I was walking down the aisle, panting, as I tried to, as instructed, absorb the beauty of the Rose-Red City. I still could not believe I had to miss the Rugby League final for this. My feet ached, I had always hated history, especially when history was hot and dusty. The flowery patterns and the rocky floor wore on, interrupted rudely by loud human voices filling the atmosphere. As I grew wearier, my parents paid for me to ride on the back of a donkey, beckoning one of the donkey owners over. As we trotted towards the long passageway leading to the “Khazneh” - The Treasury, I heard the donkey's hooves clatter. I listened to the tumultuous noises and felt its body; smelly and rough, abuzz with flies. It had managed to relieve the ache in my feet after the long walk, but it was still unpleasant. The bright light suddenly blinded me, and I closed my eyes for a brief moment.  

I dismounted the donkey and decided I had had enough. I was cranky and felt petty. I plotted carefully, intending to manufacture a dreadful scene. I wanted to make this trip as awful for my parents as it was for me. I looked around and nodded to myself, I had a plan. I purposely bumped into a debilitated man walking down the weaving lane. As soon as I bumped into him, I launched my fabricated scene, ensuring it was of such dramatic content that no one could ever forget it. First, I fell to the ground, and then, I burst into tears. I looked up at the man and howled loudly, crying, “He hit me! This old man hit me!” Everyone around me gaped at the old man, who quickly scurried away. Oh, and I forgot to mention, I am Oliver - Oliver Adams. I am nine years old and I live in Yorkshire, England.

***

I am Hamzah, Hamzah Jardaneh, I reminded myself again. The proud Arabic name that meant "lion",  turned out, in reality, to have been associated with a mouse.  Sunset after sunset, my life is fading away. My family has left me with nothing, my wife deceased, long gone. As for my children, I worked and saved to give them an education abroad, but they emigrated after graduation and never returned. Years ago, I was considered an important tour guide, but now, age has gotten the better of me, and I cannot walk very far without shooting pain in my knees. Throughout my life, I never felt appreciated, but I had not given the feeling much attention. Now the thought plagues me constantly, and I think that my heart will not survive much longer. I should be resting, playing cards with my old retired friends in the village. I should be sitting, enjoying the morning breeze over coffee with my two sons who, as our traditions dictate, should be supporting me, as I did them. But no, instead I am struggling just to make ends meet. Somehow this isn’t the way I imagined it to be, and it is a shame in our culture. Adding to the shame, people ask me, “Where are your sons? Why aren’t they caring for you now?” The humiliation. They must think me a bad father; though I gave them the best education. I taught them everything. My grandchildren now so disconnected from their roots, living far away in America, cannot correctly pronounce my name.

This morning, while walking around my beautiful, intricately designed, and patterned streets, a little boy bumped into me. Suddenly, he shouted, “He hit me! This old man hit me!” Everyone stared at me, so, annoyed and ashamed, I slinked away before things escalated. 

***

Time dragged on, as my parents insisted on completing the tour. As I glanced around, I spotted an “off-limits” sign at the foot of a steep set of rocks. As I looked, near the cliff's pinnacle, I noticed a small cave in which I realized I could hide, I wanted to disappear and have my parents search for me. That would give them a scare! Quietly, I approached the cliff, I cautiously climbed and the further up I went, the smaller everything seemed. I was almost near the top when suddenly, I heard a shriek. Thinking back, it must have been my mother. The sound startled me and then, I stumbled. I must have been thirty meters high, and I was free-falling. I felt the life drain from my body, as I reached out for the sky that was just beyond my grasp. The gushes of air were pushing me back. Time was slowing down, everything was getting smaller and smaller. The once close mountain peak, now far away. 

Crash! 

***

Boom! He landed roughly in my arms, knocking us both to the ground. I fell, stumbling against the rocky floor. A stream of blood, puddled at my elbow. I checked to see if the boy was unharmed. He was unscathed, gasping, as I turned the boy’s face to mine, I assured him, “You're okay now, it seems like the universe has brought us together twice now, my little friend.” My body ached as I tried to stand up, and the boy ran off to his family. His father approached, I assumed to offer me thanks. 

                    ***

The old man encouraged my family and me to go back to our hotel room, as dusk was approaching. The next morning, Hamzah persuaded my family to let him guide us on a tour around Petra. He showed us around, and for the first time, I witnessed something, no, felt something, I had never seen before. The detail and eye-catching craftsmanship of people centuries ago. How was this possible? The sheer beauty of this city, how had it not struck me yesterday?

  ***

Ten or so years later, Hamzah was visited by a distant cousin. While chatting from his wheelchair, Hamzah recalled an instance where he had stood between a boy and his death, and reminisced, “You might think moments like these might change one’s destiny, but in reality, nothing matters. All fades into trivial, insignificant, memories.”  

***

Thousands of miles away, Oliver was on his way to his lab at the Archeology Center at Cambridge. He had no recollection of his childhood visit to Petra, certainly no memory of his savior.