Khaberni - The expatriate, when he arrives at his homeland, his town, and his family home, reaches it with passion for the house of nobility, the tenderness of a father, a mother, brothers, and sisters. Even the streets he walks through, roaming its alleys, gazing at the playgrounds of his youth, he searches for the beautiful details in his life—his school, the high school exam hall, the joy of his success. His memory smells the scent of almond-dressed candies and the joyous mansaf, reviving his childhood memories when he used to sell cherries on the steps of his house, calling out ‘Cherries, oh how sweet!’ He reminisces about the simple joys of Eid, the clay pitcher, and the ten qurush from his uncle or aunt emerging from their small trouser pocket. He remembers the swings in the neighborhood, taking dough to the bakery, and even going to the mill with his mother, coming back dusty with flour. He recalls sleeping on the roof, the smell of the rooftop's dampness and the sound of a cricket on a hot night. In exile, time seems to pass quickly, and with it, life goes on, intertwined with feelings of homesickness that nearly suffocate him when he hears Nagat El-Sagheera singing ‘Our loved ones, how are you doing in exile? Are you comfortable or unhappy?’ In exile, you doze off briefly, and dreams take you to your home, your family, and a morning breakfast on a tray with green figs from a tree in the courtyard or grape clusters inviting you to pluck them, a cup of tea, and a family gathering, whispering leaves, and a fresh breeze teasing your nap at the family house. It transports you to another world. In your dream, you hear the sound of suitcase wheels. Waking from your dream, you remember a ticket, an airport, and the plane takes off, and loved ones fly away. The sound of a plane soaring in the sky fills your heart with longing. These details may be ordinary for millions of people, but for someone yearning for his homeland, his people, his neighborhood, and even the seasons of his village, and the scent of the earth from the first rain, it is a beautiful thing deep inside him. When you travel for the first time, you will discover that you pack your memories and days in a suitcase and proceed. But the hardest part upon returning to exile is a mixture of mixed emotions, filled with images of longing, images filled with crying, and one or two pictures sneakily taken while laughing wholeheartedly, a struggle between the love of staying with family and loved ones and the struggle of livelihood, learning, and education. As the song by Fairuz says, translated, we are going... we are coming back to the house of love, and we do not know, in exile, a dividing line; so your life before traveling is a story and after travel, a novel.
