Our story, or how and why it all began:
Or perhaps I would put it this way:
I remember the tent, the straw mat, the phantom figures and objects that Sarin the Bedouin used to surround us with, as if they were born out of the flickering coals reflected in his eyes. I remember the morning sun scorching, turning the hawks’ cheeks red under their yellow glare. And how I would shove branches into the burrow holes and chase away the mice and snakes, the hawks diving and devouring them alive. I remember myself going to the wadi, letting the hungry quicksand envelope me, until, miraculously, a large rock as if lent its shoulder to my feet and helped me steady myself.