無花果樹下的姥姥

It was a 1）sweltering June night many years ago， with the smell of sea and jasmine thick in the air. I lay on the black-leather couch in the living room with my head on my grandmother’s lap as she stroked my hair with her gentle， calloused hand. I felt 2）encased， cherished， protected， loved.

I remember that my mom and my grandma talked for hours， gossiping， laughing， weaving stories about past and future， suspending us in time and space. They talked about me， about the need to protect me from the evil eye of a jealous aunt. They talked about my brother， about how strongly he resembled my uncle who’d died tragically years before.

As I drifted into sweet sleep， their voices came from further and further away until all I heard was the soft， 3）melodious 4）cadence of their speech： the sound of love， the sound of my childhood.

My grandmother’s name was Johra and she neither knew how to read nor write， but I learned much from her simple wisdom and common sense.

She was a fountain of stories and anecdotes， fascinating stories that run 5）parallel to the history of my country： stories about her childhood， stories about the French-Algerian war， stories about survival during brutal， harsh times.

She had a tough life： She lost her husband early and never remarried， raising her five children on her own. She lost her youngest son under tragic circumstances. She suffered materially and emotionally until much later in her life， when my mother could afford to take care of her.

In many ways， modern life passed my grandma by. She knew nothing of how computers and televisions and telephones and cars worked， but she took all of these developments in her stride and was surprisingly open-minded. By necessity， most of her knowledge of the modern world came to her through her children and grandchildren.

We would sit side by side in front of the television， and I would translate the classical Arabic or French that was on the news into an Algerian dialect that she could understand. I loved to explain things to her： politics， technology， history， space travel. She always trusted that my explanation was the right one. Eventually， she even learned to use the cell phone that my cousin got for her， and it became one of her most prized possessions.

The last time I ever saw my grandmother， she wore a pretty sky-blue dress matched by a scarf of the same colour on her head.

She had always maintained a remarkable form. Her hair was almost 6）jet-black， her back straight， her skin supple. Whether this was due to a diet rich in olive oil or a youth spent in the open air I’ll never know. But on that last visit， she looked thin and frail， the effects of two strokes visible in the slumping of her body， a very 7）perceptible lettinggo.

I had travelled from Paris to 8）Algiers specifically to see her； she had asked for me， sensing， no doubt， that the end of her journey on this side was near.

We met in the garden. She sat in the shade of the old fig tree， singing folk songs as I rocked in the 9）hammock beside her. The water fountain in the corner made splashing noises and attracted chirping birds and butterflies.

My grandmother loved this garden； it reminded her of the vast open fields of her 10）Kabylia childhood. She had never 11）acclimated to city living， finding apartments too narrow and 12）claustrophobic， and every chance she had， she would take a trip back to Kabylia to visit family and harvest olive oil with the women there.

My grandma died of a stroke last year， and I still miss her terribly. I miss her laughter， I miss her gentleness， I miss her warmth. Sometimes， I still can’t believe that she is gone and that I will never see her again， never again share a laugh with her or explain politics to her or buy her a new scarf.

The older I get， the more I realize that love， unconditional love， is rare and hard to come by. Life is tough. Everyone is out for themselves. When you lose a grandparent， you lose one of the few people who love you just as you are. It feels like an essential link to my childhood has been severed.

So much has happened since my childhood days， so much has changed. The Internet came about. CDs and DVDs replaced cassette recorders and videos. There were wars， tsunamis， global warming， near economic meltdowns. Time keeps rushing forward. Sometimes I wish I could make it stop， or at least slow down， but I know it is a cheap， futile thought.

But in the turmoil of these changing times， my grandmother gave me so many memories I can cling to， so many anchors to steady this ship and to steer her to safe harbour. I may not always know where I’m going， but I will always know where I came from. To me， that is a source of great strength.

那是多年前一個悶熱的六月之夜，空氣中蘊含著海水和茉莉花的濃郁氣息。我躺在客廳的黑色皮躺椅上，頭枕在姥姥懷里，她那長滿繭子的溫柔雙手撫摸著我的頭發。我感到被圍裹，被珍視，被愛護。

我記得媽媽和姥姥會聊上幾個小時，閑話家常，大聲說笑，編織著關于過去和未來的故事，將我們懸置于時空之中。他們說著關于我的事，說要保護我，以躲避一位心懷嫉妒的阿姨邪惡的目光。他們說起我的哥哥，說他跟我那位多年前凄慘離世的舅舅長得有多么像。

當我飄忽進入甜蜜的夢鄉，她們的聲音離我越來越遠，直到我只能聽到她們說話時那輕柔優美的韻律：愛的聲音，童年的聲音。

我的姥姥名叫喬娜，她不會讀書也不會寫字，但我從她簡單的智慧和常識中學到很多的東西。

她是眾多故事和奇聞軼事的源泉，那些迷人的故事都與我們國家的歷史并駕而行：關于她童年的故事，關于法阿戰爭的故事，還有關于艱難困苦時期的求生掙扎故事。

她的一生過得很艱難：她早早就失去了丈夫，一直沒有再婚，憑一己之力撫養五個孩子。她在很凄慘的境況下失去了最小的兒子。她在物質和精神上一直經受痛苦，直到人生的晚年，我媽媽有能力照顧她時才得以好轉。

在許多方面，現代生活都與姥姥擦肩而過。她完全搞不懂電腦、電視、電話和汽車是怎么一回事，但她對這些新玩意兒都從容處之，并且令人吃驚地虛心。難免地，她對于現代世界的大部分認知都來自她的兒孫。……