crunching on dates and sand

Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm/ Nor question much/ That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm;/ The mystery, the sign you must not touch,/ For ’tis my outward soul,/ Viceroy to that which, unto heav’n being gone,/ Will leave this to control/ And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.
John Donne (1573–1631). The Funeral

We are sitting in one such house with Obaid Hamed Wani al Owaisi, who invited us in after driving us through the desert and into the woodlands. Obaid is as grand a Bedu as his name suggests – a stocky weathered man who, despite his short stature, commands respect with his mix of paternal ways and military background. He managed to look imposing even as he sat in his undershirt, surrounded by five wild-eyed children and walls hammered together in the sand. Our packet of biscuits was ceremoniously handed out while his wife made unsweetened tea and kahwa in the background, and we crunched on dates and sand on a furry carpet layed out for us. Outside, goats nibbled on ghaf, clothes hung from branches and a winter sun shone through scruffy trees. It was time to move on, again.

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