My grandmother’s story.

One of our relatives came to visit her, the rain sneaking through the door and the wind howling outside. Lying in her bed, my grandmother had cloudy eyes. So the visitor asked her: "Do you know who I am?" My grandmother smiled, and her eyes lit up. In her rural dialect, she said, "I haven't lost my mind yet, Em Hussien, but the lamp is almost out of oil."

That night the oil did indeed burn out. The family gathered around her in the dimming lights as she gave her last breath. Then we slept. On that January day in 1978, the rain was heavy, and wind and hail whipped the stone walls of the room that was lit with an oil lamp. In the middle of the warm presence of loved ones and under the dimming light, Nasrah gave her last breath. She died at peace.

In the morning, they came to authorize her death certificate. In those days, birth and death weren't of special significance since they were part of the circle of life that my grandmother actively stewarded.

My grandmother was an active element in that circle of life. She was the one who welcomed newborns as they arrived since she was the midwife of the village. And part of her job as well was to prepare those who died for the final goodbye. So she dealt calmly with the burning out of her oil, with a lucid mind and a surrendered soul when the time came.

The oil lamp has always been a link in my memory with those days that seem so far away now. life and so often illuminated by the light of an oil lamp. My grandmother used to prepare her medications from the herbs she collected from "Al-Tour Mountain" and the Plain of Ibn Amer by the light of an oil lamp or on the fires of the wood we gathered for her.

And the oil lamp was especially important in our family Council, or Diwan. In Council, people in small circles gathered around a lamp or flame where they discussed the latest news and shared their daily lives. Those Council meetings remained a cornerstone in the social life of the Palestinian villagers after the 1948 war. Later the light transformed into a flashlight, and if it was winter, the radiant light from the grill joined in the councils. If the meetings were informal, the Sons and daughters would gather in a circle, lean against the wall, or crawl between their mothers as they chatted. If the meetings were formal, they were usually limited to men. However, Nasrah was always present- even as the only woman.

I used to sneak a peak at my grandmother sitting in the men's meetings, watching them consult her while she rolled an Ottoman paper filled with tobacco. The hierarchy of those meetings is managed according to the speaker's age. Nasrah was not only the midwife of the village, but she was also their herbal healer. Her opinions were important. She didn't hesitate to support her opinion with stories from life that usually involved characters from Nature, like the grass or a tree. She always wanted to deliver a clear image to the circle. The backyard of our house was something of a greenhouse where she grew plants and raised honeybees. Then at night, she would wrap a scarf around her head and go to the family Council.

Her embrace of the eternal circle of life was at the heart of my childhood. The opportunity for children to be so blessed has changed radically with time. Today, in her old house, her grandchildren's children sit there staring at the screens of their smartphones without a mere sound escaping their lips. We all witness this scene every evening in every house. All this noise sadly lacks the heartful "chatter" of my youth the same way modern concrete houses lack plants.

But the world of the oil lamp and the small circles remains in my mind and heart, even after life has changed and concrete houses have replaced stone ones. Palestinian communities began to abandon the land and, with that, many of their traditions. People stopped gathering in the family councils and arrived home exhausted from work. Family Councils stopped serving their pivotal role in the lives of the families and the village. I almost forgot them.

After the death of grandmother Nasrah, the circle of life changed. Plants began to die from the rooftops of houses, and the oil lamp disappeared. We gradually entered the bigger circle of life: work, becoming self-sustaining, daily concerns. The presence of the oil lamp, the circle surrounding it, and its intimacy disappeared under the collection of daily burdens. Like everyone, I stopped listening to myself and lost the pleasures of my younger years in exchange for the routine of contemporary life.

All the technology came into our lives to make it easier (and it did make it easier.) But it replaced the most important technology of all---the fire we gathered around with which we could transform the primitive elements of the earth to make food and medicine. Most importantly, we lost the tales, and sharing stories also became less present.

Many years passed before I heard from a friend about an "Instructor" coming from the U.S. to introduce a new dialog method that I thought would support my work with the local municipality. It was the first Listening Seminar that I was part of. As we gathered on the ground in a circle, a memory returned to me from a faraway place.

Once again, I felt an open space to discuss whatever came to mind without fearing others prejudging me. That seminar took me back to my roots, to my grandmother's embrace. I started crying during the seminar. I realized I was so busy with the daily routine that I stopped listening to my mother. I saw that I needed training in patience, compassion, and listening. I thank God that as I continued to deepen the Council practice, I was able to reconnect with my mother again in time.

Soon I realized that listening seminars about council provide more than just methods for communicating with others. They are a way of communicating with oneself.

Itaf Awad