My dad used to call an elderly aunt on my mother’s side ‘Leila Khaled’, because of the dark glasses she’d wear to mask her lazy eye. Growing up, thats all I knew of this Leila, a nebulous figure in blacked out shades, infamous for some sort of hijacking and an aunt of biscuit-dry wit who got done in when cancer got her last laugh.
Surrealism tinged the weekend, almost like when the Che head on someone’s t-shirt suddenly animated and asked what he was doing as a logo. We met the woman behind the icon, the living, breathing, cigarette-smoking mother who once hijacked planes and the news agenda of the early 70s to tell the world that a gross injustice had been done to her people.
Terrorist, freedom fighter; titles tied to your context, she stood before us and declared “let our dreams worry our enemies.”
With Hell visiting in Lebanon and Gaza, I pray dreams aren’t being burned along with everything else.
I ‘Walked the Talk’ this Sunday, and woke this morning to feel every single meter of the ten kilometres my sneakers slapped.
note to self: a pot of chamomile tea does not cancel out a double-espresso imbibed after 10pm.