by Antonio Napoli

In the silent splendor of a sumptuous feast, amid the scent of spiced lamb and the refreshing drink made from hibiscus flowers, the news broke: the Berbers were at the gates.
A wave of terror swept over the guests. They sprang to their feet, toppling goblets and earthenware dishes, and looked at one another, lost and helpless. With pounding hearts, they rushed outside, wrapped in their veils and light tunics, to warn friends and family.

All except one.

One man remained seated, his hands clasped over his belly, his face serene. He looked at the untouched food, the wine in the bottle, the now-empty hall, and chuckled.
He stood up slowly and joined his accomplices, the masterminds of the trick—men with rough laughter and eyes gleaming with mischief. It was just a joke, a cruel game to mock the fear of others and seize all the exquisite dishes for themselves. That was their way of feeling at home: mockery was their dwelling.

But when the sun melted into the desert and the night spread its veil of shadow, reality proved more ruthless than the lie. The Berbers came for real.
And those who owned the most suffered the worst. The largest houses, with their sunbaked mud walls and decorated portals, were looted first. The wealthy lost everything in a single night, while the poor continued to suffer—but in a new, different way.

The desert wind carried away every name, every memory. The once-flourishing city was scattered like sand in the hands of fate. Its houses, its palaces, its voices were erased. And when the last lament faded into the wind, only dust remained to tell the tale of its fall.
In that place, once the people had vanished, even the very idea of home disappeared—so tragically destroyed.

But a desolate place is never empty for long. As the seasons passed, among the stones blackened by fire, tender grass sprouted. Trees stretched their shadows over the plains, birdsong once again filled the air, guttural toads leaped in the dry riverbeds, and snakes slithered silently among the warm rocks.

One day, a pair of wanderers stopped in that place, silenced by oblivion. They had traveled long on their weary camels, letting chance—or perhaps something else—guide their steps. They were fleeing a war that, elsewhere, shattered the peace of homes, breaking the sacred bond of friendship.

She let herself fall onto the golden grass, and he offered her a piece of bread that tasted of distant spices. They ate, kissed, and laughed.
“What an innocent and peaceful place!” she exclaimed, wrapping herself in her ochre-colored tunic.
“It makes you want to build a home and raise our children here,” he replied.

And so they did. They planted poles, wove branches, smoothed the earth beneath their feet, and gave birth to a new village.

Is it not true that the heart of every joy is one’s own home, filled with peace and well-being? What is more beautiful than going where the heart longs to be—and what is even more beautiful than returning where the heart yearns?

As the poet says:
“The sailor is home, returned from the sea,
and the hunter has come back from the hill.”

In the silence of the night, as the first house built in that place lay immersed in serene slumber, a gentle voice—perhaps a spirit of the land—whispered words that fell like feathers upon the sleeping souls of the village’s first family:

“Of what steps is the staircase of life made? Countless!
But the most important is the one you cross each day,
as you step through the threshold of home.”