Summer is not beautiful in Iraq; it is old and it is standing on a
long failure. The summer here, like me, loves watermelon, but it is a bitter
love. The watermelon here is something hidden and wondrous, full of secrets and
magic, and our ancestors often tell us about it strangely, until I thought that
the watermelon is a mythical being. When I return from my long absence, I will
go to one of the doors of my grandfather's small orchard, and I will paint a
small watermelon on it and I will celebrate. I will invite all the birds of the
earth to seed the grain of watermelon in the fields of the Iraqis in order to
make a big celebration; it is the festivity of the great Watermelon.
