Aliya of Bahariya

Aliya

I keep to my tree while people set up. Almost every woman is preparing food and making tea. There's a lot of bustling, dishes clanging, language I don't understand, babies crying, noisy children, and occasionally people shouting at someone far away from them. My little spot by the pool is suddenly chaotic after a while of peace, and I'm beginning to feel overwhelmed. Sometimes someone would glance at me, and I would feel exposed, and almost useless just sitting around while everyone else seems to be doing something.

The noises begin to blend together and swarm in my head; a headache presents itself suddenly and viciously so I lean into my hands. 

"Aliya?" 

I glance up, trying not to jerk my head. It is Musa, of course. Nobody else speaks Arabic. "Musa, hello."

"We have adequately set up the camp, you may join us now. Are you feeling alright?" 

"I'm... eh, I...well..." I mumble almost inaudibly, still feeling a pounding headache, hardly able to look at Musa for the bright sun. I swallow, my throat feeling thick and dry. "The issue must be thirst," I hedge. 

"Follow me."

I hesitate, and get up very slowly so as not to cause any further pounding in my head. I see his wife up ahead, and when she notices me in return, she gives me a small, soft smile. Their baby is wrapped to her back, in a secure position as the mother bends, twists, and shakes with the movement of setting up camp and cooking. She holds up whatever food she has been preparing, offering it to me. I salivate almost instantly. It looks like some kind of thick drink.

"It's millet. Millet and camel milk. Sit here to drink it," Musa gestures to a rug that has been put on the ground, "and sip it slowly. You will hurt your stomach otherwise."

Camel milk? I look over at Jairo, who gives me a wise, patient look. It's comical, so I smile. I sit on the rug and drink some of the milk; the millet makes it grainy.

"Thank you, it's very good."

"Fathima." Musa's wife speaks to me, pointing to herself.

I nod and smile. "It's nice to meet you, Fathima." I hold up the drink. "Very good." She busies herself again and they begin to chatter. Not long after this, Musa approaches me.

"It is time for us to pray. We won't be long."

I nod like I understand, but I don't. Pray? I think about the word, but nothing comes to mind. I watch them take handfuls of sand and begin to wipe their hands and faces. I frown; my confusion deepens. I look around, a lot of other people are doing the same thing. I go to sit by Jairo, feeling hidden and protected by her large body.

"What does pray mean?" I whisper. She pays no attention and keeps that same wise, patient look, seeming to gaze out into the horizon.

__

Night has come and everybody is settled inside the semi-opened tents. They just finished doing another pray; I had fallen asleep. I want to ask Musa what pray means, but I don't want to bother him. Fathima is getting ready for bed, and when I ask Musa why he is not doing the same thing, he tells me he will stand watch soon. My question leads to a lengthy conversation on the topic. Or rather, a lecture.

I took a little peek not long ago, when going to pee, at the men who stand watch outside the perimeter of the caravan, and keep this image in my mind as Musa speaks. He begins to tell me that they carry spears, which I saw to be very long sturdy sticks with a sharp tip, which Musa tells me is called steel. He seems to take great pride and enthusiasm in telling me about how the men are set up, when they rotate shifts, and detailing to me how they make the spears. I politely nod at the appropriate places, make noises of acknowledgement, and try very hard not to fall asleep.