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Editorial text
On a short trip to the zoo, Hala asked Ahmad about a camel just as he was about to look for a ready-made answer.
Inspired by a true story. Some characters, situations, dialogue, and chronology have been reimagined or combined for narrative purposes.
Hala tugged at her father’s hand, then pointed down the path with her other one.
Ahmad was trying to close his small bag, with the corner of his notebook caught in the zipper.
“Daddy, over there!”
He looked where she was pointing and saw a camel beyond the fence, beside an open patch of sand.
The morning sun was gentle, and the air carried the smell of warm earth and damp leaves.
Ahmad said, “We’ll walk over, but you have to hold my hand.”
Hala nodded, but did not wait for him to finish sorting out the bag.
He pushed the notebook back into place, slipped the pen into his pocket, and caught up with her.
They had come out for a short outing in Dammam, with no crowded schedule and no appointment waiting.
Ahmad wanted to give Hala some unhurried time among the animals, away from the rush of his day.
For her, it was enough to find something new to point at and ask about.
On the path leading to the fence, Ahmad slowed until he was walking beside her.
He wore a light-coloured shirt and dark trousers; Hala wore a small bag over her yellow dress.
Her white shoes appeared beneath the hem whenever she took an eager step.
The place was not noisy. Distant voices faded into the whisper of leaves and visitors’ footsteps.
Ahmad stopped with her at a comfortable distance from the fence, close enough to keep her hand in his.
The camel did not seem hurried. It stood with its head tilted slightly toward the ground.
Hala watched in silence, then looked up at her father as if a question had arrived before the words.
Ahmad leaned closer to hear her, while his hand slipped toward the phone in his pocket.
His notebook was in his bag too; in his mind was a small list of things he meant to remember.
But Hala was not looking at the notebook or the phone. She was staring at the camel.
Then she asked in her small voice, “Daddy, does the camel need a long pillow?”
The question caught him off guard, and a brief laugh escaped before he found any answer.
“A long pillow?” he repeated, looking at the camel as if he needed to see the question properly.
Hala nodded and pointed toward its neck. “So it can rest.”
Ahmad kept smiling, though his smile slowed. He wanted an answer that was both kind and true.
The easiest answer would have been to make up a little story for her, or reach for the first sentence that came to mind.
He reached for his phone, then stopped before taking it out.
He did not mind looking things up. But he knew that habit: one page, then another, until he forgot who had come with him.
He said, “I don’t know, Hala. I don’t have an answer I’m sure of.”
She looked at him for a moment, then turned her eyes back to the camel.
She did not cry or move away. She simply curled her fingers around his hand, as if waiting for something else.
Ahmad opened his mouth to say he would look it up later, but noticed his phone was still in his pocket.
Beyond the fence, the camel moved its head a little. There was no answer in the movement, no signal Ahmad could interpret.
Even so, Hala’s expression changed. She took a step closer, then stopped when she felt her father’s hand steady.
He asked gently, “Shall we stay here and watch for a little while?”
“Yes,” she replied.
Ahmad took out his phone, but not to open a page. He glanced at the screen, then put it back in his pocket.
Then he set his bag down and crouched until his face was level with Hala’s.
The ground was warm beneath his palm. His eyes stayed on her, then returned to the camel.
The outing was no longer about how many animals they would see, or how many facts he would remember.
He had time for one question, and for standing with it instead of hurrying to close it.
He smiled at Hala. “If we find out, I’ll tell you. If we don’t, we can ask later.”
Then he added, “But for now, what do you imagine?”
Hala thought, her eyes still on the camel. Ahmad lifted his hand from the bag and left it aside.
She said, “Maybe its pillow is with it.”
Ahmad did not correct her or turn her imagining into a fact. He only said, “Maybe.”
Then they fell quiet for a while. A breeze crossed the path, stirring a leaf near Ahmad’s shoulder.
Nothing around them had changed much, but Ahmad was no longer trying to get ahead of the moment.
At last, he took out his notebook, opened it to a blank page, and brought it closer to Hala.
“Would you like to draw its pillow?”
She held the pen with both hands. Ahmad helped steady the notebook on top of her bag.
Hala drew a long line, then a small circle at its end, then another line that did not meet the first.
The drawing wavered with her hand, but it made her smile. Ahmad stayed close, holding the edge of the page.
The camel raised its head again. Hala lifted her pen and followed its movement with her eyes.
She did not say she had understood anything. Ahmad did not ask whether she was done with her question.
The notebook page trembled slightly between their fingers, and the smell of warm sand still lingered in the air.
Hala asked, “Shall we put a pillow here for it?”
Ahmad looked at the drawing, then at his daughter. “Here in the notebook, yes.”
Hala laughed, and he laughed with her. Her laugh was small, but it stayed with him after it faded.
The notebook remained open between them, the pen resting on the page without moving.
Ahmad did not get an answer that morning. He did not need to pretend otherwise.
A little later, they returned to the path, the notebook in Ahmad’s hand and Hala holding his finger.
On the way back, Hala did not ask about the pillow again. She was busy with her small steps.
Ahmad was thinking about the page, which was no longer quite blank.
He carried away neither a confirmed fact nor a story that could serve as a ready answer.
He carried away a long line, a small circle, and a little hand that had stayed close to his all the way.
When Hala looked at the drawing one last time, Ahmad leaned in to look at it with her.
He did not tell her that every question needed an immediate answer. He did not open his phone.
They walked on slowly, while the camel remained behind them and the page stayed open to a small possibility.
The fence slowly receded, but Hala kept holding her father’s finger, stepping carefully over the little uneven places in the ground.
Her bag tapped lightly against her side with each step, while Ahmad carried the notebook open to the drawing.
Hala turned once toward the path they had left, then looked at the lines on the page.
She did not ask to go back, and he did not ask her to explain the drawing. He simply walked slowly beside her.
When the breeze stirred the page, Ahmad held its edge so it would not fold, and Hala stayed close to him.
For that outing, it was enough.