One day as I was visiting Za’tari camp, I saw a family of a mother, three daughters and one son, preparing themselves at that moment to leave their tent and move into the caravan that they were given, so I started helping them move their things into the new caravan. One thing caught my attention strongly, which was that the boy, whose name was Omar, was keen on taking two things before anything else: A small bucket that looks more like a yoghurt cup, and a small, dark brown piece of mat. “Why are you keeping this old rotten bucket and this piece of mat?” I asked Omar, “You should throw them in the garbage bin”, Omar’s mother commented, saying: “Even when we were crawling through the borders he would make sure that the bucket crosses before him”, then Omar looked at me, “These two things hold a story behind them that if you have known you would have kissed the bucket and kept the piece of mat for as long as you live”, he said!
“When we were in Syria, a piece of shrapnel fell over our house due to the continuous bombing, which caused a hole in the ceiling”, Omar started telling me the story, “thus, my father decided to fill it temporarily to protect us from rain water leaking, so he took this bucket and some plastic bags and went out warning us: “Do not follow me to the roof no matter what”, then he went on stuffing the bucket into the hole, enhancing it with the plastic bags to close it. Time passed by and my father hadn’t come down yet, then as we were waiting for him some red drops started dripping from the hole onto the mat, my mother and I rushed to the roof, to find my father lying motionlessly upon the bucket, filling it with his pure blood… I then cut this piece of mat to let the anemones grow in its place; because my father had always told me that when innocent people get killed, wherever their blood drips anemones grow, and ever since, I keep asking my mother everyday: How grown anemones in our house have become?”