Don Quixote and Sancho are walking slowly home one day—actually, it’s right after Don Quixote has been beaten by the Knight of the White Moon and agreed to leave behind his quest of moving the world. Al-jabr.

It’s right before he dies, actually.

Don Quixote and Sancho are on the backs of their horse and their donkey, Rocinante and Dapple, and they are walking slowly, and they are talking softly— and what are they talking about? They are speaking the Language of Cervantes, and this is what they are talking about:

They are talking about how they will live now as shepherds, instead of as a Knight and his Squire. They are talking about the animals they will raise, taking them out to pasture every day, and then herding them back home again every night. Sancho reaches over from atop his tenderly trotting donkey to pet the side of Rocinante’s neck—“And you,” he says, “you bony old thing, you will go back to your bony old life pulling carts—full of wool, perhaps, or full of fresh mutton, or full of straw—there are all sorts of things for shepherds to have pulled around for them in carts. Just like you always did. Haven’t you been missing it all this time? The crushed mud misses the wheel, after all.”

If this were a story about Rocinante, he would be feeling as crushed as the mud about having to go back to his bony old life pulling carts. This is well past the point where he had first started to believe—not just to go along with what his Master was doing, not just to stop resisting the whole crazy project, but actually

Starting

To

Believe

That he is more than just a horse for Pulling carts—

That his Master is more than just a mad

Old man—

That the world can be moved—

Al-jabr—

That there is a point,

Actually,

In trying to do something about something—

Al-jabr—

That he is

Brave and

Beautiful and

Wonderful and

Strong and

Now here he is, going back— trudging back. Weak and ugly and useless. But this is not a story about Rocinante— not this one. This is a story about Don Quixote. The man is trying to think of the things he might enjoy about this new life. The peace of it, maybe— he is telling himself that it will be a peaceful life. He will be away from it, he is telling himself. It will be away from him.

Something has cracked inside of him; he is a little vial of some tonic or tincture tucked away into a saddlebag and accidentally sat on; he feels as though he is spilling.

“We will listen to music,” he says, or thereabouts. “Shepherds play all sorts of music every night, on all sorts of instruments.”

This is something to look forward to. He still has something to look forward to.

“We will listen to music played on hautboys and tabors and trimbles and rebecks and albogues,” he says.

“Albogues?” says Sancho, raising an eyebrow; he has never heard of albogues. “I know all the rest of those, but I think you must have just made that one up.”

“It is an Arabic word,” says Don Quixote, softly, without really thinking so much about it. It’s not the sort of thing that he would have said out loud if he’d been thinking about it— or maybe he would have. Maybe he isn’t feeling like it really matters so much anymore. What does anything matter anymore? “Spanish is full of Arabic words,” he says. “All of the words that begin with ‘al’— those are Arabic words. Don’t look so surprised,” he says.

Sancho doesn’t know how to respond. He is looking around— is there anyone else nearby?— Anyone who might be listening?— Anyone who might have heard? There could be people hiding behind the tree trunks in the forest alongside the road. There could be people hiding up in the branches— there are birds, up there,

Little birds,

Little birds,

And who can say where they might fly from here, and who they might tell about what they’ve seen?

Don Quixote simply carries on. “Almohaza’, almorzar’, ‘alhambra, alguacil, alhucema, almacen, alcancia,” he rattles off. “And then, of course, there are other Arabic words in our language that don’t even start with ‘al’— borcegui, zaquizami, maravedi— I told you already not to look so surprised, Sancho—”— he shakes his head, he gives a sigh— “This country followed that certain Prophet— or so they call him— for longer than it has followed Christ— or just about as long.”

He cannot say this. This is not a thing that he can say. In the version that Cervantes tells, it is all alright because of course Don Quixote is insane— he has no idea what it is that he is saying, or else he couldn’t possibly really mean it, or else you can’t really hold him to blame for anything that he’s said— he’s insane, after all— he’s completely crazy— his brain has turned to sawdust,

Hasn’t it?

You can’t hold Cervantes to blame, either— in the version that he tells, Don Quixote doesn’t even say this part, that Spain has such a history. He makes it as far as listing out some of the Arabic words that have found their way into Spanish, and then moves things along to other topics before it gets any worse.

But of course this isn’t a story about Cervantes knowing better; this is a story about Don Quixote, and what really happened— and what really happened is this:

Here is what really happened:

“Taza,” says Don Quixote. “It comes from ‘tassah’— ‘cup’.”

A cup of wine is pressed into the face of a woman who has already learned better than to wear her veil— but nobody is satisfied with that. “Drink,” says the man who is practically cutting her lower lip with the edge of it. “Drink,” he says. “Drink,” he says. It’s wine, like blood and like the Earth, it is sediment and sinew— “Drink,” says the man, and so she drinks.

