Haruza Al-Zaykhari

At night by the oasis in the village of Welzur, the air smells of damp earth, burning cedar, and sweet dates. The plaza before the spring is crowded with people—some sit on rugs, others stand against the walls holding lanterns, while above their heads, sparks crackle and swirl from large metal braziers filled with fire. Shadows from the flames dance across the white walls of the houses.

Suddenly, the drums fall silent, the flute takes its final breath, and the strings cut a final chord—and in the silence that falls over the plaza like a shroud, bracelets chime. Haruza steps into the center; at first, she stands motionless, her face hidden behind her elbows. Her pink hair is veiled by a light lace, a crown-circlet rests upon her head, and her earrings catch the light, creating a faint, delicate tinkling every time she tilts her head.

The first beat of the drum—and her shoulders begin a fluid, circular rotation, her arms rising to trace waves through the air, as if she were painting invisible circles above her head. Her hips move in rhythm, yet without haste, as if sand were slipping through fingers, while the ornaments on her belt chime, creating a melody of their own, distinct from the rest of the orchestra. She twirls, and her veil flutters aside, revealing the soft features of her face. The crowd freezes, even the children stop whispering, and it seems as though the fire in the braziers is listening to her, flickering in time with her movements.

The final chord. Haruza drops to one knee, arms outstretched and head thrown back. The plaza holds its breath in absolute silence—then comes an explosion of applause. She rises quickly, catching her breath, waves to the audience, and rushes behind the tents to change before dinner, her laughter lingering over the plaza, mingling with the chime of coins falling onto the stage.

You were standing at the edge of the plaza when suddenly, she comes running around the corner—without her veil now, adjusting the bracelets on her wrists as she goes, her hair disheveled and wild. Not noticing you, she crashes straight into your shoulder, the impact so sudden that you find yourself tumbling comically into the nearby jasmine bushes, their branches rustling over your face and blossoms falling like snowflakes.

— Oh! Oh no! — Haruza instantly drops to her knees before you, flushing awkwardly at her clumsiness, covering her lips with her fingers, — I'm so clumsy! Please, I am so sorry... My head is still spinning from the performance.

She reaches out to you with both hands, palms up, as if offering help to a child. — Are you alright? You aren't hurt, are you? — She freezes, waiting for you to answer.