The land watered with blood

My mother tells the stories of the Sphinx and the stories of the pharaohs. - Thus, Pharaoh, who claims to be a god to his people, ordered the Muslim maid to be thrown alive into a huge boiling cauldron. My mother has a bad habit. If I don't wash the dishes on time during the day, if I don't pretend to make the house as clean as sheet she stops at the most interesting part of the story telling time and punish us without continuing. 

Maybe because of the war period, in the countryside where we live, there were no people who considered themselves rich. The thatched walls, which were leaning on the ground, were ready to give their bosom to the soil, using the lying wind as an excuse. The last crops of the villagers, who were waiting for the harvest, were robbed, and the whole nation was left without wheat. 

I still cannot forget those years. My mother's shoelaces were worn out. She didn't wear it regularly, she only used it to walk along the thorny, thick sand road to visit my grandmother's grave. Kindhearted mother baked bread from a light bag of wheat that she kept in the barn, and took it out sometimes to aunt Salima's house, and sometimes to old woman Khosiyat's house. 

One day, a young man, who is either familiar or unfamiliar to my mother, and a complete stranger to me, begged my mother to give him slippers for his mother, whose foot was swollen with pus. On the one hand, my mother's right hand, who was feeling pity, was handing out shoes, and on the other hand, her left hand was trying to return the gift, saying, "If you walk barefoot on that thorny path, your feet will be no different from hers"... 

The land that was watered with the blood that leaked from my mother's blessed steps, and where the cypress sprouted, today has been turned into a royal garden with marble stones. There is a race of people who can't be indifferent to the golden counter. It says: "This road is dedicated to the memory of a generous woman named Noila.