Shards of Memory: A Grandmother and Granddaughter Fleeing the Unknown

We were waiting in Istanbul airport when I noticed a woman in her fifties sitting in silence beside a girl no older than seven. Her glassy eyes told everything she couldn’t say aloud. I approached her and asked if she was willing to talk. She nodded, a tear falling before the answer.

My name is Um Nasreen, from Bint Jbeil, southern Lebanon, she said in a low voice. I lost my husband, son, and daughter in a single strike. All I have left is my granddaughter, Nasreen. There’s no more room for pain in this heart, but it doesn’t stop coming.

Her escape began when her house turned to rubble. I only found Nasreen under the dust. She was crying, looking for her mother, she said, glancing at the girl as if clinging to her to save what remained of life.

She crossed into Damascus after days of waiting at the border, then entered Turkey with a relative, seeking shelter or even a sliver of safety. But all she found was greater fear and deeper uncertainty.

I have diabetes and hypertension… and I’m afraid I’ll die before I secure her future, Um Nasreen whispered, gripping Nasreen’s little hand. The girl quietly played beside her, a distant calm masking a world she didn’t yet understand.

The image of the child clinging to her grandmother reminded me of Mahmoud Darwish’s words:

I long for my mother’s bread, my mother’s coffee, my mother’s touch…
Childhood grows in me, one day upon another.

When I asked her, Where are you heading? she sighed, To relatives in Istanbul… I might leave Nasreen with them. I feel my days are ending, and I’m terrified of sleeping one night and never waking up—with her still by my side.

In a heavy silence, she looked at me and said, I don’t want anything… just for Nasreen to live in a home, go to school, and laugh. I don’t want her to remember me only by this sad face.

The scene of the grandmother and granddaughter wasn’t unique. It’s a reflection of many stories on the path of displacement. Behind every hand holding a child is a history of bombed homes, broken hearts, and an uncertain future.

Maybe Nasreen doesn’t yet understand what exile means, nor the depth of loss. But she will remember her grandmother’s embrace, her gaze, and her final words before their paths diverge. Because sometimes, memories… are all we have left.