And when I was far from home,
in another land,
with Travelers who rented out their homes,
I remembered you.
I remembered how warm you were.
From one plate to another, my tongue could taste them all.
my mother’s fingers kneading dough,
separating couscous grains,
the annoying heat when she decided to make Mhadjeb.
I could taste every sweet they once made:
Bradj, Baghrir, Kalb El Louz.
even the Eid sweets we used to steal at night,
with cousins and siblings,
all of us in matching Jebbas,
lying on mattresses on the floor.
We cried from holding in our laughter,
gossiping about family drama
who married who,
who said what
and our own little dramas too,
dancing to our songs:
Chaabi, Gharbi, Staifi, even rai.
How lovely were the times in the kitchen,
baking and cooking,
while peeking at both
our mothers’ drama.
and our fathers’ political debates.
I remembered strangers on the street,
their humility, their kindness,
proof that goodness still exists.
And I still believe,
I still believe in the good.
I still believe in you.
So that my childhood will never fade,
I will listen to your songs,
wear your clothes,
drink your tea,
eat your food,
speak to your people,
to never forget
my love for you.