identity is here.
Here lies the essence of the world.
Here is the distillation of existence.
Here is the beginning and the end.
I ask myself as I sift through the relics of memory: Should I take my grandfather’s library with me? Or should I settle for Mahmoud Darwish’s collection of poetry, which I have yet to finish? Should I carry Ibn al-Farid’s Diwan (Arab Sufi collection of poetry), which I had planned to start tomorrow? Or perhaps the references I painstakingly brought from Lebanon and Jordan for my doctoral dissertation?
My God! Everything is piling up before me, encapsulating my entire life. The world shrinks before my eyes; smaller and smaller, the more I contemplate it.
This is my room, the one I might never return to! In front of me stands the grand piano, with the sheet of music I composed before the war. Small ornaments adorn its surface, while above it rests a shelf holding my honorary awards and certificates.
Here is my desk, with the blue engraved mug that I adore. There, is my laptop, and next to it, my Quran, the Al-Munjid dictionary, unfinished poems, and books inscribed with the hopeful signatures of friends.
Here’s another corner I love, my mirror, the one that has reflected my eyes and memories. There’s my jewelry box, with each piece carefully chosen to hold a memory. My photo album, my grandmother’s earrings, my mother’s ring that she gave me, her prayer beads, and there lies my medicine box.
The cardiologist always told me: “You need to calm down!” But how when I am in exile?
What should I pack in my bag, and what should I leave behind?
Should I take my room’s window, the one overlooking the orange grove?
Should I carry with me the lemon tree in the yard?!
The wall?
Can I take my home with me to exile?
Should I bring the keys of my car, or simply move on and start to walk the long way ahead leaving my memories behind?
I really don’t know what to do!
Should I leave everything behind, lock the door, and carry nothing but the key of our home?
My father, who has almost finished packing, tells me: “Leave everything where it is. Two days only and we’ll be back!”
I ask as he gazes into the vast cosmic emptiness: “Father! What do you think about staying here, rooted like the olive tree in our yard?”
A heavy tear forms in his eyes as he stares intently at the olive tree and says, “Just two days, and we’ll be back!”
I say: “And what if we don’t return?” “Seventy years ago, my grandfather said the same”. “Just two days and we’ll be back”. He died with the key in his pocket. He never returned.
“Tell me, Father, what if we don’t come back?”
I wrote this text a year ago! A year has passed. Yet, we are still moving from one place to another.
Mariam Qosh
December 24, 2024
