Sitting on a chair in front of his tent, holding his pipe. Whenever someone passes by, he lifts the pipe from his mouth with a graceful gesture and greets him: “Welcome, so-and-so, son of so-and-so. Please, come in”. There was no doubt he was sad. It was obvious from the expressions on his face. Yet, he seemed to know everyone, or perhaps everyone recognized him. He concealed his sorrow behind the pipe in his mouth, a coffee pot filled to the brim; a deep voice that was looking for some attention. With this, his presence was remarkably clear.
“Sure, you could know from his wrinkles that he was eighty years old, my son”. He pauses to ask your age. You say that you are thirty; He tells you his heart is still in its twenties. Just like that, he takes you on a journey, recounting tales of chasing deer, beasts, criminals and killers. His stories are vivid, pulling you into a world of wonder. You ask, and he answers. He has the best response for everything. His body has scars almost everywhere.
“As I grow older” he says, “these scars grow, too. It becomes part of us, shaping who we are in the end. Look at me, I’ve ended up with no one around; and this pipe? It’s old; older than the High Commissioner and the camp delegate. But, as you know, it’s just a pipe with no tobacco in it”.
Anees Ghanima
November 15, 2024
