Shhh. Don't wake the ghosts. The town is silent, despite all of the people in it. Shadowy storefronts stare out on desolate streets as the sun begins its slow, painful descent. We are alone on the road but for the cats that crawl by us and the dogs, which howl. They are kings and queens of this ever-darkening, twilight hour. And we are but lonely witnesses, defiling these reverent silences like sinners do the Cloth.
A car flies past us to the left, the blare of the horn growing from an ear-piercing shriek to an all-consuming quiet, before becoming quieter still. I lift a bottle of water to my lips and a woman--one of the ghosts--appears from the air and points at the watch she isn't wearing. She says, without saying a word, you who are one of us, we are waiting. Al iftar. I feel an ounce of hesitation as I cling to those words. I look down at my bottle of water, then back at her, but she is gone.
We move on, waiting for the sunset to arrive. And then as my eyes adjust to the non-light, the time of day in which it is hardest to see, I begin to make out of the shadows, the shapes of the ethereal bodies in this metropolis, where sibilant silence reigns supreme. They whisper amongst one another, and look up but do not see us as we walk past. They are preoccupied. Makeshift tables that are meters long suddenly sprout up like mushrooms along the sidewalks. Long enough, and with enough food to satiate even the hungriest of gods. A plate lies placidly at every seat, and at every seat there sits a ghost, watching the horizon, as stone effigies.
Allahhhhhh el akbar. Allah el akbar. As the muzzein calls from each mosque, the city quietly rumbles and shakes. Allah el akbar. God is great, they say. And so are we. There is a brief lull while the city bloats, gaining momentum and volume and voice and form. Suddenly the sky is dark but the lights are bright--a fanoos, dangling in color that is saccharine sweet, hangs from every storefront--and shadows are vanquished, and the world becomes ripe again.
The ghosts solidify and take form, peeling from the shadows to flood the terrain, making it again rocky and tumultuous. The sun has set but the day is just beginning. The streets are lined no longer in ghosts and darkness, but in people and we are jostled from side to side. The sweet scent of sheesha tobacco greets us, for the first time in thirteen hours. I take his hand, and we step forward into the darkness to find the light while smoke from the spit in front of our building and the cool night wind, which wafts in from the Nile, collide. I inhale deeply, and feel a ghost myself next to Ramadan's greatness. But I can feel that it is generous tonight, and smile.
A car flies past us to the left, the blare of the horn growing from an ear-piercing shriek to an all-consuming quiet, before becoming quieter still. I lift a bottle of water to my lips and a woman--one of the ghosts--appears from the air and points at the watch she isn't wearing. She says, without saying a word, you who are one of us, we are waiting. Al iftar. I feel an ounce of hesitation as I cling to those words. I look down at my bottle of water, then back at her, but she is gone.
We move on, waiting for the sunset to arrive. And then as my eyes adjust to the non-light, the time of day in which it is hardest to see, I begin to make out of the shadows, the shapes of the ethereal bodies in this metropolis, where sibilant silence reigns supreme. They whisper amongst one another, and look up but do not see us as we walk past. They are preoccupied. Makeshift tables that are meters long suddenly sprout up like mushrooms along the sidewalks. Long enough, and with enough food to satiate even the hungriest of gods. A plate lies placidly at every seat, and at every seat there sits a ghost, watching the horizon, as stone effigies.
Allahhhhhh el akbar. Allah el akbar. As the muzzein calls from each mosque, the city quietly rumbles and shakes. Allah el akbar. God is great, they say. And so are we. There is a brief lull while the city bloats, gaining momentum and volume and voice and form. Suddenly the sky is dark but the lights are bright--a fanoos, dangling in color that is saccharine sweet, hangs from every storefront--and shadows are vanquished, and the world becomes ripe again.
The ghosts solidify and take form, peeling from the shadows to flood the terrain, making it again rocky and tumultuous. The sun has set but the day is just beginning. The streets are lined no longer in ghosts and darkness, but in people and we are jostled from side to side. The sweet scent of sheesha tobacco greets us, for the first time in thirteen hours. I take his hand, and we step forward into the darkness to find the light while smoke from the spit in front of our building and the cool night wind, which wafts in from the Nile, collide. I inhale deeply, and feel a ghost myself next to Ramadan's greatness. But I can feel that it is generous tonight, and smile.
