email me: pr.asma.benmoussa@gmail.com

Text: Grandpa Mouloud

Nobody knew that Grandpa Mouloud was a Moudjahid. Well, maybe Grandma Sousou knew, but if she did, she took that secret to the grave. None of her children had any idea, not even my mother, who was the eldest and the most trusted of them all, always by her parents' side. She was her mother’s confident and her father’s right hand,andeven she didn’t know.

But you know what they say: the truth always comes out and this time, it happened in the most unexpected way.

Let me tell you how it all unfolded.

Two summers ago, I went to Turkey for a much-needed vacation. It had been a rough couple of years. The shop had gone under, and we had to rebuild everything from scratch. We went back to the drawing board, searching for a new idea. I had to call in every favor, reach out to everyone I knew, no matter how distant the connection. I worked 80-hour weeks, 100-hour weeks even, for months on end. It was exhausting. Thankfully, it all paid off. By summer, things were finally looking up, so I decided to treat myself to a vacation. I needed to clear my head.

Anyway, back to the story.

I was having lunch at a restaurant in Bodrum when I overheard someone at the table next to mine speaking Dardja, with the very distinct accent of my tiny village. I couldn’t help myself, I turned around and said hello. We all laughed at the coincidence and fell into the usual Algerian routine of: “Do you know so-and-so?” “Oh yeah, I know so-and-so.”

Then I mentioned my grandfather’s name.

Their jaws dropped. It was like they had seen a ghost.

One of them stood up and gave me the warmest handshake I’ve ever received in my life. I just stood there, completely confused. “What is this about?” I thought…