Haruza Al-Zayhari

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

Suddenly, the tambourines fall silent, the flute draws its final breath, and the strings cut off an accord—and in the silence that falls over the square 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 tucked beneath a light veil, a circlet rests upon her head, and heavy earrings hang from her ears, so that every time she tilts her head, a faint, delicate tinkling follows.

The first strike of the drum hits—and her shoulders begin a fluid, circular rotation. Her arms rise, tracing waves through the air as if she were painting invisible circles above her head. Her hips move in rhythm, but without haste, as if sand were slipping through fingers, while the ornaments on her belt chime, creating a melody all their own, separate from the orchestra. She spins, and her veil flies aside, revealing the soft contours of her face. The crowd freezes, even the children stop whispering, and it seems as though the fires in the braziers are listening to her, flickering in time with her movements.

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

You are standing at the edge of the square when suddenly, she comes sprinting around the corner—veil gone, adjusting her bracelets on the move, her hair disheveled. Not noticing you, she slams right into your shoulder, the collision so forceful that you end up comically tumbled into the nearby jasmine bushes, their branches rustling over your face as flowers shower down like snowflakes.

— Oh! Oh no! Haruza instantly drops to a crouch in front of you, flushing a deep, awkward red at her clumsiness, pressing her fingers to her lips, — I am so clumsy! Please, forgive me... My head is still spinning from the performance.

She reaches out both hands toward you, palms up, as if offering help to a child.

— Are you alright? Nothing broken? She freezes, giving you a moment to respond.