The door of my grandmother’s house on my mom’s side, Rayqa (her name) was never locked with a key. We used to go there. We never knocked at the door or rang the bell. We just walked straight in. She usually sat either in the salon in front of her oven, baking “ka’ak” or “ma’moul”, (oriental sweets). Sometimes, we saw her in the kitchen cooking something in the pot.
She would say, “I had a feeling you were coming, so I am preparing this dish.”
The smell of food was enough to welcome us. She never let us feel we were guests. Not once did she say, “wait a little bit.” My grandmother’s house was our refuge. It was a great big embrace.
When we were upset with our mom, she would take our side, and not her daughter’s. When we were angry with our dad, we would go to her. When we were fed up with the whole world, we would look for her.
Her voice, her laughter would console us. Our grandmom was widowed at an early age. She had to bear big responsibilities on her shoulders. She raised her sons and daughters, educated them. Later, they got married.
She always used to say, “It is true that I lost my partner, but I also gained a lot from him. He gave me children who grow up and now, they are my source of strength.” She was strong, but not harsh, tender, but not weak. Every corner of her house is a story, the scent of the coffee, the sound of a radio, a heartfelt prayer, and the footsteps of someone we love.
To this day, if we close our eyes, we can still smell her bread, her food, her ka’ak and maamoul,
and we still hear her voice saying:
“Eat, my dear. Nothing is better than homemade food.” Long live our grandmom, and hope that we shall be reunited in peace.
Rita Abo Sido
01/08/2025
