Outside the walls of Baharmis there were farms and crops arranged in tidy rectangles, throughout the day the shepherds brought flocks and herds to graze outside the fences to allow them to enjoy the grass of the meadows. Some families had chosen to live there outside the walls to be more in contact with nature. Fewer problems happened, according to some.

  After leaving the walls of Baharmis, Basim immediately perceived the different atmosphere, much quieter than in the city.

  In addition to the bleating of hungry sheep, he could hear the intense smell of the earth being hoed by the hard-working farmers and the faint rustling of the cereal stalks as the wind rubbed together. From the surrounding houses spread the fragrance of freshly baked bread and the good smell of the lunch that the women were preparing. That scent whetted Basim's appetite so much that he decided to immediately have a small snack to fill his empty stomach. The events of the previous day had shocked him so much that he had even forgotten to eat. He took a large loaf of bread which he quickly devoured. Hungry as he was, he would have immediately started to have lunch, but he had just set off and his friend Emir would surely have scolded him if he had seen him stop and waste precious time. Never mind, he thought. His bags were filled with various delicacies and there was time to enjoy them. The camel he had hired seemed not to agree with him, for it tried more than once to grab the bags with its mouth dripping with drool.

  Basim looked back several times to see how far he was getting from home. This was the first trip he had made alone and it would keep him away from the family nest in which he had grown up for a long time. Of course, it hadn't been easy to come up with a good excuse to convince his family to let him go. As soon as he had merely mentioned that he had to be away, they had looked for any excuse to keep him. He had then had to lie.

  “I want to improve my technique,” ??he said.

  “With new and more beautiful vases we will do more business,” he added.

  After these words, they no longer protested. Indeed, they had changed their tune by insisting that he should leave as soon as possible.

  He couldn't believe he had succeeded; he was usually a terrible liar.

  He continued his journey, enjoying a particular sensation that he had never tasted before: no work, no pressure from his family, and above all absolute freedom to play whenever he wanted to. Even though he was an extra burden, he had also brought his Oud with him and during his stops he took the opportunity to play it more than he had ever done until then. On one occasion other travelers stopped to listen to him and complimented him on his skill; someone applauded him, and someone else accidentally offered him coins, mistaking him for a street artist.

  Basim considered the trip almost a holiday, in short.

  As had already happened on other occasions, at every little pause to play, his gaze fell on the Master's instrument and he immediately remembered that he had an important task to carry out. It was an interesting and bizarre situation for him, it seemed like the beginning of one of those fairy tales that his mother read to him as a child, except in his case he certainly wasn't expecting to find treasures or magical creatures.

  To get to Al Haimat from Baharmis it took ten days of travel following the main route and five days following an alternative route. The problem with the alternative route was that it was anything but easy. Everyone had advised him against this path, which was not easy and full of obstacles, but Basim was in a hurry to reach the Master's school as soon as possible; therefore, he decided to be accompanied by an expert guide.

  Basim realized the difficulties that had been foretold to him on the third day of the journey, when he found himself traveling along the most difficult part of the road that climbed inside the Gilnora Peaks.

  The Gilnora Peaks are a mountain range of black stone. Its rock formations are arranged like the quills of a porcupine, hard and extremely sharp due to their composition and structure. They emerge directly from the ground like flower buds that seem to grow as you continue further and further inside, until you reach a point where they become so thick that it seems like there is no space to walk. Since ancient times, that black stone was used by locals to make edged weapons such as swords and daggers. Knowing this, only a madman would have attempted to cross that territory made of natural blades without having first studied its nature. This was the bleakest territory he had ever seen until then, quite the opposite of the lush area surrounding Baharmis.

  It had a strange effect on Basim to find himself in such an empty place, without a trace of greenery and not even animal life. Even the air was different… harder to breathe.

  At a certain point, the road had become a stony path, and in a continuous up and down he had to be careful of the gravel which made it particularly slippery.

  At that point, the guide advised him to advance with caution, because although the place already appeared particularly inhospitable, the presence of poisonous scorpions, snakes with lethal bites, and marauders who went there to set up ambushes was certain. The greatest danger, however, was represented by the particularly high temperature. To cross that part of the territory, it was necessary to wear shoes equipped with a sole made of specific material that protected the feet from the strong heat of the ground. Basim realized for himself the truth of that warning when one of his shoes slipped off and he had to put his foot on the ground to keep from losing his balance.

