The sanctuary was quiet. Only the silence of singing birds and scampering animals hung over the small open space, tucked in a wadi at the edge of the city. If you looked carefully through the trees you could see the clamor of the city pressing in — but who pays attention when visiting a sanctuary? (Did I?) In the morning children visited to learn what the world looks like; in the afternoon beleaguered city dwellers came to escape the world. I loved it. Not just the beauty of the sanctuary, but also the people; the people with smiles floating in front of their faces. I would arrive before the glittering sun awoke and let loose its sharp rays. Darkness became the sanctuary well. As did the bespeckled shadows that danced between the trees — hiding from the sun. Perhaps this is nostalgia speaking — yet that is precisely why people came to the sanctuary: nostalgia for peaceful days that never were. And so I return to those memories; in search of peace; final peace as I sit in my worn-out rocking chair by the window. I never look outside anymore — my world is here. On the sill sit seeds, waiting to grow in sunburned pots. But I am drifting forward, while I wish to remain rooted safely in the past. Not that I ever could stay still. Once you enter a sanctuary — running from the world as you do — you will always run; even while safely away from your fear. The sanctuary allows one to run while remaining stagnant. But where can one escape safety?
de Vries 2003