Time, time, time. Man alone chimes the hour and man alone sacrifices the heart. Onwards, forwards. If you have a goal, a destination, and you create a reason good enough that your own dichotomous entities can not dispute, you will ward off the deep depravity of depression’s grip and the remnants of heartbreak.
For Iftar, we trek to Said’s brother’s compound outside center. The women are shrouded and the men are late. I am ushered into a private room, where the women and children eat apart from the men. An onlooker at the hidden world, women chatter in hushed tones and prepare the meal for the men first. With their fabric faces drawn, I peer into the vulnerability of facial flesh. So unscathed by gaze and with inadvertent eye contact. Dalia, Said’s rebellious counterpart, raises her tone and loosens her jaws at the women. They smile, unsteadily, and speak in airy Arabic. Dalia retorts flatly in return, hushing the women for a call, and gears up her gestures toward the thought of a person in front of her with a voice to her ear. She fights with the women, standing up swiftly and bending her forefingers in my direction. “Let’s go”. I express my thanks, and we escort ourselves from the property with grace. Later on, Dalia brings us to her apartment/house in old Shali ruins. The house is restored, the terra made from salt, and the ambiance channeling that of an anechoic chamber, vibrating your thoughts and your words within your eardrums so that you can’t tell which is what. She says “I want you to come and relax because…. I know.” I know, too. We both are knowing the unspoken tensity of Said’s nature. I never did find out what she said to those women in that room.