Another touching letter from Dr. Saeed, whose words capture the weight of memory and the sorrow of a history that still aches. He writes:
I saw history as an old, frail man, dragging his heavy shadows, carrying upon his shoulders the domes of the city, its minarets, its ancient crosses, its temples, its arcades, and the stones once laid by the forefathers.
He cradled five thousand years, fearing that even a single day might slip away. With every step, he reached out to touch a tale of people who once passed here, who built, who dwelt, and then vanished.
The path was rough, the geography had changed, and history itself had become a stranger in its own homeland.
I asked him: Where to, Grandfather?
He gazed into the distance, whispering as though speaking to himself: To where, I do not know… I can no longer bear these fragments that tear my pages apart while I remain still, unmoving.
I said: But how will people read your torn pages?
His eyes brimmed with tears, and he replied: My son, if they cared to read me, they would have stopped the massacre.
Image by Mohammed Ibrahim from Unsplash
