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It was a 1）sweltering June night many years ago， with the smell of sea and jasmine thick in the air. I lay on the black-leather couch in the living room with my head on my grandmother’s lap as she stroked my hair with her gentle， calloused hand. I felt 2）encased， cherished， protected， loved.
I remember that my mom and my grandma talked for hours， gossiping， laughing， weaving stories about past and future， suspending us in time and space. They talked about me， about the need to protect me from the evil eye of a jealous aunt. They talked about my brother， about how strongly he resembled my uncle who’d died tragically years before.
As I drifted into sweet sleep， their voices came from further and further away until all I heard was the soft， 3）melodious 4）cadence of their speech： the sound of love， the sound of my childhood.
My grandmother’s name was Johra and she neither knew how to read nor write， but I learned much from her simple wisdom and common sense.
She was a fountain of stories and anecdotes， fascinating stories that run 5）parallel to the history of my country： stories about her childhood， stories about the French-Algerian war， stories about survival during brutal， harsh times.
She had a tough life： She lost her husband early and never remarried， raising her five children on her own. She lost her youngest son under tragic circumstances. She suffered materially and emotionally until much later in her life， when my mother could afford to take care of her.
In many ways， modern life passed my grandma by. She knew nothing of how computers and televisions and telephones and cars worked， but she took all of these developments in her stride and was surprisingly open-minded. By necessity， most of her knowledge of the modern world came to her through her children and grandchildren.
We would sit side by side in front of the television， and I would translate the classical Arabic or French that was on the news into an Algerian dialect that she could understand. I loved to explain things to her： politics， technology， history， space travel. She always trusted that my explanation was the right one. Eventually， she even learned to use the cell phone that my cousin got for her， and it became one of her most prized possessions.
The last time I ever saw my grandmother， she wore a pretty sky-blue dress matched by a scarf of the same colour on her head.
She had always maintained a remarkable form. Her hair was almost 6）jet-black， her back straight， her skin supple. Whether this was due to a diet rich in olive oil or a youth spent in the open air I’ll never know. But on that last visit， she looked thin and frail， the effects of two strokes visible in the slumping of her body， a very 7）perceptible lettinggo. I had travelled from Paris to 8）Algiers specifically to see her； she had asked for me， sensing， no doubt， that the end of her journey on this side was near.
We met in the garden. She sat in the shade of the old fig tree， singing folk songs as I rocked in the 9）hammock beside her. The water fountain in the corner made splashing noises and attracted chirping birds and butterflies.
My grandmother loved this garden； it reminded her of the vast open fields of her 10）Kabylia childhood. She had never 11）acclimated to city living， finding apartments too narrow and 12）claustrophobic， and every chance she had， she would take a trip back to Kabylia to visit family and harvest olive oil with the women there.
My grandma died of a stroke last year， and I still miss her terribly. I miss her laughter， I miss her gentleness， I miss her warmth. Sometimes， I still can’t believe that she is gone and that I will never see her again， never again share a laugh with her or explain politics to her or buy her a new scarf.
The older I get， the more I realize that love， unconditional love， is rare and hard to come by. Life is tough. Everyone is out for themselves. When you lose a grandparent， you lose one of the few people who love you just as you are. It feels like an essential link to my childhood has been severed.
So much has happened since my childhood days， so much has changed. The Internet came about. CDs and DVDs replaced cassette recorders and videos. There were wars， tsunamis， global warming， near economic meltdowns. Time keeps rushing forward. Sometimes I wish I could make it stop， or at least slow down， but I know it is a cheap， futile thought.
But in the turmoil of these changing times， my grandmother gave me so many memories I can cling to， so many anchors to steady this ship and to steer her to safe harbour. I may not always know where I’m going， but I will always know where I came from. To me， that is a source of great strength.
