The Olive Tree And Telescope

A soft clicking sound tore through the stillness of the room as small, delicate fingers fiddled with a telescope.

“Yousuf,” a voice called, carrying a note of sternness.

The small child bit his lower lip. “Oops,” he mumbled.

“Yes, Mum?”

“My child, you’re supposed to be in bed.”

A young woman entered the room, her floral robes swaying gently, a white headscarf wrapped neatly around her head.

“But I’m not sleepy, Mum,” he pouted.

She picked him up with ease, and the room filled with the sound of his giggles.

“Mummm,” he sang sweetly.

“Yes?” she replied, settling him into bed and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Why don’t we talk until I fall asleep?” he asked, hazel eyes twinkling with expectation.

“Alright,” she nodded gently.

“Amal says big brother Arish is the Child of the Sky,” he whispered. “What about us, Mum?”

“You, my darling, are the Child of Soil. An Amanah from the sky.”

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He sat up once more. “What does that mean—‘Child of the Soil’?” His voice was tinged with curiosity.

“It means you have great things to achieve on this earth,” she replied gently. “You will plant olive trees, stand firm, and withstand hardship. And when the time is right, the sky will call you back.”

Her voice softened at the end, a quiet grief folded into its warmth.

“I want to be an astronomer, Mother. And I’ll take care of you.” He smiled, kissed her cheek, and lay back in bed.

“Good,” she said, tucking the blanket around him and patting it gently. “Then you will be among the stars.”

“You know what else Amal says?”

“What else did she tell you?”

“Her grandmother said that as long as there’s the sky, and as long as you breathe, there’s always hope.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “She is right. Remember that, Yousuf. Learn it by heart, my son—there’s always hope.”

He dozed off with a small smile settling on his lips. Marwah gazed out of the window.

Marwah gazed out of the window. The moon hung bright in the night sky. She smiled softly at it.

“I’m taking care of him,” she whispered. “Don’t worry.”

Her husband had been martyred two years ago, when Yousuf was just three. Since then, Marwah had been raising him alone.

She was a doctor—not only tending to wounds the eyes could see, but also to those hidden softly in the quietest chambers of the heart. Her hands healed more than flesh; they revived spirits, too.

In the vastness of the city, her neighbors—especially Aminah’s family—had become one of her strongest pillars of support. They brought her comfort, unspoken understanding and above all a companionship that transformed silence into prayer.

The sky turned crimson somewhere far, yet close, but he kept it a secret from Marwah—sparing her the devastation in the still hours of the night, when she was already wrapped in a tender sorrow. He pulled a veil between her offering a respite for s long as fate could allow.