His father named him Walid after the Druze leader, Walid Jumblatt. Before Walid was one week old, his mother fled with him, Aisha and my sisters to the South to escape the Mountain War. “The youngest exiled political leader,” I muttered to myself.
I stayed because I was afraid. What I told them: “I’ll stay for grandmother’s sake,” wasn’t true.
My grandmother was being genuine when she asked, “Who is going to look after the olives? Who is going to feed the chickens? And what if the house gets set on fire?”
But I was lying. I didn’t stay with her out of love for her, but because I was afraid to get into a car and travel on the roads. What if they attacked us on the road? What if they slaughtered us, like in the stories I’d heard about others who got slaughtered like sheep?
I looked aroun