“Taqiyya,

Taqiyya…”

You have to pack in a hurry. You should have been ready, already, to pack it all. Not just the clothes and the sheets and the pillows and the medications and the documents— ID-cards, birth-certificate, the deed for the house, marriage certificate, all of that— but also the photographs, the drawings from preschool and kindergarten and fourth grade and seventh grade— how can you leave that behind? How could you have ever thought of leaving it behind? You’d thought of leaving it behind, all the times before now, when you’ve thought of leaving, but now that you’re leaving, you think that you must have been crazy before.

You have to pack the little clay sculptures and the popsicle-stick dolls. The bombs are coming closer— you can hear them, coming closer. Two blocks away. One block away— you can start to feel the pressure washing over you, but you are still packing. You have to pack the nice plates, blue and white porcelain. You have to pack the forks and the knives and the spoons— they were wedding-gifts, and you don’t have a husband anymore, so if you don’t have your wedding-gifts, either, were you ever even really married? You have to pack the fine silver cups. Look at them— aren’t they lovely? And of course, all your jewelry.

“Al-hajar— ‘jewel’,” says Don Quixote. “We just say ‘alhaja’.”

A man is burying his jewelry at the corner between four fields. He has never had the stickiest mind— bits and pieces of everything are always slipping away. He could never remember the spot if he’d gone and buried this— all he has in the world— in the middle of a field. But he knows this field and that field and one field and the other field, and all he will have to do when he comes back to Spain, someday—

He is sure

That he will come back, Someday—

All he will have to do is shuffle up and down the lines between the fields until he finds himself here again, at the corner. Then he will dig out his jewels— a diamond, a few emeralds— and he will sell them, and he will use the money to pick up his life again, right where he’s left it off.

“Albahaca— ‘basil’— it comes from ‘al-habaqa’. ‘Rukn’ becomes rincon— ‘corner’,” says Don Quixote.

The conversation isn’t really going like this, obviously. The world is not quite that sideways; Don Quixote and Sancho are speaking the Language of Cervantes, not English; the world is not quite that sideways.

“Naranja and naranj,” says Don Quixote, and he doesn’t say anything at all, actually, about how this means “orange”— why would he? Who could that ever be for

But

You?

“Lots of food, really,” says the great Knight. “Azafran— az-zafaran. Arroz— ar-ruzz. Albaricoque—al-barquq. ‘Alcohol’, al-kuhol. Atun and al-tun, albondiga and al-bunduq. Limon and‘ limun, of course.”

“Naranj,” echoes Sancho back to his Master, his friend, who is just going on and on and on— it is so close to the Spanish that surely, he cannot be held to any blame for saying it. “‘Rukn, ’” he murmurs.

He asks how it is that Don Quixote knows all this.

“Azucar comes from as-sukkar— ‘sugar’. And ‘watermelon’ is sandia, from sindiyyah.”— though, obviously, that isn’t what Don Quixote really says.

Here is what really happens:

They come in the night.

They rip people from their beds. They tear the sheets.

They tear the people’s clothes and curtains, and carpets.

“‘Cotton, ’” says Barbara, one of my English students. It’s a late-night class. “Algodon.”

“Algodon,” I repeat back to her.

“Al-qutn,” says Don Quixote.

“Thank you for teaching me that.”

English for Spanish. That’s how we trade, them and I. Back and forth.

They march away the people at gunpoint. To other cities, other towns. They march the people off into other countries. They march the people down into the dirt. They march the people into the sea. Soon, when the people hear that the soldiers are coming, they start to run before they can be marched or shot. They don’t bother packing— there’s no time to pack anything. Leave behind the photographs and the documents and the drawings and the silverware— the cups, the jewelry. Grab the key to your house, at least; you will need that when you come back—

And you are

Sure

That you will

Come back.

“Aldea— ‘al-daya’a’,” says Don Quixote.

“Aldea...” says another one of my students— Rubeen, shaking his head. “It is smaller than ‘city’...”

“Town,” I say.

“Town, yes,” says Rubeen. “Aldea— ‘town’.”

There is only enough time left now to grab your little baby from the darkness of the bedroom and go— just go. Sprint through the night— don’t look back. Don’t look this way or that way. Don’t look any way but just ahead. Don’t look down at your feet. Don’t look up into the stars. Don’t look up at the moon, spilling light like a vial in a satchel-bag. Don’t look down into your own two hands.

