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My grandmother, from a Circassian family in Aleppo, Syria, was married off to my grandfather when she was 16. He was from Mosul in Iraq, was twice her age and one of the group of Arab army officers who fought for independence from the Ottoman Empire during the First World War. When the 1958 revolution happened, they were outside the country in Lebanon. My grandfather had been involved with the overthrown monarchy and so, for a time, they stayed in Beirut. My grandmother, then in her mid-fifties and completely untrained, began to paint for the first time – in part to relieve the pain of loss and conjure up the images of the things she loved. This is her first painting – a family lunch under the flowering judas tree in her garden in Baghdad. When the Israelis invaded Beirut in 1982, years after my grandfather died, my grandmother was still living in their small ninth floor flat in West Beirut. She slept in the corridor out of reach of shrapnel and shattering glass. She was 80. When Beirut airport was finally opened, she came to London - her white hair in plaits and looking much younger. I remember her saying, ‘It was very exciting, we had to find a generator and everything - we were all together in the building, and everyone wanted to know my opinion because I was the oldest.’ She handed me these bullet casings and shrapnel collected from the corners of her flat. MAYSOON PACHACHI, film maker,
living in London since the late 60’s |
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