Cinnamon tea, sweet in chipped glasses. Roasted watermelon seeds, the salt dissolving in our mouths, the empty shells falling around like leaves. The Ostrich, a forgotten shell on his lower lip, slides down from the car's bumper, raises his arms, head back and turns himself around in circles. Under his arms there are twin patches of wetness, his weak eyes brave the midday sun. Laughter bubbles inside him letting loose the shell from his lip. 'The fan', he says, laughing more, bending forward and slapping his hands together. 'The fan in the common room fell down from the ceiling. You should have seen it. It went whizzing around the room like a top'. We exclaim, we ask questions, no one was hurt, hardly anyone was in the room at the time. He found it funny but I remember my thrill at the rebellious fan unleashed from its orbit, destructive, chaotic. Perhaps this is the essence of my country, what I miss most. Those everyday miracles, the poise between normality and chaos. The awe, the breathtaking gratitude for simple things. A place where people say Allah alone is eternal. And the Ostrich laughed at the fallen fan because he was part of that essence, inseparable from it, as if he were its manifestation.