The Mother of Pomegranates

The earth never forgets its children.
This shrine is the story of our mother nature showing mercy.
No invader will ever show mercy, my son,
So you rely on the soil to take in your tears,
In the hope that
She may take fruits in your suffering.

You know the story of this tree.
It is the tree of Al-Hurra,
The martyr of Masafer Yatta,
The mother of pomegranates.
She was a woman of exceptional delight.
Famous among her fellow peasants for her flying,
She would dance with the trees to bring them to let go of their fruit.
Never touching the ground, so not to hurt any flower,
She became popular among the poppies,
Which followed her everywhere she went.

As the poppies grew thirsty,
They would ask the wind to grant them water.
The wind, harsh as his character was, refused.
Why should he work for the poppies’ care?
He is the ruler of the skies.
Al-Hurra, upset by the wind’s harshness,
Offered him her harvest of pomegranates in exchange for water.
The wind, moved by her friendship,
Granted the poppies rain,
So to keep her company.

Upon her return to the village,
The rain became stronger and stronger.
The falling water started to create a path,
And a river grew from it, reaching even the white sea.
The wind spoke that he would come every year,
So that he may not be forgotten by Al-Hurra.

Once Al-Hurra arrived in the village, the peasants rose up
What did you do? the villagers complained.
The mountains were our walls.
You brought the invaders to us.
After invading the city of the blue horizon, they will be thirsty and follow the river.

And as the peasants foresaw,
In the time of dryness,
The city’s walls eroded,
And its horizon turned gray.
Its invaders, thirsty for water, followed the river.
Al-Hurra, light-footed as she was, did not worry.
After charming the harsh wind into softness,
There was no invader who could not be softened.
She walked westwards to meet the invaders,
The poppies warned her, unsuccessful,
The wind warned her, unsuccessful.
So she walked alone.

Once she arrived, Al-Hurra offered the invaders her harvest
As a sign of good will.
But the invaders did not listen.
Greedy for the soil’s richness
They swore to conquer the village.
So, Al-Hurra went to the general,
And spoke the following:
The wind is my friend and the soil my cousin.
Take me and I will make you a heaven anywhere you desire.
Just leave the village alone.
The general, filled with distrust,
Refused to believe,
And raised his sword against her.
It was then, for the first time, that Al-Hurra,
Friend of the wind, would touch the ground.

The poppies, furious about her loss,
Turned to flames, and the soil cracked open.
The wind returned and threw thunder,
To start the end of madness.
His river became an ocean,
Devouring everyone who dared to strip him of his friend.

After water receded, there was nothing left but the wind and the poppies.
To commemorate their common friend, the wind made it rain again.
The poppies grew taller and taller
Taking the body of Al-Hurra and returning her to heaven.
The wind then turned to the soil
Asking her to store his water beneath her,
So as to never attract invaders again.
His wish was granted and a small spring was placed,
Where once Al-Hurra fell to the ground.
For the mercy of the soil,
The wind offered her one of the pomegranate seeds
That were once given to him.

My son, you see this tree in the center of this courtyard?
This is the tree of the wind,
Surrounded by the shrine of Al-Hurra, the mother of pomegranates.
Take one of the poppies from outside of our village and leave it on her stone.
So to honor the legacy of Al-Hurra.
It is by her bravery, why al-Muharraqa exists.
And as she cared for the earth, so do we.
My son, never forget about this soil.
It is not for its fruits,
But we care for it, as it cares for us.