I fell asleep for a while after eating lunch, and in the dream my aunt Fatima appeared to me as if she had woken up, may God have mercy on her, and she patted my chest and kissed me. She woke up happy and saddened by her loss. Among the relatives who were absent by the will of fate, only my aunt Fatima rose from my memory, who was in love like a river, overflowing with love, tenderness, care, and giving to those around her. She would captivate anyone she met with her abundance of tenderness and greet her with her captivating smile. She had a large embrace and a heart made of gold that withstood the cruelty of poverty and the darkness of estrangement throughout the days. I did not see her when she embraced me from my childhood until my youth, except as the sparkle of a ray when it shines between the clouds. As if she were the light that illuminated me when the darkness prevented me from seeing. She was like a breeze to me in the heat of my loneliness. Like a drop of water when I get very thirsty. Among my aunts, I only found my aunt Fatima. It was as if she was magic. Even when she got angry, her smile radiated from the surge of anger. How did she combine thorns and roses? It was as if her rose was forgiveness of thorns.
I remembered that after the Duha prayer, which she had always performed as one of the Sunnahs of the Messenger, may God bless him and grant him peace, my aunt, who is the eldest sister of four sisters, the head and mistress of the family, and the wide embrace that embraced the children and grandchildren, would sit in an exile that the whole family did not choose. Exile was not a choice but became a destiny.
Every morning my aunt sits in her usual corner of the room between the window and the door, seeking light to help her make “burqas” and sew them with such precision and perfection. She takes the burqa and begins to examine it and polish the black waxed cloth on a wooden board with a large, smooth shell, to show the luster of the fabric until the burqa becomes smooth and does not hurt the face of the wearer. When she begins to sew the burqa with her soft, gold-painted needle, her voice rises in melodious singing. The balloons ring with different rhythms. Then it progresses into deep sorrow, interspersed with rhythm without words. It is as if the goddess extends a melody emanating from the depths of the soul and memory, carrying in its color images of sand dunes in their turns, heights and slopes in the deserts of the Emirates, fragrant with the scent of summer and the “Ghaf” and “Samar” trees.
When the family went out to camp on the backs of camels, there was intense longing and sadness in her voice that squeezed the heart and filled the cells with tears. The longing of a stranger who was thrown far away from home. And about loved ones and companions of childhood and youth. About dreams, the memory of relationships, customs, and the special dialect that expresses the privacy of the place. This is how my aunt awakened my longing for her and nostalgia for memories!
