انا ابنه ظفار
انا ابنه ظفار
The sun, a fiery eye peering over the Dhofar mountains, cast long shadows across the bustling marketplace. A young boy, no older than ten, weaved through the throng, his eyes wide with wonder. He was Ana, son of Dhofar, a name whispered with respect in the ancient port of Salalah. His father, a skilled shipwright, had died at sea a year ago, leaving Ana and his mother to fend for themselves.
Today was a special day. The annual frankincense trade was in full swing, and the air hummed with the scent of the precious resin. Merchants from distant lands, their clothes bright and exotic, bargained loudly, their voices a cacophony of tongues. Ana, fascinated by the spectacle, squeezed his way closer to the action.
A group of men, dressed in coarse linen tunics, their faces etched with the harshness of the desert sun, stood near the docks. They were the Bedouins, nomads from the interior, their camels laden with fragrant frankincense. Ana had heard stories about them, tales of their bravery and their deep connection with the land. He yearned to learn more, to touch the rough hide of a camel, to feel the weight of the precious resin in his hands.
He caught the eye of an old Bedouin, his face weathered like the desert rock, his eyes holding the wisdom of countless journeys. The old man smiled, a gentle creasing of his leathery skin, and beckoned Ana closer.
“You are Ana, son of Dhofar?” he asked, his voice deep and resonant.
Ana nodded, surprised. “How did you know?”
“The sea whispers secrets,” the old man chuckled, “and your father was a friend of my tribe.”
Ana, his heart filled with a strange warmth, told the old man about his father, about the stories he had heard of the Bedouins, and his longing to understand their ways.
The old man’s smile deepened. “Come,” he said, “we have a long journey ahead of us.” He led Ana to a camel, its back laden with fragrant sacks.
Ana climbed onto the camel, the swaying motion lulling him into a sense of calm. The old man, introducing himself as Jafar, told stories of his tribe, of their nomadic life, of their deep respect for the land and the frankincense they gathered. Ana listened, his mind absorbing every word, feeling a kinship with these men who walked the desert, their lives intertwined with the rhythm of the sand and the sky.
The days blurred into weeks, Ana traveling with the Bedouins, learning their customs, sharing meals around a crackling fire, and sleeping under a canopy of stars. He felt a newfound strength, a sense of belonging, a connection to a world far removed from the bustling marketplace.
One day, Jafar took Ana to a grove of frankincense trees, their branches heavy with the resinous sap. He explained how the Bedouins carefully tapped the trees, their lives interwoven with the sacred plant. Ana watched, mesmerized, as the fragrant resin oozed out, a gift from the land, a symbol of life and resilience.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Ana felt a pang of longing for his mother. He knew he couldn’t stay with the Bedouins forever. His life, his future, lay in Salalah, but the desert had touched him, changed him.
He returned to the bustling port, his heart filled with gratitude, his spirit enriched. He carried with him the scent of frankincense, the stories of the Bedouins, and a newfound understanding of the land, a land that whispered secrets and held within its embrace, the stories of his people, the stories of Dhofar.