那是多年前一个闷热的六月之夜，空气中蕴含着海水和茉莉花的浓郁气息。我躺在客厅的黑色皮躺椅上，头枕在姥姥怀里，她那长满茧子的温柔双手抚摸着我的头发。我感到被围裹，被珍视，被爱护。
我记得妈妈和姥姥会聊上几个小时，闲话家常，大声说笑，编织着关于过去和未来的故事，将我们悬置于时空之中。他们说着关于我的事，说要保护我，以躲避一位心怀嫉妒的阿姨邪恶的目光。他们说起我的哥哥，说他跟我那位多年前凄惨离世的舅舅长得有多么像。
当我飘忽进入甜蜜的梦乡，她们的声音离我越来越远，直到我只能听到她们说话时那轻柔优美的韵律：爱的声音，童年的声音。
我的姥姥名叫乔娜，她不会读书也不会写字，但我从她简单的智慧和常识中学到很多的东西。
她是众多故事和奇闻轶事的源泉，那些迷人的故事都与我们国家的历史并驾而行：关于她童年的故事，关于法阿战争的故事，还有关于艰难困苦时期的求生挣扎故事。 她的一生过得很艰难：她早早就失去了丈夫，一直没有再婚，凭一己之力抚养五个孩子。她在很凄惨的境况下失去了最小的儿子。她在物质和精神上一直经受痛苦，直到人生的晚年，我妈妈有能力照顾她时才得以好转。
在许多方面，现代生活都与姥姥擦肩而过。她完全搞不懂电脑、电视、电话和汽车是怎么一回事，但她对这些新玩意儿都从容处之，并且令人吃惊地虚心。难免地，她对于现代世界的大部分认知都来自她的儿孙。
我们会并排坐在电视机前，我会将新闻里标准的阿拉伯语或法语翻译成她能听懂的阿尔及利亚方言。我喜爱向她解释各种事物：政治、科技、历史、太空旅行。她总是相信我的解释就是正确的。后来，她甚至还学会了使用手机，那是我表亲带给她的，而这也成为了她最珍贵的财产之一。
我最后一次见到姥姥时，她穿着一条漂亮的天蓝色裙子，头上搭配着一条同色的头巾。
她的形貌体态一直保持得不错。头发几乎是乌黑的，腰背直挺，皮肤润泽。这究竟归功于其富含橄榄油的饮食还是年轻时的户外劳作，我不得而知。但在那最后一次见面时，她看上去瘦弱不堪，两次中风的后果显然令她的身体不断变坏，撒手的迹象显而易见。
我专程从巴黎去到阿尔及尔看她，她说要见我，毫无疑问，她已经感觉到离自己的人生旅程终点不远了。
我们在花园里见面。她坐在那棵老无花果树的树荫里，唱着民谣，而我则躺在她身边那吊床里，左右晃着。角落的喷水池溅水有声，吸引了啾鸣的鸟儿和蝴蝶。
姥姥很喜欢这个花园，这让她想起她在卡比利亚童年时开阔广袤的田野。她一直适应不了城市生活，觉得公寓住宅太狭小，而且让人产生幽闭恐惧，她一有机会就会回到卡比利亚探访亲人，并且跟当地的妇女一起采收橄榄油。
姥姥去年因中风去世了，我依然深深地想念她。我想念她的笑声，想念她的亲切，想念她的温暖。有时候，我仍然无法相信她已经走了，我永远也不能再见到她了，永远也无法再和她一起欢笑，或者为她解释政治，或者为她买一件新的头巾了。
年纪越大，我越意识到，爱，无条件的爱，是稀有且难以获得的。生活很艰难。每个人都为自己在外奔波。当你失去了一位（外）祖父母，你就失去了那些少数能无条件爱你的人中的一员。那就像是紧扣童年的关键链接被切断了一样。
自我童年以来，发生了许多事情，也发生了很多改变。互联网出现了。CD和DVD替代了磁带录音机和录像。发生过战争、海啸、全球变暖，以及多次经济衰退。时间不断向前流走。有时候我希望我可以让它停下来，或者至少慢下来，但我知道那是一种毫无价值且徒劳的想法。
但是在那些时代变迁的混乱之中，姥姥给了我很多可以依附的回忆，很多用以开稳生命之船，驾驭其通往安全港湾的船锚。我或许并非总是知道自己正去往何方，但我总是清楚自己来自何方。对于我而言，那是一种伟大力量的来源。
I remember that my mom and my grandma talked for hours， gossiping， laughing， weaving stories about past and future， suspending us in time and space. They talked about me， about the need to protect me from the evil eye of a jealous aunt. They talked about my brother， about how strongly he resembled my uncle who’d died tragically years before.
