Description
I stood on the hill of Al-Nuwayri, looking north. The city appeared like chaff scattered by the wind, or like a faded tattoo. I saw the displaced walking over the rubble: crowding like pilgrims circumambulating the Kaaba, scattering below on the banks of the valley, walking on water, carrying some of their belongings and the remnants of loved ones, for I had been shattered in the wilderness of displacement. I saw them returning to the nothingness that the war had left them, and everything it had left them. I saw them all, just as we used to walk in the funeral procession behind Sitt Halima, weary and drowning in the clouds of their hopes that overflowed but never rained.
Now I stand on the hill, brushing away from my head all the harsh months and the wearying memories. I wonder what I will do like them and descend the road, then walk over the bridge, then cross Rashid Street and wander through the alleys between the demolished buildings, peering from the windows hanging in the void, perhaps to see something of the past, or perhaps to glimpse a glimmer of what is to come.
If I were a magician, I could resurrect the city from the dead. The buildings would rise, the wounds of its honorable citizens would heal, sparks would fly, and the roads would be reshaped once more.
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