“Almohada”, says Sancho. “Pillow,” says Juan-Pablo. He makes a pillow-sleeping sort of motion with his hands— a few of the other students copy along with him. “Almohada.”

“Almohada,” I say.

“‘Al-mikkhadah, ’” says Don Quixote.

“‘Al-mikkhadah, ’” says Sancho. “Almohada.”

When you finally realize it, you have already run so far from home that there is no going back— not in time. It is too late. You drop the pillow that you grabbed by accident from your little baby’s crib, and there’s nothing left in your two hands but the spilled moonlight. And now what’s to do? You howl and rage and sob.

They drag away parents and children into the dungeons.

“‘Matmura,” says Don Quixote.

“Mazmorra,” says Sancho, quietly.

They drag away parents and children. Into the jails, into the prisons, into the dungeons, into the torture camps. Out of sight— gone.

Here is what I saw today: today, I saw three boys— three children, they are children, they are children— who have finally come out of detention— who have finally been returned to Gaza. I can only see the upper halves of them, but I can see that their twig-faces and arms have been broken and broken and broken and broken again and then forced to heal crooked. They have been beaten into liquid and poured into strange molds to harden back. They have not slept, any of them, for more than two hours at a time before being screamed awake and dragged around, marched back and forth. They have been used as lightning and circuit-breakers, and ashtrays. They have been used as petri-dishes and test-tubes.

When the adults get out, they talk about other things. They have a harder time talking about it. Their eyes focus off into the distance of Creation when they talk about it. Being forced to drink alcohol is not so bad. Being forced to eat pork is not so bad.

“Taqiyya,

Taqiyya…”

They seem to be whispering— but actually, they aren’t saying anything at all. They drag away people at the checkpoints.

“Taqiyya,

Taqiyya…”

“We don’t want any trouble.”

“Naranj,” says Sancho again. “Al-hajar. Al-habaca.”

There is no one else in these meadows— nobody in sight at least. There is nobody overhearing.

“‘Ojala,” says Sancho. “I have heard them say it the other way.”

“Inshallah,” nods Don Quixote.

“Inshallah,” nods Sancho back to him. “Yes. That is what I have heard them say.”

“Don’t do anything suspicious.”

“Don’t cough.”

“Don’t blink too much.”

“Don’t breathe.”

“Don’t take up space.”

“Don’t talk to anybody.”

“Be invisible.”

“Don’t cause any trouble.

“We don’t want any trouble.”

“It is about hope,” says Sancho, nodding again— to himself, now. If he can understand this, then what can’t he understand? “Inshallah— Ojala.”

“Ojala’— it means ‘I hope so’,” explains Barbara. “¿Like Recibiré mi Tarjeta Verde? Ojala!— ‘I hope so!’”

“All sorts of people feel hope,” says Sancho. “I can understand that about anyone.”

“Don’t do anything

About anything.”

“There are knives in the eyes, here.”

“Life is all about feeling hope— finding hope in despair,” says Sancho. He really does believe this. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t believe this. He would have come all this way, through all these things, if he didn’t believe this.

But Don Quixote shakes his head.

“It is about humbleness.”

“Don’t look them in the eyes.”

“Inshallah,” says Basma to me. “It’s about humbleness. It means ‘God willing’. Or really, it means ‘if God wills it’. Or ‘only with God’s will’.”

We are playing cards and we are talking about the news— always the news. Scabs and splotches of news. Another chance at another ceasefire, this week, maybe, perhaps, Inshallah.

“There is nothing that happens without God’s will,” says Don Quixote.

There is nothing that happens, ever. It is the same thing every week.

“Nothing good and nothing bad,” says Don Quixote. “Nothing ever happens without the will of God. Nothing small and nothing large. The sky will not come crashing down unless He wills it. The world will not budge unless He wills it. Not even a single tiny finger on a single tiny hand can move even a single tiny inch, unless He wills it.”

Every week, we talk about what life will be like when the ceasefire comes, if it stays. What will be the first thing Basma does when this is all over? What will be the first thing that she goes back to?

“What do you miss the most?” asks a mother to her little daughter, in Tunisia, or maybe Morocco, or maybe they are still on a little boat, crossing the Strait. Maybe Spain is still entirely in view behind them, the shining cliffs. Or maybe they haven’t even reached the sea yet, and they are just walking, with everyone else. Maybe they have only just barely started walking. Maybe they are still right in the middle of Spain, with their village in plain sight, and already they are missing it.

“I miss the sea,” says Basma.

“The sea is still right there.”

“I miss the sea.”

“‘Inshallah’ is a reminder to not think of yourself as anything more than what you are.”

