Salty skin, hair filled with wind and sand, the welcoming breeze that strolled lazily down the beach announcing the onset of the cool desert night and the dark specks we had spotted an hour ago finally materializing into the silhouettes of a man with four children in tow. There was an entire caravan hidden among the sand dunes somewhere but from where we stood it seemed like they came from nowhere. In contrast, the mast of our sailboat was clearly visible from miles away and they had spotted us long before we dropped anchor in the lagoon inside of Towartit. They had come looking for sugar, cigarettes and fish hooks. They had nothing and we were khawaja, it was expected of us to come bearing gifts. They crowded around us, laughing at my short hair and bare legs, asking to look at the camera in my waterproof bag and trying to look through the binoculars. They didn’t know how old they were because out there in the desert, it wasn’t important. All that mattered was that moment, that sunset, that place in the sand. And if Allah was merciful, there might be a tomorrow. Inch’allah.
Sometimes, when I glance at these memories I wonder if Allah was indeed merciful to them.