During my childhood years my family used to spend two or three weeks in summer in the countryside. By countryside I mean precisely the village where my father was born and raised until he entered the high school and where some of his family, namely his mother and brother, were still living.
A small village of ten thousand inhabitants on the east bank of the river where palm trees heavily grew. The main crops were wheat, maize and cotton. Fruit trees were also abundant. Mango, small green apples, guava, apricot and endless orange orchards.
Streets were narrow and dusty. Houses were large but adjacent to each other. Electricity grid was not fully connected and only few telephone lines were working. I remember very well by sunset time, the maids were up to light the fueled wick lamps. The grown-ups would talk and children would play in the corner of the big dim living room lighted only by two lanterns. Stars looked so many and so bright in the black sky. This might sound as centuries ago, but it was only the middle of the 1970s.
Needless to say people were friendly and simple, as countryside people usually are.
My father's family house was huge and divided into different sections for family members, guests and social gatherings. A barn and a pigeons' tower were located on the left side of the house. I think the admiration I always feel for the romantic view of pigeons’ towers stem partially from my memory of that old tower.
My uncle had a big family. My grandmother and her sister lived in the house too. His eldest two sons, who were few years older than me, and I were hanging out together all the time. The eldest was the closer. We had a strong bond.
Many vivid memories from these years, especially tastes and smells of food like the freshly baked flat bread in primitive ovens, the thick buffalo milk, heavy dishes rich with tomato sauce, the homemade Karish cheese, fried eggs soaked in home butter, brownish fried ducks, round pastries stuffed with date paste, sweet and very dark tea served in small cups and offered every two or three hours, the strong smell of lamb meat being cooked and the salty rice pudding in clay pots.
Although the village was not different from thousands of other villages, it was nationally known for those who were interested, as the site where an old mystic religious philosopher was buried after being injured with forty wounds in a battlefield in the year 657 A.C.
The authenticity of the tomb is doubtful though since there are three other countries that claimed having the same honor. One of these countries had stronger historical evidence. Besides, the site of the battlefield itself was many hundreds kilometers far from our village. I remember the enthusiasm and heat that colored the arguments used by my uncle and other residents of the village to prove the authenticity of the tomb. As a child I did not care about these arguments as much as I did for the effort we had to do to climb the long stairs leading to the mausoleum. The number of the stairs had special significance related to the forty wounds. Myths and miracles were attributed by the devout, as usual, to this ascetic figure who once said to his creator:
If You forgive me, that will in no way diminish Your sovereignty;
And if You punish me, that will in no way augment Your authority.
You can find others to punish besides me,
But I can find no one to forgive me but You.
The river was not very close. A thirty minutes' walk, and from there we would take a ferry and cross the river to reach the small city on the other side which had nearby one of the oldest archaeological sites that dates back to 2625 B.C.
My uncle was decent and easy-going person. I think I took a little of his talent of painting. He had his unique style of naïve art and participated in local and national exhibitions. His studio was a secluded room in the house where we were not allowed to enter. His wife, on the other hand, had a strong character and was not very friendly with the youngsters.
I haven't visited the village in more than 25 years. My grandma, her sister and my uncle passed away years ago. His wife is too sick and I can't even imagine how she might look like now. According to those who visited the village and the house in the last few years, the charm has long gone and what remained there has nothing to do with what once had existed.
