Written by: Manal Rabiey
I often wander through my dreams in stone-carved cities, where the people have etched their homes into hardened rock. I drift aimlessly, not knowing where I am or how I arrived. I walk among those who walk—yet I do not know their language, and they do not understand my logic.
They move with their eyes cast downward, void of light, blind—marching mechanically, as if heading toward their own judgment.
There are no mosques along the way, no churches either, as if the sacred scriptures had been lifted and vanished.
But my heart weeps, longing to return.
Return where?
In the past, I longed to return to my mother and father when I was small. Now I roam distant lands, climb mountains, descend valleys.
My feet are covered in dust as I walk, not knowing why, how, or for how long.
Why do I seek a path through houses I do not know, in cities that feel foreign?
I enter fields, pick fruit, and finally sit down.
Suddenly, I realize:
My hair is uncombed, my feet bare, no bag on my shoulder, no money in my hand.
I look up to the sky and cry.
It is then that the symbols of my confusion unravel.
I see my path clearly—as if my compass had always been hanging in the sky, not buried in this vanishing earth.
When I grew older, I began searching for my daughter, as if chasing the child I used to be—
a child who died in fears and in endless running after nothing.
I lose my way when I look at the ground.
I find it only when I look at the sky.
The path was me all along.
And arrival… is in union.
And knowledge… is only found through faith.
