Traditions Marah Siyam
Tradition, the thread cutting the lines on my palm the way wire cuts through clay.
generations that have gone astray before me. Tradition, the gold coins imprinting on my forehead as I jump up and down in celebration.
Whether my legs forget the way home or not, my Grandmother's tea leaves have already seeped enough in the water.
Whether these coins are seen as greed or not, they are another girl’s security fund, college fund, security blanket. Let the girls have the gold, they might need it one day to match the gold in their souls.
Tradition, not the music at weddings but the tears of a mother watching her eldest leave.
Tradition cannot be explained, written down, or studied. It is learned through warm embraces, neighbors offering breakfast to the travelling family next door, mothers telling stories of their fathers to their sons, fathers telling the stories of their mothers to their daughters. The flavors of your childhood are not accidental, the familiar scent you cannot name is not your mind playing tricks, the heat you feel on the side of your face is the sun from your homeland trying to reach you.
Whether she is leaving for school or for marriage, the house of her parents is more than a street address, but a plot of land thousands of miles away stained with her dusty footsteps. Tradition, is universal but the universe I’ve been born into welcomes me with pages filled on how to love and respect my elders. Whether the words slip off my tongue or not, the consistency of hospitality hangs around my wrist like a pair of keys. Although time may strip me of these customs, some needed to be buried with the
Tradition can be explained, written down, and studied, if done so through love and time, organically, naturally, and with respect.
Artwork by Nisrin Shahin IG: @Nisrin.Shahin
19
