Denise Mack


The man and the boy sit on a terrace in Machghara. Together they drink a rakwee of coffee and watch the moon rise over Mount Hermon. The dark, fiery colours spread across the landscape, lighting the grapevines, the white-washed houses, and the sleeping children of the village. The man speaks into the night air. ‘One day, my habibi,’ he tells the boy, ‘when you are far from here, you will realize that a man can no more forget his father and grandfather than a river can forget its source.’