Son of Petra cave's

The book part 2

Under the tutelage of Teacher Ahmed, I embarked upon my expedition into the world of the unknown. From learning how to grip my pen, a weapon mightier than the sharpest sword, to the opening of a book, a portal to different worlds, I was being initiated into a sacred order. The first letter was not just a symbol, it was an embodiment of a promise of a better future.

As the class ended, the journey back home began. Another two hours, threading through the mystical Petra’s mountains and caves, my little steps were filled with a newfound enthusiasm. The long walk was no more a tedious route but a path of contemplation, and dreams of a brighter tomorrow.

With each day that came to an end, I realized the journey had just begun. A journey not limited by the confines of the school or the long roads back to my cave, but a journey that would last a lifetime. As the sun sank behind the majestic mountains, the cave echoed with the scratch of my pen against the paper, the cohabitation of shadows and light painting a surreal picture.

Thus, the story of a barefooted boy, a plastic bag full of dreams, and the ancient city of Petra continues. What next chapter awaits him? Only time will tell. The echo of his pen continues to resonate, leaving the reader wondering, eagerly anticipating, and perpetually hooked to the tale of his journey.

As I stood at the entrance of our humble cave dwelling, nestled between the imposing mountains and the mysterious Petra caves, the last threads of the day’s energy started to escape me. A long day’s walk always left me drained, but there was something exhilarating about coming home, a feeling that washed away all weariness.

My mother, the robust woman with a spirit that could make the mountains quake, was there, as always, to welcome me. A sound echoed in the air, penetrating the silence of the desert. It was a Zaghrouda, a traditional Bedouin thrum that signaled joy, intensity, and celebration. The sound was raw, a tangible vibration that seemed to resonate with the depth of a thousand echoing canyons.

It coursed through the valley, bouncing off the stone-cut buildings and scattering the desert wildlife. It reverberated off our cave walls, filling up the small space with a sound that was uniquely ours. It wasn’t just a trill; it was a wild, searing anthem of our resilience, our happiness, our very existence.

It began with a flicker of her tongue, a swift dance against the roof of her mouth, and then a forceful expulsion of breath that erupted into the air. Sometimes she would use her hand, waving it back and forth in front of her mouth to manipulate the sound, to create variations in pitch and volume. Each Zaghrouda was unique, a sonic fingerprint etched into the vastness of the desert.

Her eyes sparkled with unfathomable joy as I returned home from school each day. The place that was so unfamiliar to her; she did not understand the concept of a school, the idea of structured learning. Her life lessons were learned beneath the open sky, from the whispering winds and the harshness of the desert.

Yet, she respected my pursuit and honored it in the only way she knew – with a Zaghrouda. It was a grand announcement of my return, a note of joy that bore the weight of her dreams for me. Her voice was my beacon, guiding me back to our home, nestled between the mountains and the Petra caves.

The sound of Zaghrouda echoed in the silence of the night as I lay down to sleep, the images of schoolbooks and the smell of the desert intertwining in my dreams. My mother’s voice was the last sound I heard each day, a lullaby as old as the mountains themselves.

As the morning sun rose, the desert resumed its silent hymn, and I was left wondering. Wondering about the dreams my mother held in her heart, and about the day she herself would understand the meaning of school. Until then, I knew I could expect the resonating sound of her joy, the unique Zaghrouda, to welcome me home every day.

As I stepped into the arms of the cave, my mother’s excited trill echoing around me, I was reminded, as always, of the dichotomy of our world. Hers, filled with simple joys and raw emotions, expressed through our ancient language of sounds. Mine, a world of learning, filled with books and knowledge, conceived in the heart of a distant school, strangely alien to her Bedouin existence.

Every day, as I returned from school, my mother welcomed me with the same enthusiasm, the same Zaghrouda. Yet, she could not fathom what ‘school’ truly meant—all those hours spent in a building, filled with books and ideas. She never understood the realm of knowledge, the concept of structured education. Instead, her world was one of instinct, emotion, and sounds—an ancient tradition that served as her school.

My mother, so accustomed to the desert sands and ancient traditions, found herself lost in the concept of structured education. She had no framework to comprehend the alphabets and numbers I was learning in school; a different world, unattainable from this cave. To her, ‘school’ was a strange and distant land she could only access through my experiences.

In her zaghrouda, I heard an unspoken promise – a promise to support me, to push me towards the better future that lay within those textbooks. And so, I would wake up each day, ready to walk through the mountains, to sit in that foreign place called ‘school’, fuelled by the power of her sound, her faith.

Yet, despite the differences, our worlds harmoniously coexisted through these daily reunions, through her Zaghrouda. Her sound of joy, echoing through Petra’s age-old mountains, transcended the gap between our worlds, the old and the new, the traditional and the modern. It was a testament to the power of love, of joy, of acceptance that surpasses all barriers.