As I drifted into sweet sleep， their voices came from further and further away until all I heard was the soft， 3）melodious 4）cadence of their speech： the sound of love， the sound of my childhood.
My grandmother’s name was Johra and she neither knew how to read nor write， but I learned much from her simple wisdom and common sense.
She was a fountain of stories and anecdotes， fascinating stories that run 5）parallel to the history of my country： stories about her childhood， stories about the French-Algerian war， stories about survival during brutal， harsh times.
She had a tough life： She lost her husband early and never remarried， raising her five children on her own. She lost her youngest son under tragic circumstances. She suffered materially and emotionally until much later in her life， when my mother could afford to take care of her.
In many ways， modern life passed my grandma by. She knew nothing of how computers and televisions and telephones and cars worked， but she took all of these developments in her stride and was surprisingly open-minded. By necessity， most of her knowledge of the modern world came to her through her children and grandchildren.
We would sit side by side in front of the television， and I would translate the classical Arabic or French that was on the news into an Algerian dialect that she could understand. I loved to explain things to her： politics， technology， history， space travel. She always trusted that my explanation was the right one. Eventually， she even learned to use the cell phone that my cousin got for her， and it became one of her most prized possessions.
The last time I ever saw my grandmother， she wore a pretty sky-blue dress matched by a scarf of the same colour on her head.
She had always maintained a remarkable form. Her hair was almost 6）jet-black， her back straight， her skin supple. Whether this was due to a diet rich in olive oil or a youth spent in the open air I’ll never know. But on that last visit， she looked thin and frail， the effects of two strokes visible in the slumping of her body， a very 7）perceptible lettinggo. I had travelled from Paris to 8）Algiers specifically to see her； she had asked for me， sensing， no doubt， that the end of her journey on this side was near.
We met in the garden. She sat in the shade of the old fig tree， singing folk songs as I rocked in the 9）hammock beside her. The water fountain in the corner made splashing noises and attracted chirping birds and butterflies.
My grandmother loved this garden； it reminded her of the vast open fields of her 10）Kabylia childhood. She had never 11）acclimated to city living， finding apartments too narrow and 12）claustrophobic， and every chance she had， she would take a trip back to Kabylia to visit family and harvest olive oil with the women there.
My grandma died of a stroke last year， and I still miss her terribly. I miss her laughter， I miss her gentleness， I miss her warmth. Sometimes， I still can’t believe that she is gone and that I will never see her again， never again share a laugh with her or explain politics to her or buy her a new scarf.
The older I get， the more I realize that love， unconditional love， is rare and hard to come by. Life is tough. Everyone is out for themselves. When you lose a grandparent， you lose one of the few people who love you just as you are. It feels like an essential link to my childhood has been severed.
So much has happened since my childhood days， so much has changed. The Internet came about. CDs and DVDs replaced cassette recorders and videos. There were wars， tsunamis， global warming， near economic meltdowns. Time keeps rushing forward. Sometimes I wish I could make it stop， or at least slow down， but I know it is a cheap， futile thought.
But in the turmoil of these changing times， my grandmother gave me so many memories I can cling to， so many anchors to steady this ship and to steer her to safe harbour. I may not always know where I’m going， but I will always know where I came from. To me， that is a source of great strength.
