Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. His light is like a niche in which there is a lamp, the lamp is in a crystal, the crystal is like a shining star, lit from ˹the oil of˺ a blessed olive tree, ˹located˺ neither to the east nor the west, whose oil would almost glow, even without being touched by fire.
Light upon light! Allah guides whoever He wills to His light. And Allah sets forth parables for humanity. For Allah has ˹perfect˺ knowledge of all things.
˹That light shines˺ through houses ˹of worship˺ which Allah has ordered to be raised, and where His Name is mentioned. He is glorified there morning and evening
by men who are not distracted either by buying or selling from Allahs remembrance, or performing prayer, or paying alms tax. They fear a Day when hearts and eyes will tremble,
˹hoping˺ that Allah may reward them according to the best of their deeds, and increase them out of His grace. And Allah provides for whoever He wills without limit.
“Have you dreamt of pomegranates this week? All the time you would talk of the pomegranate trees that reflected from your grandfather’s eyes. If history is a woman with gentle hands pouring black tea, let there be sunlight, a soft chair, a young Palestinian boy entering his home for the first time. How remarkable is that? Let the woman be Jewish, and let there be nothing political about the way she yearns for her son’s safety, about the years between 1948 and 1974, years your grandfather spent mourning the dirt he used to plant those pomegranate trees. In this version of history, there is some forgiveness. Come in, come in she beckons you. Everything will change.”
The war will end. The leaders will shake hands. The old woman will keep waiting for her martyred son. The girl will wait for her beloved husband. And those children will wait for their beloved father. I don’t know who sold our homeland. But I saw who paid the price.
