WHEN A GRAVE BECOMES A HOMELAND

We came out of the crematorium crying. Lamees and I, heavily dragging our feet with the lost look on our faces drowning in sorrow telling the whole story. That was our first time ever at a funeral or even at a cemetery despite having lived for years in a seventh floor flat of a rundown high rise building in one of Glasgow’s roughest schemes, with windows overlooking an old graveyard. I never once had the urge to just walk in for a closer look at the headstones as I used to do when I was in Syria. In this cold city, I just found more comfort looking at them from a distance, a distance that allowed me to fly with my provocative memories to Mokhayyam Alyarmook’s three graveyards, where my fath

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