“I miss driving around. Not to anywhere, just around. Just driving. Windows open, the breeze. I miss driving with the windows closed, too. I like feeling so in control of my life— that’s driving, I miss that.”

“I miss our neighbors,” says a little daughter to her mother. She isn’t talking about all the neighbors who are walking alongside her, now. She is talking about the neighbors behind her: the little daughter of the Old Christian family down the way; the little boy she would run around with in the streets after church; the friendly old woman next to her on the pews every Sunday, who always seemed to have a sweet biscuit to sneakily slip into the girl’s hands instead of the communion bread.

“I miss my neighborhood.”

“El barrio,” says Don Quixote, “from the Arabic ‘barri’— it means ‘the land’. It means being from the land. It means being connected to the land. It means that the land means something to you. It means that you can’t just up and go away from the land, just like that, you can’t do it; you need somebody to come along and tear up your roots like they're ripping off your hands at the wrists, blood vessels draining out into the dirt.”

“I miss my guitar,” says Basma. “I miss playing my guitar— and I even miss just how it looked, or how it felt in my hands, or the echoing sounds it made when it tapped against things as I was moving it around.”

It is all smashed to bits, now, in the rubble of her house, she’d found it smashed to bits and ruined, and at least she still has her daughters, she says over and over, at least she still has her two little daughters.

“Gitarra’— guitarra.”

“I miss the meadows,” says a boy. “I miss the windmills— the way their arms are just turning, turning, turning, around and around— it is like they are trying to swim away, through the air.”

“I miss the kites.

Did you know?

Did I ever tell you?—

I’ve never taken little Asmaa and little Sumya to go fly kites!

Never even once!

They were too small before this all started—

But there used to be kites outside our big round window

With the lovely blue shutters

And they would sit in the afternoon

And stare.” “I miss the dust.

Isn’t that the stupidest thing in the world?

It’s the stupidest thing in the world, but I really do miss the dust.” “There will be dust where we are going,” promises a man.

“Do not worry;

Everywhere that we go,

There will always be dust.”

“I will tell you something, Sancho,” Don Quixote tells Sancho, and then he tells him: “Even our word for great heroic deeds comes from Arabic. ‘Hazana’ from ‘hasana’— my whole impossible dream.”

All he ever wanted.

“To right the unrightable wrong,” he says.

All he ever wanted. Al-jabr.

“I miss the little birds,

Little birds

In the branches of the trees in the marketplace.”

“I miss the marketplace.”

“Not everything about the marketplace.”

“Is it true that alcalde comes from ‘al-qadi’?” asks Sancho. Don Quixote doesn’t answer. Don Quixote isn’t really listening.

“I miss the smell of bread.”

“The smell of bread.

I miss the smell of bread.”

“I miss the smell of bread. I miss the bookseller.”

“I don’t miss the bookseller.”

“I miss olives.”

Az-zaytun. Aceituna. Don Quixote can see sideways into all of it. He can see what it means that he’s failed. He can see what it means that he’s given up and gone home like this. Look at what he’s left behind.

Al-jabr.

“I miss… do you promise not to laugh?”

I promise Basma that I won’t laugh at her. I’ve got my single finger ready to quickly cut the call if she says something funny.

“I miss bookkeeping.”

“Bookkeeping?”

“For my little shop,” she says. “Remember? My—”

“Your little boutique.”

“I never used computers to keep track of anything. I had a computer, but I always did as much as I could in my head, or out on paper. Overhead. Expenses. Tax-rates. Discounts. Margins. As much as I could. I don’t know,” she says. “It felt good to do all my own calculations for my own business. It made everything feel so much more like an accomplishment.”

“It was an accomplishment,” I say, and really, I’ve got no clue what I’ve gone and said that for.

“I was always good in math, too, in school— that was always my strongest subject. I always loved math. Al-jabr.”

“*Algebra,” I say.

“Algebra,” I say, and all my students are nodding— it’s the same in Spanish and Portuguese. They all studied algebra in middle school. How many of them remember it? What do they miss most about middle school? We all start to laugh about braces and bad haircuts and crushes and games of tag, and then we move back to verbs for a while. “To remember.”— “To forget.”— “To teach.”— “To learn.”— “To wish.”— “To lose.”

“‘Al-jabr, ’” Basma says again.

“‘Al-jabr, ’” I repeat back to her. “‘Algebra’— ‘mathematics’.”

It means “mathematics” in Spanish and Portuguese and English and Catalan and Basque and German and Polish and French and Italian and Greek and Hebrew and Yiddish and Pashto and Russian and Uyghur. But Basma shakes her head. “‘Al-jabr’:”

She says.

“The original word:

How to fix what is broken.”