My grandmother managed an orchard in Latakia – Syria. Labour consisted of a farmer and his family caring daily for the orange trees.

The farmer’s youngest was a six-year-old daughter. My grandmother observed that the little girl was introverted and rarely played with her siblings. She spent most of her time alone in the house, occasionally emerging to walk on the grounds or play with the dog. My grandmother eventually asked the farmer about his daughter, and he told her she had been a troubled child since she was young. She wondered if there was anything she could do to help, and the farmer explained that his daughter had been making claims that they were not her family and that her family was from a remote village in Syria. He complained that his daughter was driving them to the edge with her claims, and they’ve had many altercations to stop it, but nothing worked.

My grandmother was fond of the farmer and his family and viewed them as her own family. She was open-minded, intelligent and a good listener. She was highly regarded in the community of farmers, and many visited her for her advice. She asked to speak to the daughter in the presence of her parents.

“My child, your father spoke with me and told me you are unhappy here. Why is that?”
“Because this is not my home. This is not my family.”
“Where is your home, and who are your family?”

The girl gave the name of her village and a family name. Back then, there was no internet, not even computers, so checking as we do now was impossible. My grandmother suggested that the farmer accompany her and his daughter to the village she named to visit and discover the truth for themselves. A few days later, they were in a car and drove for many hours until they reached their destination. The village was very small and basic. The girl became animated when they arrived and guided the driver to a house. They stopped outside the home, and she rushed out of the car with the adults following her. The house’s residents met them, and the girl interacted with them before my grandmother could say anything.

“I know you. You are so and so…”

The girl identified the adults by name and told them that she was ‘Mariam’

They were Alewites by religion and believed in reincarnation. They listened intently as she identified them individually and recounted personal details that she could not have possibly known. They went into the house and the girl went straight into a bedroom and commented that this was her bedroom and it had been rearranged. She described how the bedroom was previously in detail. When they all emerged out of the bedroom, she went up to a picture on the wall that showed an older woman and said this was her. The family asked her questions and her answers were precise, they concluded that the girl was indeed who she was purporting to be and that she was their mother, Mariam. There were many tears, even by the grown men, they hugged her, kissed her and invited them to coffee and tea. When it was time to leave, the scene was even more emotional. The family hugged the girl; it was hard to let go. Eventually, my grandmother guided the girl and her father back to the car and promised the family they could visit her in the future.

It was a long drive back to the orchard, and the girl cried a lot. They were very deep sobs and my grandmother told her father to let her cry. In time a change came over the girl, she was no longer a recluse but interacted with her siblings and became very communicative and playful. She never mentioned the other family or her past life again; she was finally at peace.

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