The pungent smell of cardamom awoke me this morning while I walked to the holy Sepluchre where Jesus is buried. The old tailor in his old tiny shop right before the left corner on the way to the holy Sepluchre. The young man on the right side of that same curb who sells fresh orange juice, and seems to have a tendency for sadness when alone. The woman who bought bras for her young daughters who were too embarrassed to run such an errand. The old man with a dermatological disease that left his face like a map: dark purple of countries and light ones of water. The orthodox priest who crossed the swaths of desert and swaths of sea and swaths of conscience to boycott, solemnly walked. The tourist group coming from Belgium bargained the last shekel over the frame of the old market when it was flourishing. The boy with the cart who screamed his lungs out to scoot people aside, because he has business to do, only to realize in the future that this job is not worthless for he practiced screaming for the marches and demonstrations held in the city of Nandy where he will live. The educated man with the round-brimmed spectacle who tried to engage himself with the shoppers by talking about the hot weather and the need for a change. Change for the electricity suppliers, of course, so they can sustain the usage of air conditioners. The nun who quietly observed the world and made us feel that things will be okay. The educated woman who had so many things to do, o much so, that she bought the groceries with no time to chat other than how much does it cost and “yaatek el aafye“. The skinny cats. Everywhere. The man with the long beard and the prayer mat delicately placed on his shoulder.
These aforementioned depictions of people and places never change. There are indissoluble . Faces might change and maybe nutmeg instead of cardamom, but all the rest stays the same.
AICHA BINT YUSIF 