I am used to strat my day with some cookies I buy from Abo Salem moveable shop on my way to work, where fresh smell of these cookies spreads in the neiborhood.
Abo Salem, in his forties, is a poor man who earns his living from selling cakes and cookies. He is a good-hearted man whose smile attracts customers, but there is something in him makes me curious; it is the porte-clés which he keeps holding in his hand kissing it passionately repeatedly.
I came closer to him and asked him about it; he answered me after moments as he heaved a sigh getting all his memories at once, he said: ah young lady.. every key has a separate story which stands for a plight”.
I did not get what he meant, later he held the keys and started with the first saying: “This is my parents’ house key, I keep it hoping I will someday use it opening its door to remember my precious moments of my mother embracing me for coming home and kissing me, and my father sitting on his favorite couch”.
Moving to another key, he proceeded: “This one is for my motorcycle whose sound I miss a lot; its sound is so special to me”.
“This key is for my aunt’s house as she kept it with me to water her flowers in her house garden as she is abroad “, he added.
He proceeded saying: ” regarding this one, it is a key of my uncle’s house, where he and his sons have travelled to Turkey to earn their living after circumstances get dire”.
“This and this..”, it was a big group series of keys of houses of people, neighborhoods, friends who trusted him with them.
Then he reached to the last key, at which he paused, and said: “Considering this, it is the key of the house of my brother, who I have not seen for 3 years where he was forced to abandon his house as bombardment of its area got intensified”.
“Young lady, I have nothing but for memories of a city from which I was displaced. I fear forgetting them as time passes, but touching the keys makes me see the faces of the owners of those properties; the thing gives me more patience and insistence to hope of getting back again. Although I believe most of them got destroyed, robbed or sold. Yet, my memories are alive”.
by Samah al-Khaled
translated by Sabah Najem
Syrian Press Center
Keys, Hope, Memories.. Displaced's Dream Of Coming Back
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