Lebanon, 1960s. In a country where tradition, faith, and history intertwine, a young boy began telling a story that seemed to belong to another time—and another life. His name was Suleyman Andray, and from early childhood, he claimed to remember who he had been before he was born.
Suleyman was born in 1954 into a Druze family in Lebanon. The Druze faith, derived from Islam but theologically distinct, holds a firm belief in reincarnation. According to this belief, the soul does not end with death but moves directly into a new body. Even within this cultural and religious framework, however, Suleyman’s claims stood out for their precision and persistence.
At around five or six years old, his family began hearing him mutter unfamiliar names in his sleep. When asked about them, Suleyman explained—calmly and without hesitation—that they were the names of his children from a previous life. He spoke of a village called Gharife and said he had once owned an olive oil press there.
As he grew older, the memories did not fade. At the age of eleven, Suleyman refused to lend a book to someone, explaining that in his former life he had made it a rule never to lend his books. The explanation puzzled adults around him: it did not sound like childish stubbornness, but like a habit carried over from long ago.
One name, in particular, returned again and again—Abdallah. Suleyman eventually said that this had been his name in his previous life. Abdallah, he claimed, had lived in Gharife and had worked as the owner of an olive oil press. The details were strikingly specific, delivered with the confidence of memory rather than imagination.
But these stories came at a cost. Among other children, Suleyman became the subject of ridicule. His claims marked him as strange, different. Over time, the teasing pushed him into silence. He chose to stop talking about his memories, keeping them to himself.
Everything changed in 1967, when Suleyman visited Gharife for the first time in his current life. What happened there unsettled both his family and the villagers. Residents confirmed that a man named Abdallah Abu Hamdan had indeed lived in the village—and that he had owned an olive oil press, exactly as Suleyman had described.
Even more puzzling, the boy recognized landmarks without guidance. He identified paths, buildings, and locations he had never been shown before. To the villagers, his familiarity with the place seemed impossible. To Suleyman, it felt natural.
Was this evidence of reincarnation? A psychological phenomenon shaped by cultural belief? Or a complex blend of inherited stories, subconscious memory, and childhood imagination?
Researchers who study cases like Suleyman’s—particularly in psychology and parapsychology—note that regions where reincarnation is culturally accepted report a higher number of such testimonies. Still, cases involving specific, independently confirmed details remain rare.
Suleyman Andray never sought attention or recognition. If anything, his memories were as much a burden as a mystery—a past life intruding upon a present one, a mind carrying echoes it could not fully explain.
In a world that treats death as a final boundary, Suleyman’s story suggests that, for some, that boundary may not be as solid as we believe.
Gemini, CC0,