  They emerged from the Gilnora Peaks on the afternoon of the fourth day and immediately the change in the terrain was evident.

  The heat became more bearable, here and there flashes of green began to be glimpsed, and the typical dark rocks began to give way to others of a lighter color while some desert foxes peeped out between them. Looking around, Basim was amazed by what appeared before his eyes: on the sides of the road, tall and massive men stood at attention with hard expressions on their faces. They were statues made with the dark stones of Gilnora, adorned with jewels and each held a different instrument in their hand such as a book, a tool, or a weapon.

  He stopped to admire those masterpieces, remaining open-mouthed for long moments just like a child does when faced with an unexpected gift. The guide told him that they had almost arrived at Al Haimat and that those sculptures were a sort of "signal" to indicate to travelers that they were close to the school of the Sand Masters. Basim began to tremble with excitement, he was finally reaching the place. He was so excited that he didn't realize that he was pulling too hard on the camel's reins and the poor animal pointed it out to him with a long, unpleasant moan.

  The statues, depicting important Masters of the past, were more than two meters high each and descended together with the road into the canyon into which it entered. What struck him most was the incredible precision with which the characters of the faces and the almost real folds of the clothes had been sculpted. As they went deeper into the canyon, the walls around them rose higher and higher, until they reached a height that made the sky above them a thin, crooked line. The rock was smooth, thanks to years and years of erosion due to the water of the river that flowed at the bottom, streaked with various shades of red and orange like the veins of a jasper gem, running along their entire length.

  Neither Basim nor his guide said a word along that entire stretch.

  The guide was not very talkative in himself, but for Basim, it was an exception to remain speechless.

  The moment they had entered the canyon; they had been enveloped by a strange and sudden silence, overwhelmed by the energy of the earth around them. The absence of sounds made the atmosphere almost disturbing; even the sound of the camels' hooves on the stone bridge they were walking on at that moment was muffled for who knows what reason, you could barely hear the river flowing towards infinity with its intense cobalt blue and the wind blowing above of them.

  At a certain point, the guide said: “We have arrived”.

  His tone, however low; almost sounded like a scream.

  Al Haimat, finally.

  The school, also called by someone the “Stone Citadel”, appeared like a magical vision around the corner of a narrow gorge illuminated by the amber rays of the sun.

  It was dug directly into the rock, giving the illusion of emerging naturally from it, in the central space between the school and the passage stood the famous stone obelisk engraved with the names of the noblest of the Masters who had graduated within those walls and whose names could be read: Tammaam el-Kalil, Jaadallah al-Akel, Nadheera al-Shaheed... even that of Fawzi al-Taleb.

  In Al Haimat, lessons are strict. The students, in addition to learning regular subjects such as mathematics and geography, are indoctrinated in all the important aspects of Sand such as the difference in quality, the uses that can be made of it, etc. Out of 100 students, only 5% will get full promotions.

  Various types of diplomas can be obtained at the school, depending on which future Sand manipulators are trained: those who decide to dedicate their lives to study will become "Masters", those who use it for construction will become "Architects"; and finally, the "Guardians" the apprentice soldiers who will be taught how to use the Sand in combat.

  The fa?ade was large and imposing enough to leave those who saw it for the first time breathless.

  It was divided into two levels. The lower level consisted mainly of a portico with eight smooth-surfaced columns whose capitals resembled tree crowns. The entablature was adorned with a simple spiral frame and a frieze of stars, while on the low pediment with the tympanum in the center stood the head of a lion, surrounded by vegetation.

  The upper part instead consisted of a richly decorated balcony which rested on a very large podium. Three entrances could be seen, a large central one and two small ones on the sides, surmounted by polylobed arches, each featuring a statue of an Ibis with its beak wide open. Above the central arch, there was a thòlos, covered by a cone roof; inside which there was a large hourglass in which very fine white sand slowly flowed. It could be noted that the artifact was supported by a mechanism, probably with the sole purpose of turning it upside down once the lower vase was filled.

  It gave more the impression of an ancient temple than a school, considering how it was hidden and how it looked. There were no people outside and no one came to welcome them, as if to make people believe it was abandoned. Nervously the guide urged Basim to enter, he certainly wouldn't set foot in there.

  Hesitant he dismounted from his mount and one step at a time approached the open entrance.

  Suddenly a thousand doubts assailed him: was it perhaps rude to show up without an invitation in such an important place? Should he have sent a letter of introduction first to explain his arrival? And his clothing? With all the dust he had on him he looked like a miner and not a visiting guest. Maybe he would have done better to also bring a gift….

