The Endless Golden Dunes

Chapter 4: Umar of Shiraz

Shiraz was known to most as the city of wisdom. It was up to the individual to decide whether Baghdad was better than it or not. Why don't most people know about it? Well, it is outshined by greater knowledgeable cities. That would be the simple answer. But there were also stains. Like a white cloth, a clean thing is easily able to be dirtied. The same went for Shiraz. There were creatures in it that ruined the city's reputation. They could come in any shape or form. They could be an especially naughty child, a rude customer, or something else. There used to be a boy who knew one of those stains personally.

Shiraz was like any other city under the caliphate. There were the rectangular libraries, an oasis of knowledge in the desert of ignorance. There were the thin, circular towers. Much use of them came when you wanted to keep an eye on enemies. That was more necessary than ever considering that the Mongols were ever so close to the Iranians. If you consider the towers next to the masjid, they were for the muezzin to climb upon and call the azaan, the call to prayer. The buildings were square and had a flat rooftop that one might easily get on top of and enjoy a cool breeze once in a while. Though that was extremely rare. All of these things were wrapped around by a tall wall, making it look like a fortress rather than a normal city.

Umar was one of the residents of the place. He was a thin man, nearly gaunt, with just a smudge of hair on his chin. Rarely he would go in his house, especially when his father would be out drinking with his friends. The one thing he liked to do was go outside the town and simply stared at the dunes of the desert. He never understood why he did it. If one were to ask him, he would say that he simply liked how they moved. If he asked himself the same question, he would say that the desert was calling him.

'Why do you stay in this city?' the desert seemed to ask him.

'I really don't know myself.' Umar would reply.

'There is a world beyond this place, a world worth exploring. Do you not want to see what is beyond me, or what wonders I hold inside me? Come, Umar, and be free.'

The desert had given him this offer far too many times. Equally as many times, Umar didn't answer. He would simply say that he would think about it and speak no more of the matter. He hated the fact he had no response. The truth for him was that he was afraid. Afraid to leave the city he was born and raised. He couldn't leave, not when his father was around his mother.

But he did remember a verse from the Scripture, it was from Surah al-Baqarah. 'He gives wisdom to whom He wills, and whoever has been given wisdom has certainly been given much good. And none will remember except those of understanding.'

'Whoever has been given wisdom has certainly been given much good'. That was the part that kept Umar awake at night. Where could he find knowledge? There was the local library. But the books were only letters made of ink. How easily could that be lost? Umar remembered how his teacher had told him about the burning of the Library of Alexandria back in Egypt. It made Umar wonder. What was the point of knowledge and wisdom if it could be so easily lost?

He needed to go out into the world. He needed to learn it. But he was afraid. Afraid to see what the world was capable of.

The desert asked him the question, and Umar gave the same reply.

'I'll think of it. Inshallah, I will come with an answer.'

He went back inside the city.

***

H

e entered a small house. It was only two floors and must have had three rooms in total. He opened the door and was greeted with the living room. In front of him was the sofa and some chairs. There was not enough money for carpets, ironic considering what Shiraz was known for. With no soft things, the floor was just sandy and hard.

On the sofa lay Umar's father, Zahir. A fat, tall man wearing a white kameez and no turban, revealing his thinning hair. The top of his kameez was ripped a bit on the collar, showing his chest hair. His eyes were bloodshot, definitely the result of some bad habit. On the chair was Umar's mother wearing a hijab with only her eyes visible.

'Where were you?' his father asked in his usual rumbling voice.

'Just checking the dunes.' He replied.

Zahir scoffed.

'Why do you do such useless things? Get a job and contribute to the household.'

'Do you mean you just need more money for more mashroob?' Umar wanted to say, yet he refrained himself.

'I'll soon see.' He replied instead.

'When is that soon exactly coming?'

'It will come when it come.'

'Ass.'

Umar glared at his father.

'Now, now,' said Umar's mother, Mariyam. Her voice was light, always on the verge of cracking. She sounded like a hurt creature, restraining herself from what she truly wanted to say. 'We shouldn't pressurize-'

'To hell with pressurizing!' Zahir's voice roared, making her flinch. 'You birthed this sad excuse for a son, and now he doesn't work? Probably takes after you.'

Umar clenched his fist so hard, his knuckles turned white.

'And what the hell are you looking at? Go!'

Umar continued glaring at his father. He didn't stop until Mariyam looked at him. Her mouth didn't speak, but it was her eyes that did, Please, they said. Umar sighed.

'Fine.' He said, defeated.

***

He walked outside and looked at the people who were walking in the city. Because of it, he then looked at the walls. It was times like these when he wished that he could accept the desert's offer.