Every letter has a story, and our letters were full of hope that we would finally get together, but outside the prison bars. 

Despite the anguish, Wafa’s heart had some solace because she knew the whereabouts of her son, Alaa, the apple of her eye and heart. During each visit, they would meet for a few minutes; he would hand her a painting that he drew with coffee leftovers and sand, other times he would hand her a written letter, and by the end of the visit, her heart would burn for the next one, while Alaa spends his time creating beauty inside the deaf walls, to give his mom as a gift in the next meeting. 

But… when will that meeting take place?

Alaa disappeared without a trace, just like many others, while his shadow continued to grip his mother’s heart; sometimes she imagines him in a shirt embracing her son’s body, at others she sees him through his handwriting, or the touch of his hair locks when she cut them for the first time, according to old Arabi tradition, when they used to cut a newborn’s hair to donate its weight in money for the needy. 

But whether he was a child snuggling in his mother’s lap, or a teenager entering the house calling “mom… are you there?”, or a young man deprived of his liberty, Wafaa still awaits the day when she answers him back: “yes my love, I am here”, hoping he would return home then, safe and secure.