  He reproached himself heavily, it had always been his flaw to never think about certain situations first.

  <> Suddenly thundered an unknown voice.

  At the entrance to the school, a small man appeared with a frowning expression, marked by thick black eyebrows and a disapproving grimace partially hidden by a long beard of the same color. He was short and round like a wine barrel, he had very long feet that easily peeked out from under the edge of his brick red robe and the Shashiathat he held on his head was too large for him, making it a little ridiculous to look at.

  <> he repeated, annoyed.

  It wasn't easy for Basim to respond to those who spoke loudly to him. Despite being big and strong, he had such a peaceful and good-natured character that an authoritarian and overbearing tone was enough to intimidate him. Encouraging himself, Basim managed to stammer out a response.

  << I... I apologize for the inconvenience. My name is Basim, I am a potter and I come from the city of Baharmis, sir. >>

  << A potter? Is your business so bad that you have to come all the way here to bother us? >> the little man exclaimed irritably << This is a school, not a market! >>

  << No! No! You m-misunderstood me! I don't mean to disturb anyone at all! This is not my intention! >> Basim hastened to explain.

  << Then clarify yourself, you're wasting my time. >>

  << I... I came to bring back some things... about Master Fawzi. >>

  Hearing that name, the man's face changed to a sad expression of surprise. Immediately behind him, three other men appeared dressed in the same way and with the same expression on their faces.

  With a small voice that tried to mask discomfort, the man asked Basim what kind of "things" he meant. Basim showed the only object that could confirm his words: the bag of Sand. The little man, followed by the other three individuals, reached him with a dangling run, unable to hold back his tears.

  Prince Hazma voluntarily chose not to approach the pit, despite his servants' repeated invitations to do so. Not even his father was able to change his mind, even though he was the sultan. He never stopped stroking the brass-colored fur of the hound sitting next to him, the only comfort at that moment when he was feeling incredibly alone. The dog looked at him confused and yelped, sensing his discomfort.

  Hazma was heartbroken, having that faithful friend by his side somehow gave him the strength to bear the pain and not let himself be overwhelmed by despair. His Master Fawzi... his best friend... almost a grandfather, was supine on a wooden sedan table, wrapped in white kafan. The funeral ceremony was almost over, the priest had recently finished the last prayer and all the participants slowly paid homage to the body with a final farewell and a handful of earth.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Every handful of dirt that filled the grave was a stab to him, the knowledge that they would no longer spend long days talking about the present or future. Worse, now he would have to talk about him in the past tense, like a nostalgic memory.

  Fawzi's body had traveled a few kilometers to the coast of Musar, east of Iazaresh; and then boarded one of the few ships that stopped at “Jazirat aljana”, the island of paradise. In that small drop of land that floated in the center of the Pangea canal stood the necropolis of Mirqit, the city of the dead. For a place dedicated to death, it conveyed a sense of serenity: there were flowers and trees scattered among the simply carved tombstones, and the grass around the area was so thick that it muffled the sound of the footsteps of those there walked above and the birdsong, low and harmonious; were a happy accompaniment to the unhappy souls who passed by to shed tears on the cold tombstones.

  However, those elements did little to lighten the sadness in the hearts of the people who had been closest to Fawzi.

  Everyone wore white clothes, the color of the dead, and without frills, jewels, or elegant scarves they looked the same, without distinction between rich or poor.

  Little by little people began to leave: first the relatives, then everyone else.

  Hazma thought it was unfair to leave Fawzi there alone in that land of despondency. As much as he wanted it, he couldn't take it back, his soul now belonged to the Gods and his body to the earth, forever. Suddenly his sense of unhappiness rose all at once and like water in his lungs it began to suffocate him until he felt sick and at that point, he could no longer hold back the tears. Seeing a prince cry in public might seem inappropriate... but he didn't care. One of the most important people in his life was no longer there and he felt terribly alone.

  Back at the palace, even though the sun was high in the sky, the halls seemed dark and cold.

  He locked himself in the room where he and Fawzi had usually spent hours... or rather, entire days chatting and studying together. He continued to stare at the now empty seat where he sat. He would have been able to wait for him in there forever, forgetting everything. He ordered that no one disturb him, he wanted to be alone in his pain. Now and then in the silence he heard the sounds of footsteps behind the closed door, then he naively hoped that Fawzi would suddenly enter showing off his partially toothless smile.

