If I had the chance to talk someone from the past, I would talk to my grandpa. I would tell him that my grandma is still alive and how much his grandchildren had grown. He would be very happy if he knew that my grandma was alive.

He would be very happy if he knew that his house is not demolished and that we still live there, and that the trees in his garden are still standing and that my grandma is taking care of them. I used to say that I missed the days when we played doctor with him and the days when he bought me chocolate every time I came over. And I would tell him that his new grandchildren were born. My grandpa was a Muslim headman. He was a person who made bread in the oven in his garden and distributed it to neighbours, worked to send his children to Quran courses and distributed toys and chocolate to children in the neighborhood. I’m proud to be his grandchild. He would hold me in his arms and take me to the park and teach me reading Quran. The day my grandpa died, I asked my mom why we didn’t go to my grandpa, and she said he was sick. They were deceiving me because I was little. I knew that my grandpa died 2 years later, and I cried a lot. Now, when I go to my grandma, I can’t take my doctor’s kit, go to the park, or eat chocolate.  That’s why I want to talk my grandpa and hug him. I love him so much. Thanks to him, I’m reading Quran.