Silhouette
Rugged. Destroyed. Broken. This is the new Khalidiya. The buildings that once stood tall and proud are now mere rubble. The skeletal remains of some, remain. Dust and stones everywhere. The city I grew up in, is now no more.
I walk around this graveyard of homes, looking for some inspiration for my work.
Oh, silly me. I forgot the introduction part. I am Waheeda, a 54-year-old painter who had once settled in Damascus, which by the way has got no homely atmosphere now. What I'm about to write here is no story. It’s something I experienced.
While scouting for the said inspiration, I heard a group of people performing prayers from inside one of these run-down buildings. The instinct of curiosity kicked in. To be frank, I was a little scared. The people have grown to be intolerant to strangers these days. As I walked in, I saw a group of 30-40 people in there performing their prayers. Even in these rough times, they didn't forget their duties. I patiently waited for them to finish.
They were refugees, lost their homes during the air-strike, somehow managed to survive. The group largely had women and children. Food was scarce for them. I was welcomed to the group when they realized I was not there to harm them. I decided to help these people with what I can.
From then on, every day, I would go there, bring them food or clothes and something for the children. A few days passed and I started teaching the children and I would bring paper and colours for the little ones to draw. A young girl, probably around 6 would never leave her mother, caught my attention. I decided to step in and bring her out. She was a pretty girl named Yasna. Her big brown eyes told me that she had witnessed the horror.
“Don’t you like colours, my little child?” I asked. There was no answer. After what seemed like an eternity, Yasna got along with me.
The first thing she asked me was to bring her Laila. I didn't know who Laila was. Turning to her mother, I enquired who Laila was. Laila was her doll. She had lost it in the chaos.
The next day I brought her a doll, which belonged to my girls when they were young. She was delighted to see it. A drastic change was seen in her mood. The doll brought back the Yasna that her mother knew.
Yasna, in a few days, joined my painting class. I asked her to draw whatever she likes and gave her a pack of crayons and paper. Taking the things I gave her, she left to a corner. After a while, she came back saying, “I don’t know what I should draw.”
“You can draw whatever you like, sweetheart. Draw Laila or, even better, draw your family.”
She went back to the same corner. When the classes were done, I went to Yasna, who was now accompanied by her mother, had drawn her family. A child’s drawing of her mother, her brother and herself holding Laila, but something was odd. There was a figure in the drawing. Completely drawn in black. Many things rushed into my mind. I asked her mother, “Is this her father?”
“Yes. He has not yet come back home. It’s been 3 years since he has been missing.” Said her mother.
The darkness in that child was clear. Yasna had drawn her father black because she assumed he has passed away.
But that wasn’t the case. When I asked Yasna why she drew her father in black, her answer shocked me.
“I don’t remember how my father looks like.”
I walk around this graveyard of homes, looking for some inspiration for my work.
Oh, silly me. I forgot the introduction part. I am Waheeda, a 54-year-old painter who had once settled in Damascus, which by the way has got no homely atmosphere now. What I'm about to write here is no story. It’s something I experienced.
While scouting for the said inspiration, I heard a group of people performing prayers from inside one of these run-down buildings. The instinct of curiosity kicked in. To be frank, I was a little scared. The people have grown to be intolerant to strangers these days. As I walked in, I saw a group of 30-40 people in there performing their prayers. Even in these rough times, they didn't forget their duties. I patiently waited for them to finish.
They were refugees, lost their homes during the air-strike, somehow managed to survive. The group largely had women and children. Food was scarce for them. I was welcomed to the group when they realized I was not there to harm them. I decided to help these people with what I can.
From then on, every day, I would go there, bring them food or clothes and something for the children. A few days passed and I started teaching the children and I would bring paper and colours for the little ones to draw. A young girl, probably around 6 would never leave her mother, caught my attention. I decided to step in and bring her out. She was a pretty girl named Yasna. Her big brown eyes told me that she had witnessed the horror.
“Don’t you like colours, my little child?” I asked. There was no answer. After what seemed like an eternity, Yasna got along with me.
The first thing she asked me was to bring her Laila. I didn't know who Laila was. Turning to her mother, I enquired who Laila was. Laila was her doll. She had lost it in the chaos.
The next day I brought her a doll, which belonged to my girls when they were young. She was delighted to see it. A drastic change was seen in her mood. The doll brought back the Yasna that her mother knew.
Yasna, in a few days, joined my painting class. I asked her to draw whatever she likes and gave her a pack of crayons and paper. Taking the things I gave her, she left to a corner. After a while, she came back saying, “I don’t know what I should draw.”
“You can draw whatever you like, sweetheart. Draw Laila or, even better, draw your family.”
She went back to the same corner. When the classes were done, I went to Yasna, who was now accompanied by her mother, had drawn her family. A child’s drawing of her mother, her brother and herself holding Laila, but something was odd. There was a figure in the drawing. Completely drawn in black. Many things rushed into my mind. I asked her mother, “Is this her father?”
“Yes. He has not yet come back home. It’s been 3 years since he has been missing.” Said her mother.
The darkness in that child was clear. Yasna had drawn her father black because she assumed he has passed away.
But that wasn’t the case. When I asked Yasna why she drew her father in black, her answer shocked me.
“I don’t remember how my father looks like.”
U made me cry. :/
ReplyDeleteU made me cry. :/
ReplyDelete