Samia, mounted on her camel, Mowgli, sat on a lofty sand dune perch with a view the desolate desert. She appraised her situation, wondering if she had reached the point of no return.

She was now in the section called Valley of the Kings, just west of Thebes, Egyptologists’ dream world. Startling discoveries had been made here. The Pharaohs’ tombs had been disturbed and many had died as a result of their curses over thousands of years.

It served them right, she thought. No one had the right to do that except Allah when he was ready to dole out his final judgment.

She wondered how she would be judged. She knew what she was about to do was wrong. It was a sin to take your own life, but she couldn’t bear to live on this earth any longer. She was as barren as the desert, a non-entity, a particle of stardust floating in a limitless universe. Her mother and father had both died during her second year of marriage to Ibrahim. No one was left to grieve for her.

She was shocked back into reality by the sound of voices in the distance. Obviously, she had not come far enough. Before proceeding, she made a mental note of her location. She would steer Mowgli back to this location later. There was no need for the camel to die, too.

Later, deciding she’d come far enough, Samia dismounted and hit the backside of the camel with her whip. Mowgli took off like a simoon. Only her dust and the fading echo of her braying remained.

Samia stood in place for some moments deliberating, then forced herself to action. She removed the tarka and black veil that made her faceless, stepped, stepped out of her black hijab and unpinned her long dark hair freeing it to billow like felucca sails in the wind. Finally, Samia took off her shoes; she would burn faster that way.

The ground beneath her feet felt like live coals and the pain was excruciating, but she was used to pain…physical and mental. It will soon be over, she consoled herself. She hadn’t taken a drink since she left the home that was no more than a jail and torture chamber, so she rationalized that dehydration would claim her first. She already felt dizziness and that her mouth was glued shut. It shouldn’t be long before she was rendered unconscious. She felt herself sinking as if the sand was swallowing her up, then blackness enveloped her.

Within this total darkness she spotted a bright light. It glowed like no other she had ever seen. She was magnetized by it, speeding towards it, and felt an overwhelming urge to give the final push that would take her out of her body. She summoned all the strength needed to make herself free. But it was not to be. She sensed herself now heading away from the light and struggled to reverse direction but was incapable. She was rising instead, headed for another kind of light.

When she forced her eyes open she found herself gasping for breath. Slowly, and with much effort, she forced air into her lungs. She lay motionless for a while then focused her eyes, struggling to study her surroundings. She discovered that she was inside a huge tent, lying on an air mattress on the floor. The tent ws filled with them, neatly arranged in rows. People were hovering over feeding her sips of water and sponging her arms and forehead. She looked into the concerned face of one man who was bent over her. He wore denim pants and a white tee shirt, he was clearly not an Arab but spoke to her in Arabic. “Assalaamu aleikum.” Are you all right?” he asked.

When she could will her mouth to move, she said, “I’m alive.” It was more of a statement than a question and dissapointment was discernable in her voice.

“Yes,” he answered. “Luckily I found your camel. I rode her a ways before I spied your body sprawled out on the sand. Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know what I mean. It’s a sin to take your life, even in your culture.”

“I…I…I just got lost and couldn’t find my way back. That’s all. Then my camel took off.”

“Okay, have it your way. Where you from? Who should I contact to tell them you’re safe?”

“No one, not a solitary soul, not even a pigeon. I’ve nowhere to go.”

“Okay, then you’ll stay here. Rest till you’re better then we’ll find something useful for you to do.”

“I’m useful to no one. I’m Om el Ghayib, the mother of the absent one. I’m just a barrel shell of a woman.”

A man from her country approached carrying a bowl of soup.

“Thank you Mustafa,” the white man said to the black skinned one with the sympathetic but toothless smile, than took it from him and squatted to spoon it into her mouth. He stopped when the bowl was almost empty. “I’m Spiro Garvantis, curator of the Brooklyn Museum.” He extended his right hand to grasp hers, “Who are you?”

“I’m Samia Giamal,” she answered. “Thank you for the soup and for saving this wretched body.” Her head swayed. “Wheeer’s the…the Brooklyn Museum?”

“In New York,” he answered. “I’m an American. I was commissioned by New York University Department of Archaeology to join the British on this archaeological expedition for two years.”

Samia was barely able to hear his last words as she felt her head nodding and she slid gently into slumber.

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