Son of Petra cave's

The book part1

Whispers of Sandstone: Echoes of a Petra Child, In the heart of the ancient city of Petra Cave, In the heart of the desolate, mystical land where I was born, where the rocky mountains echoed back stories of ancient civilizations, my life took a curious turn at the tender age of six. It was an age of innocence, marred only by the vague sense of a missing piece, like a puzzle waiting to be completed.

I found an odd kinship with the moonlit shadows and the ancient rocks whispering timeless tales. Life was simple, and my world was small, my universe confined within the limits of the rocky expanses. However, an extraordinary occurrence was about to catapult me into a new sphere, shattering the confines of my limited world.

One day, as I ventured beyond my habitual paths, I saw them. Strangers, their faces marked with an exotic allure, transcending geographical boundaries. Their language was alien to me, their demeanor distinguishably different, yet I was irresistibly drawn to their aura. The sight of these wanderers ignited in me a flame that would guide the rest of my life – a desire to bridge the gap, to understand, to connect.

Among them, I met a young girl, her age mirroring my own. Her sparkling eyes spoke languages that her lips didn’t utter. She asked questions in a tongue I couldn’t comprehend, yet the curiosity in her eyes was universal. I found myself caught in a whirlwind of emotions, suspended between truth and fiction.

Each day became a quest for me to demystify the language barrier and create a bridge between our worlds. I began observing them, mimicking their sounds, gestures, and expressions. My cave became my classroom; the day’s events were my lessons.

In the depths of the ancient city of Petra, where the sunlight could not reach and time seemed to stand still, I was handed a peculiar artifact by the girl’s mother. It was shrouded in dark, worn-out leather, and inside were beige, almost yellowish papers. At that moment, it was just another strange item for me. You see, where others dwelt in a world lit by knowledge, I lived in a cave, secluded from the usual rites of civilization. Books, penmanship, the enchantment of reading and writing, they were as alien to me as the concept of time. Living here in this arcane cove, I was a relic of my own, a living embodiment of the stone age.

The girl’s mother had always been a mystery. Her eyes held a thousand stories, yet the words never escaped her lips. She lived among us but belonged somewhere else, a realm of thoughts, imagination, and wisdom. When she handed me the book, her eyes twinkled with an unspoken message, a secret that she was charging me to unfold.

Days turned into nights, and nights into days, yet the odd gift rested untouched. Curiosity, however, is a persistent creature. One starless night, fuelled by the unquenchable desire to decipher the mystery, I carefully unwrapped the book, its beige pages rustling against the profound silence of the cave.

The markings on it were like nothing I had ever seen. Lines, curves, dots, and squiggles danced across the pages, seemingly meaningless yet carrying a strange allure. I was drawn to them, like a moth to a flame, ravenous to understand.

Thus, began my journey, void of teachers or guidance. I started observing, correlating the symbols with the tales the mother told the children. Slowly, the world unfurled in a new light, the symbols metamorphosed into words, and words into stories. I began to recognize them, one by one, as if a veil was gradually being lifted.

The book became my teacher, and the cave, my school. My world expanded, stretching beyond the rocky confines of my dwelling. I was living in the stone age, yet I was traveling across universes, battling dragons, conversing with kings, and exploring realms of magic and mystery.

Much like the dawning of day after the darkest of nights, understanding bloomed within me. The mother’s eyes no longer held cryptic stories; I saw reflected in them the same mystic lands I journeyed through the pages.

As I carved the last symbol onto the cave wall, my initiation was complete. From the quiet cave dweller, I was now the bearer of stories, the reader of the unknown, and the first writer of our tribe. But as I basked in the newfound knowledge, I couldn’t help but wonder, was this the end, or just the beginning of another journey?

Every page of existence holds a tale waiting to be written. So it was, on an unbroken dawn, I found myself cocooned in the ancient bosom of Petra, nestled amidst her austere mountains, my only possession – a book. A solitary, taciturn testimony of my quest for knowledge in a city of stone, devoid of letters. My journey began with more questions than answers. Where would I learn to master the art of weaving words? Who could guide me through the labyrinth of letters in this silent, timeless city?

As the sun etched crimson streaks across the sky, a name whispered in the wind — Wadi Musa. An oasis of knowledge nestled amidst the barren landscape, hidden from the unobservant eye, yet evident to a determined heart. The pilgrimage was not without its trials. A four-hour trek each day through harsh terrains, garments torn by the unforgiving desert, feet seared by the scorching sand. Yet, each step brought me closer to my goal, every grain of sand an insignia of my resilience

Upon my arrival, the school stood like a beacon in the searing heat, its austere exterior belying the knowledge it housed. My ragged appearance and sun-kissed skin caused a ripple of curiosity within the walls. Yet, the seed of perseverance had taken root, and I was ready to bloom. And so, it was there, amidst the curious gazes and whispered assumptions, that I met him—Ahmed, the professor.

Ahmed, a wellspring of wisdom, hailed from the land of Palestine. He ventured into our town with a purpose as profound as the desert night – to enlighten us Bedouins about the beautiful tenets of Islam, to guide us through the paths of prayer, and to instill in us the essence of our religion

Under Ahmed’s benevolent gaze, I learned not just to read the etchings on stone but to decipher the engravings upon the fabric of life itself. He breathed life into my solitary book, transforming it into a vibrant tapestry of knowledge, each thread connected to the other in an intricate dance of wisdom and understanding.

In the heart of the ageless city of Petra, within my humble cave, the book found its home. A testament of my journey, a tribute to my mentor, a symbol of my thirst for knowledge. An echo of my story resonating through the cavernous mountains, surviving the annals of time, waiting to be discovered by another seeker, ready to embark on their own quest of learning.

As the sun dips below the horizon, painting the stones of Petra with hues of twilight, one can’t help but ponder – What lies beneath the layers of time in the hands of the next seeker? What new chapters wait to be written in the unwritten book of learning? And so, the story of Petra, its solitary book, and its relentless seekers continues, shrouded in the timeless mystery of the desert.

In the heart of the ancient city of Petra, when the colors of dawn began to bloom on the horizon, I awoke. On the first day of school, my mother handed me a humble plastic bag, the vessel for my cherished school books. In that moment, the bag was not just a carrier for my school supplies, it was a symbol of a journey; a journey from the depths of our cave to the gates of knowledge.

My bare feet moved rhythmically against the terrain, each step making a sweet symphony with the crunch of the gravel. Two hours it took me, walking from the cool comfort of our cave dwelling in Petra, to the warmth of my school. It was my pilgrimage, an homage to the thirst of knowledge, traversing the path through towering mountains and labyrinthine caves of Petra.

With the ushering of the morning light, came Teacher Ahmed, a beacon of hope, his kindly eyes, my guiding Northern Star. I remember the set of pens, an eraser and a sharpener he gave me. “These are not just tools, they are your keys to unlock the treasure of knowledge. Keep them safe for two years,” his words echoed in my ears. My heart fluttered with a joy so profound that it was like an endless symphony in my ears.