A teleporter to al-Aqsa draws thousands. Yusuf is eager to enter, but a returning traveler shakes his determination.
Reading time: approximately 15 minutes
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A river of souls stretched over sun-baked land. The sea of people at its mouth waited for their turn to join. At the river’s end stood the portal. Yusuf managed to get in line before the tens of thousands that followed. He was number 4627.
“You see this?” Ahmed played a video on his phone of a man shouting towards the heavens. The figure was distant but the scene unmistakable: the man had just returned from the other side. It was the strangest news since the invention of the portal.
“What is he saying?” asked Yusuf.
“I don’t know. It sounds like he is repeating the word ‘knocking.’”
“Knocking?”
“Think so.”
Ahmed scratched his head. He was a burly man. His eyes smiled as much as his lips.
“Hmmm.”
Yusuf didn’t know what else to say. The sun beamed quietly above, and the grasslands glowed in a bright rage. Even beneath his mobile canopy, Yusuf felt the harsh sunlight. But he was determined. The treasure that awaited was worth it.
Yusuf wiped his brow and tied his hair in a ponytail. He’s been in line for months. But waiting wasn’t the problem. He had enough food and supplies to camp for weeks. A buddy system was in place as well. People in the line partnered up so each could take turns sleeping or going to the bathroom. Ahmed was his buddy.
No one else was allowed in the area to visit or hold the place. Yusuf wondered if he’d see his parents again. But there was no time for such thoughts. Only dreams of the beloved.
Yusuf took stepped to the side and looked ahead. The line, made of all shapes and colours of the world, shrank delicately towards the horizon. Yusuf closed his eyes and imagined the teleporter.
The teleporter was made of two parts: the portal and the door. The portal sat on the plains of an east African coast. Rumours say it was built here because it presented considerable danger. Scientists may understand the theory of time and space; they can fiddle with the machinery and calculations all they like. But when you’re dealing with quantum travel, it’s impossible to predict the unknown unknowns. The folding of space presented a significant threat to its vicinity. What if the portal folded unto itself? The security risk was too great. Someone figured the coast of Africa was the obvious place for this experiment.
The door—this was the best description people had for it—wasn’t physical. It was summoned by the portal, its coordinates triangulated into space using the relatively fixed location of stars as warrens. The door proved difficult to keep it in place however, due to the earth’s natural movements. But a woman, a Muslim apparently, managed to keep the door still despite the movement of space. She transcribed her solution in an algorithm. With enough energy—which varied according to destination—the portal opens a door fixed to the coordinates contained within the algorithm for a brief moment. Those who’ve seen the door open say it’s the most incredible spectacle.
The location of the door is the cause of history’s greatest line-up. In fact, the door’s location is as miraculous as the invention of the teleporter.
The teleporter was developed in secret, so nothing can be taken as fact. Many believe a dying nation-state developed the technology to secure their waning power on the global stage. But the woman who developed the algorithm must have realised: she held in her hands the mighty pen of history. It is said she was overcome by a magnificent impulse; a dream shared by millions transmuted into her soul.
And so, she placed the door in Al-Aqsa. That is all. Small act, incredible consequence.
It’s been three months. No one has been able to decipher new coordinates ever since. The door remains in the bosom of Al-Quds—for now. As for the Muslim woman, she was never seen again. People speak of her in the past tense. “The woman who opened the door of the beloved.”
Yusuf wondered what it was like to enter that luminous haze contained in the dark, oblong structure. It is said the portal’s sheen reveals an opaque view into the heart of the mosque. It was as if one was peering through the dizzying reflection of infinite mirrors. Yusuf’s gut wrenched at the thought. He was excited. He was also incredibly frightened.
Who was the man who returned? Why would anyone return? His heart needed to feel earth. That’s where he found calm.
