Tuesday 19 August 2008

Refugees

The old men sat in the shade of the ancient olive trees avoiding the late afternoon sun. Long silences interspersed with old stories, latest news and shared history.

Strangers appeared as small dots in the distance following the rough track from out of the hillside. A ragged bunch clutching their meagre possessions in ill-assorted, mismatched bags. A little money, bottles of warm water, nuts, berries and old dry stale bread with melting cheese. Broken shoes held together with pink plastic; dusty, dirty, sweaty.

They reached the locals and formal greetings were exchanged !hola! !tardes! Both wanting to ask more; “Why are you here?”, “Where did you come from?”, “Tell me about the land.” A nod, a shy smile and they moved on hoping to find shelter.

The old men sat in the shade of the ancient olive trees as the sun slipped down. In this insular, closed, yet welcoming society, centred on family they shared one question.


¿Who is the mother?

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