An imposing panelled gate dominates the hallway, awkwardly resting in the middle of the dimly lit space. In bold Arabic letters, the phrase “Don’t Enter” is scrawled onto its gruff surface with black paint, warning against any trespassers. A rosary is tightly wound around the rusted doorknob, its beads clattering whenever my grandmother passes by, providing a haunting soundtrack to the otherwise silent space.

Inside the room, a vintage cabinet, built from torrential Syrian oak, parks by a fridge, huddling in the corner like a forgotten relic. Despite knowing that grandmother keeps Makdous and Labneh inside, my cousins and I have never dared to open the fridge, yet our imagination often drags us into peculiar realities, imagining what secrets the fridge may hold.

On the other side of the room, a bed stained in something—hopefully just tears—dominates the space. Puffed pillows, cladded in embroidered quilts, lean on the headrest, creasing the neatly made sheets. A drab picture of my grandmother’s 60-year-old grape tree is taped onto one of the drawers of a vintage cabinet beside the bed. The cabinet, designed to withstand time and war, is a testament to the durability and strength of its craftsmanship.

On the left side of the bed, a nightstand with a gas lamp settles on the surface. A Quran, coated in dust particles with its corners chipped, lies beside it. Atop the nightstand, a different rosary is placed, a silver one with an evil eye fixed at the end of it. The drawers are empty except for a few outdated coins, hinting at the room’s history and the remnants of a bygone era.

To the right of the bed, a soldier’s uniform is neatly hung over another night table. A few buttons are missing, and it seems as if my grandmother has sewn leather patches on the knees and elbows. Three golden stars are attached to one of the shoulders, one of them almost peeling off. A rifle is angled on the corner of the room, with some of its parts wasted and others damaged. It’s an old rifle, one used during the French colonization in the 1920s. The wall is chapped behind it, its nook digging into the paint, signifying a history of struggle and resistance.

The walls are barren, except for a single photo of a young man with bushy brows. The surface is dusty, and the frame seems as if it’s been rendered three times. The man is wearing a uniform, with four stars instead of three. His pupils are wide, his skin the colour of roasted Arabic coffee. A strand of curly hair gently falls on his forehead.

As I take a closer look, I realize the photo is of my grandfather, a reminder of the sacrifices he made to ensure our family’s survival. Suddenly, I notice something peculiar. The room is still, silent, and the air is thick with a sense of dread. I turn my head back to the panelled gate and realize that the rosary on the door handle has stopped clattering. With a sudden sense of foreboding, I exit the room.

The room, the forbidden room, shelters my grandfather’s spirit.

My grandfather was a sergeant during the French colonization in Syria. He fought with the French army, a decision that must have been difficult for him as a Syrian. Though I never met him, his presence is felt in my grandmother's house, especially in the room that no one is allowed to enter. The relics in that room are a testament to his history and the struggles of his time. His uniform and rifle are symbols of his service, while the photo of him in uniform, with four stars instead of three, hints at his bravery and dedication to his country. The room's atmosphere is heavy with a sense of history and sacrifice, reminding me of the many men and women who fought for their country's independence and freedom.

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   I completely agree with you! This degree has introduced me to a world of history and culture. Thank you for…

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   I hear your conundrum; I too suffer from a ‘title’ that doesn’t pay the mortgage…Beowulf, Dante’s Inferno, Canterbury Tales are…

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   Welcome

4. 

   Thank you!

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   Good stuff.

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