  With his mind, he tried to recompose his image and reproduce the sound of his voice, but above all that particular smell of his, that smelled of saffron.

  They had spent so much time together that they considered him a member of the family, even more so than their closest blood relatives. He had spent wonderful moments with him... now he felt lost and confused; he no longer knew who he could confide his thoughts to without having to endure judgment.

  Suddenly the door opened and without ceremony or invitation the father, Sultan Husam al Bilal, current ruler of Riakesh and pillar of the law in Baharmis, entered resolutely, followed by the captain of the royal guards.

  The sultan was a man who left a strong impression on people. He was very tall compared to the rest of the Riakeshian men, so much so that some thought of a possible descent from giants; although he had already turned seventy, his beard and hair were still an intense midnight black, apart from a rare gray hair hidden here and there, and his eyes, similar to those of a feline with a shade between golden yellow and light brown, observed with a sharp and penetrating gaze everything that was around him.

  He wore a long, blood-red long-sleeved robe with phoenix ornaments embroidered with golden thread, which billowed like the living flames of fire, partially hiding the simple, but completely black thwab. Those two colors were, in a sense; his hallmark. There was a rumor among the people that she had his clothes dyed red with the blood of his enemies.

  His hands were large and marked by scars from years of hand-to-hand combat and sword slashes, and half of the index finger of his right hand had been missing for a long time.

  At that moment he was wearing neither the crown nor the turban, his hair was free to slide over his head and shoulders like thin snakes, still instilling a strong sense of reverence.

  << Father. >> Hazma said.

  He bowed before his father, sighing.

  If it had been another person, he would certainly have let himself go into a fit of anger at the invasion of his solitude.

  <>

  << I'll leave again tomorrow. I cannot leave negotiations with the other kingdoms pending for too long, and many other tasks await me soon after. >>

  The sultan's voice was scratchy and hoarse. At that moment he spoke in a very low and almost inexpressive tone... but on other occasions, when especially aimed at demonstrating his authority, he could become deafening and thunderous like the thunder that follows the lightning.

  << I understand. But… what about Master Fawzi? >> asked the prince with slight discretion. <>

  << I can't deal with it. I have too many things on my hands and my time is limited here at the palace. >>

  The prince did not like hearing that the affairs of the kingdom took priority over his desire to find his friend's killer. Husam took a seat in what was once Fawzi's seat. Hazma bit his lips to avoid yelling at his father not to occupy that small corner that had become sacred to him and tried to concentrate on what he would say to him at that moment.

  <>

  << For me? Meaning what? >>

  << You can take care of it. >> cut the father short.

  It took him a few minutes to understand the meaning of the speech and the surprise was evident on his face.

  << Should I…? Do you want me to think about it? >>

  <>

  <>

  << Captain Rashad will assist you in any case. >>

  <>

  << This is your chance to punish those who dared to commit this crime. >>

  The sultan raised his voice enough to make it echo in the room. His eyes for a moment took on a menacing expression that even frightened the captain next to him.

  The man looked small compared to the sultan when, in reality, his height was average. The black and cream uniform was tight on him and now and then he tried to adjust it without being too noticed. He was a valiant soldier, a veteran of many battles, but at that moment his thin, unkempt mustache and the sweat on his brow revealed a strong agitation like all the times his master was irritated.

  Husam paid no attention to his state, focused only on convincing his son to make the obvious choice.

  << These scum dared to kill one of the most important Sand Masters of our kingdom. Moreover, in our house. The punishment should not be light as happens with thieves or swindlers, with whom we are limited to months in prison. >>

  <>

  Normally the prince was able to immediately understand the meaning of his father's speeches, but with his mind as clouded as at that moment, he was not even capable of deciphering his own thoughts.

  The words found clarity the moment the captain handed him a shapeless bundle. He delicately untied the thin knot that joined the edges of the fabric and found in his hands a silver saber with a gold hilt forged in such a way as to resemble a snake with its jaws wide open.

  <>

  Hazma should not have been surprised by that peculiar gift, his sultan father was of the old school... that is, that the measure of justice was a sharp sword. Among other things, he had already known for some time that he would give him a sword as a gift. Of course, he didn't expect that he would be on that occasion.

  He grabbed the hilt and raised the weapon to his chest, without waiting for his parent's permission.

