Keifha Nasrallah
We were all children at one time. Some of us remember this and others forget this. Just as they forget that they are human and that they are children as long as there are people who are more aware than they are.
All of us, if not taken along the way, grow to be old and feeble wherein everything becomes a memory in the mind of the old respected man, and what a memory it is! The past history-- the seeds and bases of our future.
We all participate in the present. While some of us contribute a moment, others contribute an hour of a day or a night in his life while still others give their entire lives.
Yesterday, I made a visit to a person who is dear to my heart. He lives with his family. There I witnessed a big argument between three parties. Yes, there were three parties!
The first party was the father, who was launching a heavy attack while using different tactics and methods that did the job most effectively.
The second party was the mother, who didn’t hesitate to use any method or tactic to serve the same purpose. She gave a great performance.
The third party was a rose in its fourth spring, who received such horrible cursing and cussing that had been uttered by the other two parties. The mother’s vicious attack was stripping the heart from any remaining love or respect. The father launched back and his response struck like a bomb that silenced the fury of the other two parties.
The two parties retreated from the battle zone. One of them was proud of his revenge, and the other one was searching for something to gain-- her lost pride and her value as a female.
The two parties left their victim behind with neither of them thinking about the victim because neither of them was the victim.
I entered to find a beautiful, young flower sitting on a sofa with her legs against her chest. She was embracing her body with her arms. Her head was leaning on her knees. She was chanting to herself and rocking her body in a rhythmic mode. It was as if the Lord had distracted her from what was going on by a peaceful tune that she was humming. However, the voice of the war drums were higher than her little tune and the swords of the fighting parties reached the flower and wounded its red, young petals. They passed through the air and landed on the flower. The festering air that carried decay, for the battle was fierce, killed the pride and dignity of it and scratched the love, thus turning it into hatred that would continue. The bomb had stricken the battle scene. The bomb that the flower knew nothing about its nature. But certainly it was affected.
I asked her, “What’s the matter, my beautiful rose?”
The Lord made her speak the truth, “Mommy and Daddy don’t love me anymore, Uncle Keifha.”
Translator: Asmaa Kurdieh
Editor: Lena Annette Winfrey
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