In his room of hanging fabrics and a wall-sized window, I set up the lense to Meena's silhouette and left it still for a while. Sitting on a chair; wooden and carved, he started sewing a half laced white scarf.
I had looked through the books he had by the corner; 'From Time Immemorial', 'Arab Jews',
'Book of Exodus', all set in order.
"History, family history," he clarified.
Badr came in with a glass of water (I knew a few things about Badr by now; his nationality, bisexuality and faint hearing), "marhabtain", he said with a heavy tongue and a smile, and I noticed his tree shaped earring.
Family history? I asked Meena as Badr walked out.
"My parents converted and refused to leave this land, but it was 1967 when my grandmother emigrated," said Meena and went silent for a minute.
In this minute I could hear the sound of the stitching fibers in his hands; the needle caught by the tip of his fingers shaping fabric soft as sand. He then continued:
"To belong to a land is to love your shadow next to its trees for you are bonded to their glue. I've always wanted to ask grandma if she does now, but then again, I have doubts that I do."
The other night, a bus was the theater where a big audience sat jaded. Meena was harrased by a man who later followed him as the lights were faded. Through the city's sidewalks and streets, his blood rushed before his feet. "Give me your number and I'll go" the man would repeat. But this wasn't a first nor a last, and like every time, Meena was saved after reaching his covers and white sheets.
"That night, there was music the minute I walked in; a piece by Washington Philips about a mother's last words to her son. Khader was dancing to it as Diya held a cake with candles lit on it. That night, I turned 21."