كانت دي ركشة بتاعة عمي في بيت طفولته

كنا بنزور حصاحيصا كل كم شهر، وكل مرة كان الإحساس بين الألفة والتجدد—كأنك بتشوف المكان لأول مرة، رغم إنه مألوف. قبل ما أتولد، أجدادي اتوفوا، لكن البيت دا خلاني أتعرف عليهم بطريقة مختلفة. منو البدى الطلاء على الحيطان، وين كانت جدتي بتقضي وقتها—كل زاوية كانت بتحكي جزء من حياتهم.

ما بتعرف قيمة المكان العشت جزء منو أو ارتبطت بيهو إلا لمن تكون جواتو، وتسمع القصص من أهلك. لو ما البيت دا، ما كنت حأعرف أي حاجة عن أجدادي. لقيت نفسي بكتشف تفاصيل عنهم، وسط ناس كنت بحسهم بعيدين.

This was my uncles’ raksha at their childhood home.

We used to visit Hasahisa every few months, and each time, it felt both familiar and different—hearing and seeing it again. By the time I was born, my grandparents had already passed, but being in this home allowed me to find out so many little stories about them. From who painted the walls to where my grandmother spent her time, every corner held a piece of their lives.

It’s the kind of experience where you don’t realise the significance of where you come from until you’re in that space, and listening to the anecdotes shared by my family. I would never have had this opportunity to know my grandparents if I hadn’t been in this home. There were so many stories I discovered just by being there, surrounded by relatives who had always felt so distant from me.

Photograph and words by: name