Prisoners

Prisoners guilty or not always look the same when they are released— patriarchs dethroned. This one just passed through the gate head bowed despite not being tall his gestures like a Bedouin’s entering the tent he carried on his back all day long. Cotton curtains, stone walls, the smell of burnt lime take him back to the moment the cold war ended. The other day his sheet was hung up in the courtyard as if to flaunt the blood stain after a wedding night. Faces tarnished by sun surround him, all eyes and ears: “What did you dream of last night?” A prisoner’s dreams are parchment made sacred by its missing passages. His sister is still discovering his odd habits: the bits of bread hidden in pockets and under his bed the relentless chopping of wood for winter. Why this fear? What can be worse than life in prison? Having choices but being unable to choose.