Once a week, I come to visit my father. We slowly walk on the balcony.
We gaze at the orange groves and the old 19th century Arab building deteriorating but still beautiful.
Lately, I see tents.
Archaeologists are excavating!
Every week there are more tents. We look at them, and I say to him that our family history of six generations actually is quite new in this land. It seems there are so many memories hidden under our own legs.
Every week, I tell him this story; he smiles with surprise.
From this panoramic view, the memory of the past is a complete oblivion.
When I meet the enthusiastic archaeologist and look at the balcony from the opposite side- he is vividly telling me stories of past cultures reborn from this soil.