那是多年前一个闷热的六月之夜，空气中蕴含着海水和茉莉花的浓郁气息。我躺在客厅的黑色皮躺椅上，头枕在姥姥怀里，她那长满茧子的温柔双手抚摸着我的头发。我感到被围裹，被珍视，被爱护。
我记得妈妈和姥姥会聊上几个小时，闲话家常，大声说笑，编织着关于过去和未来的故事，将我们悬置于时空之中。他们说着关于我的事，说要保护我，以躲避一位心怀嫉妒的阿姨邪恶的目光。他们说起我的哥哥，说他跟我那位多年前凄惨离世的舅舅长得有多么像。
当我飘忽进入甜蜜的梦乡，她们的声音离我越来越远，直到我只能听到她们说话时那轻柔优美的韵律：爱的声音，童年的声音。
我的姥姥名叫乔娜，她不会读书也不会写字，但我从她简单的智慧和常识中学到很多的东西。
她是众多故事和奇闻轶事的源泉，那些迷人的故事都与我们国家的历史并驾而行：关于她童年的故事，关于法阿战争的故事，还有关于艰难困苦时期的求生挣扎故事。 她的一生过得很艰难：她早早就失去了丈夫，一直没有再婚，凭一己之力抚养五个孩子。她在很凄惨的境况下失去了最小的儿子。她在物质和精神上一直经受痛苦，直到人生的晚年，我妈妈有能力照顾她时才得以好转。
在许多方面，现代生活都与姥姥擦肩而过。她完全搞不懂电脑、电视、电话和汽车是怎么一回事，但她对这些新玩意儿都从容处之，并且令人吃惊地虚心。难免地，她对于现代世界的大部分认知都来自她的儿孙。
我们会并排坐在电视机前，我会将新闻里标准的阿拉伯语或法语翻译成她能听懂的阿尔及利亚方言。我喜爱向她解释各种事物：政治、科技、历史、太空旅行。她总是相信我的解释就是正确的。后来，她甚至还学会了使用手机，那是我表亲带给她的，而这也成为了她最珍贵的财产之一。
我最后一次见到姥姥时，她穿着一条漂亮的天蓝色裙子，头上搭配着一条同色的头巾。
她的形貌体态一直保持得不错。头发几乎是乌黑的，腰背直挺，皮肤润泽。这究竟归功于其富含橄榄油的饮食还是年轻时的户外劳作，我不得而知。但在那最后一次见面时，她看上去瘦弱不堪，两次中风的后果显然令她的身体不断变坏，撒手的迹象显而易见。
我专程从巴黎去到阿尔及尔看她，她说要见我，毫无疑问，她已经感觉到离自己的人生旅程终点不远了。
我们在花园里见面。她坐在那棵老无花果树的树荫里，唱着民谣，而我则躺在她身边那吊床里，左右晃着。角落的喷水池溅水有声，吸引了啾鸣的鸟儿和蝴蝶。
姥姥很喜欢这个花园，这让她想起她在卡比利亚童年时开阔广袤的田野。她一直适应不了城市生活，觉得公寓住宅太狭小，而且让人产生幽闭恐惧，她一有机会就会回到卡比利亚探访亲人，并且跟当地的妇女一起采收橄榄油。
姥姥去年因中风去世了，我依然深深地想念她。我想念她的笑声，想念她的亲切，想念她的温暖。有时候，我仍然无法相信她已经走了，我永远也不能再见到她了，永远也无法再和她一起欢笑，或者为她解释政治，或者为她买一件新的头巾了。
年纪越大，我越意识到，爱，无条件的爱，是稀有且难以获得的。生活很艰难。每个人都为自己在外奔波。当你失去了一位（外）祖父母，你就失去了那些少数能无条件爱你的人中的一员。那就像是紧扣童年的关键链接被切断了一样。
自我童年以来，发生了许多事情，也发生了很多改变。互联网出现了。CD和DVD替代了磁带录音机和录像。发生过战争、海啸、全球变暖，以及多次经济衰退。时间不断向前流走。有时候我希望我可以让它停下来，或者至少慢下来，但我知道那是一种毫无价值且徒劳的想法。
但是在那些时代变迁的混乱之中，姥姥给了我很多可以依附的回忆，很多用以开稳生命之船，驾驭其通往安全港湾的船锚。我或许并非总是知道自己正去往何方，但我总是清楚自己来自何方。对于我而言，那是一种伟大力量的来源。