The Fourth Pyramid I

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It was my life’s dream to come to Giza. The city where I was born, where my mother perished, where my father struggled to sow the seeds of liberation and leadership. I had traveled the world as a child and I had fought in the fights as an adult; I had grown weary of change and worldly concerns, and I was ready to come home.

Once I came, I felt like a tourist. I first went to see all the sights, took pictures like an amateur local, and tried to learn my mother’s tongue that was in truth far from being my own mother tongue. I traveled the towns and I fought to learn, until I grew weary of trying to fit in again. I decided to leave again, to find my Ithaca. Giza was too small for me; I worried the world would be no bigger.

This time, unfettered by worries of wars and childhood woes, I opened my eyes and found the same love in the north as there was in the south, the same pain there was in the east and the west, the same sorrows in the different hemispheres, the same triumphs, the same joys. I passed through Giza and spent the days with the friends I’d made during that lonesome visit before. I avoided tourist destinations, the Sphinx and her smile, the hectic markets. I recognized the expressions I’d seen in India, China, Greece, Sweden, America, Syria. And I grew content, for I realized that my Ithaka was everywhere, and all the time that I’d thought I was chasing it, I was really running in circles within it, scared and  lonely and blind.

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