انا فتاة ظفار
انا فتاة ظفار
The sun, a fiery disc sinking into the Arabian Sea, cast long shadows across the bustling souk of Salalah. The air hummed with the shouts of merchants, the cries of children, and the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. In the heart of this vibrant scene, stood Afrah, a girl of twelve summers, her eyes as dark as the frankincense smoke that swirled around her.
She was a daughter of Dhofar, her skin tanned by the sun, her hair the color of the desert sands. Her clothes, simple yet elegant, spoke of the rich tapestry of her heritage – a long, flowing thobe in the deep crimson favored by the women of her tribe, adorned with intricate silver jewelry.
Afrah’s world was confined to the narrow, winding alleys of the souk and the sprawling date plantations beyond. But her spirit, untamed and wild like the frankincense trees that dotted the landscape, craved something more. She was fascinated by the stories her grandmother told, tales of ancient empires, courageous queens, and mythical creatures that roamed the desert.
One afternoon, while helping her mother weave intricate designs into a khandama, a traditional Dhofari shawl, Afrah overheard a group of men talking. They spoke of a distant land called India, a land of unimaginable wealth and wonders. The words sparked a fire in her heart, a yearning to see beyond the familiar horizon, to experience the world her grandmother only spoke of in hushed whispers.
But Afrah’s life was bound by tradition. She was destined to marry young, to bear children, and to live out her days within the confines of her tribe. The thought of such a future, a life devoid of adventure, filled her with a nameless dread.
One day, while exploring the souk, Afrah stumbled upon a hidden alleyway. There, amidst the clutter of spices and fabrics, sat an old woman, her face etched with the wisdom of countless years. The woman, a renowned storyteller, was famed for her knowledge of ancient lore and the secrets of the desert.
Afrah, drawn by an unseen force, approached the woman and poured out her heart’s desire. The old woman, her eyes twinkling with amusement, listened patiently. When Afrah finished, the woman simply smiled.
“The path you seek is not easy,” she said, her voice as smooth as the frankincense she offered Afrah. “But it exists, just as the scent of frankincense lingers long after the flame has died.”
The old woman then whispered a secret, a hidden route leading out of Dhofar, a path only known to the wise and the bold. Armed with this knowledge, Afrah knew what she had to do. She would leave her life behind, embrace the unknown, and forge her own destiny.
As the sun set over Dhofar, casting long shadows across the ancient city, Afrah slipped away, her heart filled with a mixture of fear and excitement. She carried with her only the wisdom of the old woman, the courage of her ancestors, and the unyielding spirit of a daughter of Dhofar. The journey ahead was uncertain, but Afrah knew, deep in her heart, that she was finally on her own path, her own story unfolding before her.