  It was heavy, he held it carefully so as not to let it slip out of his hand. The silvery color of the blade intensely reflected the sun's rays, as if some unknown magic made them fiery. The snake was not well refined, yet he had the impression that at any moment it might pounce on his hand and bite him. Before then, he found the idea of ??taking the life of another living being repugnant, now he had a different opinion. A feeling of revenge was rooted in his heart and his mind.

  << I'll ask you just once, son: do you want justice for your Master? >>

  << Of course I want it! >>

  The little man wasn't as unpleasant as he might seem.

  Adib, that was his name, was a very friendly person.

  He apologized profusely to Basim for how he had treated him at the entrance, but it was his job as the school guardian to be strict with visitors. The attitude that had worsened since the death of Master Fawzi. The accident had raised a great hornet's nest among the community, there were already rumors of severe interventions.

  Together with him, all the members of the school were shocked by the tragic news. By now, nothing else had been talked about in the building for days, especially among the teachers.

  Fawzi was not the first Master to have been killed at the hands of someone, according to historical chronicles other Masters had met a similar end. But he was different... losing him wasn't dramatic just from a work factor, it was above all the emotional aspect that hurt the most, cutting into the pain like the tip of a dagger in the flesh. The honesty, the kindness, the constant commitment to helping others… a better spirit than him would probably never walk the land of the living again.

  Adib pushed those troublesome thoughts away, forcing himself to do his job professionally.

  He welcomed Basim Al Haimat with an attitude that was almost excessive for a modest boy like him. Yet, this gesture somehow seemed to emphasize his access to that almost legendary place.

  As soon as he entered the entrance, he found himself inside a very eye-catching rectangular room, where every architectural and decorative element had been carved from mountain stone, carved to the point that the veins of the sandstone could be seen. The hexagon floor was polished to a shine but creaked with every step, giving the impression that it might break at any moment. The light came directly from the ceiling through small cracks, which were reflected on mirrors which increased its intensity, allowing discreet illumination.

  In reality, the most suitable term to use was "polished", not "sculpted". Yes, because no carving tools had been used to build the school, everything had been artificially carved out of the Sand. The power of Sand is not only limited to moving or molding into a solid form, with its particular crystalline structure it can also easily erode rock. The result of such work had no comparison with the traditional technique, especially on those smooth and curved walls, whose reflection was reminiscent of that of the surface of the water, and which seemed as if one were diving into it.

  Basim wondered how big the school was.

  After passing the entrance, in front of him, three corridors with arched vaults led into the structure with a dark aura of mystery. They took the long and narrow one on the left, and as they walked, they met many people, both old and young, who, although they met his gaze with a certain curiosity, continued in silence. In the open rooms where he managed to peek, he saw men and women intent on talking to each other, writing on large books and parchments, or severely scolding teens older than him. They didn't look like classrooms... so that area was probably used for bureaucratic work. Too bad, he thought disappointedly. It would have been nice to see some lessons going on.

  Soon he was placed in a small room where he remained alone for several minutes.

  Unlike the entrance there was no passage for sunlight and therefore lamps like inverted crowns were used for lighting. There were two aqua green sofas with cinnamon stripes and dark yellow edges, facing each other, on which you could sit and small footstools with a checkerboard pattern, most of the walls were covered with tapestries on which landscapes were embroidered of lush oases.

  At first, he was struck by a strong sense of unease since no one had spoken to him again after introducing himself.

  He only managed to calm down when Adib began to speak to him more kindly and offered him food and drink as a welcome.

  << You are truly honored to have brought the Sand back to the school. I already took it for granted that someone had stolen it to resell or use it illegally. >>

  << I only did what I thought was right. >>

  << Good people like you are hard to find nowadays… more tea? >>

  << Oh yes, thank you! >>

  Basim enjoyed sipping that delicious drink accompanied by tasty nummora, proving to be a good host.

  <> said the guardian with a note of embarrassment.

  << Don't worry, the satisfaction of having been able to visit this place is enough for me, I will remember it for my whole life. >>

  << Oh, yeah. There is no denying that our school has a lot of curiosity, especially about the powers connected to the Sand. >>

  << I believe it! It's amazing what things you can do with it! >>

  <>

  <>

  Adib let out a laugh.

  << It's the first time I've heard such a statement. >>

  << Well, that's what I think. I find Sand interesting and useful, but I always believe that it is an element to be treated with great caution. Not a game or a show object, as I have unfortunately seen others do. >>

  <>

  << Oh… um… I didn't mean to disrespect you… >>

  <>

  Basim was surprised to hear his opinions so valued.

  This was a pleasant change considering that people (his family in particular) did not always take him so seriously, belittling his opinions.

  Suddenly a man whispered something in the guardian's ear.

  The latter widened his eyes in alarm, ordered everything to be taken away quickly, and adjusted the wrinkles of the sofas to make it appear as if no one had sat on them. He also made Basim stand up and arrange him to give him a tidier appearance, advising him not to speak unless asked directly, and above all - he begged him - to always keep his head down. Adib stood next to him with the same rigid posture with which he had introduced himself, nervously combing his beard.

  Basim asked him what was happening:

  << The Rector is coming. >> he whispered.

  The door of the room opened slowly, producing a sinister creak almost on purpose, everyone present got goosebumps and suddenly it seemed they had stopped breathing.

  Rector Daysam entered with a look as grim as that of a vulture.

  Everyone present greeted him with a synchronized bow. Basim had heard that name a couple of times: he was one of the most important people in the school and in addition to being Rector, he was also one of the most feared Sand Masters.

  He didn't know much about his repertoire, though, except that he was a devil of a man.

  The Rector stood in a very rigid, almost statuesque pose, the dark blue tunic falling straight on him and making him look like an icy ghost, also due to his greyish complexion. He had no hair on his face, not even eyebrows. He had very accentuated cheekbones and wrinkles so deep they gave the impression that his skin had been cut with a knife. Maybe he was sick, he certainly didn't look healthy. Despite this, it seemed that he could incinerate with a look.

  << Adib, is it true that Master Fawzi's Sand was reported? >> he asked the guardian.

  Not a greeting or a nod of introduction towards Basim. “How rude,” he thought to himself.

  << Yes, sir. And it has already been secured. >> Adib replied quickly.

  << Good. >>

  His glare then fell on Basim. He winced.

  Avoiding eye contact, he tried to focus instead on the details of her intricately woven dress that for some reason reminded him of knotted snakes intent on fighting. Even the man, in some ways, reminded him of a snake... not so much in his appearance, but in the menace he conveyed.

  <>

  << It is the kind traveler who brought it. >>

  << Oh. And what is he still doing here? >>

  << Oh, he... we were preparing a room for him to spend the night. He had a long journey from Baharmis, so… >>

  << It's not worth wasting accommodation if he leaves tomorrow. Place it in the animal shelter, it will be more than enough. >>

  “In the animal shelter?”, Basim thought indignantly.

  He didn't expect princely treatment... but by golly! Why did he have to be placed with the beasts?

  << I apologize, but I... >> he began to say with determination, before Daysam glared at him, softening his determination.

  << I... I... I wanted to say that... >>

  << Please speak clearly. I hate stutterers. >>

  << Well... I brought other things... from the master. >>

  << Yes? Would they be? >>

  <>

  << Clothes? >>

  The rector's tone suddenly became threatening. He didn't raise his voice, but it was still intense enough to make every person near him tremble.

  <>

  <>

  << What? Socks? Sandals? I am not interested. The only good thing about your "visit" is that you brought back the Sand of Fawzi. >>

  <>

  Basim unwrapped the instrument, showing it to everyone.

  Contrary to his predictions, however; no one showed the slightest surprise. They looked at him with perplexity, without exchanging any comments. Suddenly he felt embarrassed. The instrument wasn't big enough to hide it from those glances that weighed like stones; it would have been enough for him to explain its exact nature to change everything, but not a single syllable came out of his mouth.

  <>

  << I... I just wanted to be useful... >>

  << The only way to be "useful", if you know the meaning of this word, is to leave as soon as possible. This is a place for people with dowry, not for Ard kabeerehlike you. >>

  [1]In architecture a monoptero is defined as a temple consisting of a simple circular colonnade. When the circular temple, in addition to the columns, also has a cylindrical cell inside, then we speak of monoptero-periptero or thòlos.

  [2]The shashia is a male headdress worn by many populations of the Islamic world.

  [3]In Jewish/Muslim culture, the funeral rite requires the body of the deceased to be placed on a kind of stretcher instead of inside a coffin, so that it can be in contact with the earth. The "Kafan" is the shroud in which the body is wrapped after being washed and cleaned.

  [4]The nummora are Arab cuisine sweets to be served cold or warm for a snack or breakfast. Made with semolina, yoghurt and butter, they do not use eggs.

  [5]Person from rough places, from the countryside.