Yusuf laid out his burgundy carpet, prayed for guidance and prostrated. He pressed his forehead deep into the ground and the carpet sank in agreement. Yusuf imagined he was in the Bait al-Maqdis. The athan rang, the people stood in lines and lines. He felt at peace, the image washing over him like warm water. It was so close. He was just a door away.
Then the person who returned flashed before his mind, and the people dispersed. Yelling filled the great halls of the mosque.
“Knock!” shouted the man who returned.
He was approaching Yusuf, walking along the ranks. Beyond the man, darkness. Yusuf’s heart fluttered and he struggled to will the focus in prayer. As the man walked, the walls came apart and the people fell into the void.
“Knock!”
The man who returned was meters away. Nothing was beyond him; he swallowed everything in his presence. Yusuf held firm. This was his place. This was his destiny.
The man who returned grabbed Yusuf by the shoulders.
“Knock!”
Yusuf woke up. His shirt was laced with sweat and a dark stain filled the spot where his forehead rested.
“You OK, akhi?” Ahmed asked.
Yusuf clenched his chest. It felt tight and filled with lead. He struggled to breathe.
“Yeah,” Yusuf lied.
The shame of losing composure in prayer lingered in his soul. Yusuf settled his knees in the soil beneath the carpet. He was unsure, for a moment, if the ground intended on swallowing him. He considered pleading to Allah not to be eaten by the earth but held back. Yusuf knew he was rattled—he’s been rattled before. This was why he’s here.
Yusuf sat with the strain in his torse for half an hour, disentangling it. He had no difficulties coming to terms with the journey he was on. He knew what he wanted. He knew what he was leaving behind for it. But the man who returned—that damned man. His presence chipped at Yusuf’s resolve. Why would someone return from the beloved? His purpose was tainted now.
In moments like these, Yusuf found refuge in his mind, deconstructing and reconstructing lines of logic. He had to consider every possible reason why a man might return. We’re rational creatures, after all. There were thousands of explanations. Yusuf only needed one.
The math—maybe the math would provide relief.
“How many have teleported so far?” he asked Ahmed.
“So far, 57,” Ahmed responded, either ignoring or uncaring of Yusuf’s panic. Yusuf was satisfied with Ahmed’s reaction. “Fifty-eight if you include this evening, first one again in a week.”
“Number 18 didn’t appear right away.” Yusuf stroked his beard, nodding along his own observation.
“No, he showed up around an hour later. And 37 appeared an hour and a half after she entered.”
Yusuf shook his head. His heart fell as he considered the implications.
“Don’t,” said Ahmed. “The equation isn’t linear. You won’t be able to calculate when you’ll appear, akhi. One thing we can say for sure: it won’t be now. I think that’s the best part! Imagine you show up and get shot in the face.” Ahmed roared and slapped his knee.
“What’s the best guess at the moment?”
“You mean the algorithm? I just saw a video—I’ll send it to you. She said the time for every travel. If the first person travelled for one second, the next person’s travel would take 0.0013 seconds longer, the next person twice that, and so on. But she doesn’t have enough data to say for sure.”
“We’re 4626 and 4627,” said Yusuf. “If the portal keeps extending the time, I don’t know…”
“Yes,” Ahmed grunted. “Anything is better than now.”
He looked up towards the sky. A helicopter buzzed in the distance.
Commotion rung across the river. Every time the portal was ready, the line was a person less. It was time to step forward. Yusuf was 4626 now.
He slid his belongings with his feet while Ahmed dug himself a new hole to sit in. Others were doing the same. Ahmed explained this was a gesture of their commitment. Ahmed was going to enter that portal even if the stars began to fall. The hole grew deeper each time he moved.
“Any more news on the man who returned?” Yusuf asked. He tried to hide the quiver in his voice.
Ahmed glanced at his phone as he shovelled. “None.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Probably missed his family. That’s what happens with people who make hijrah. They love the thought of leaving. But they always miss where they’re from.”
“What about you? You’re not afraid of missing your loves ones?” The image of Yusuf’s mother flashed in his mind, but he quickly shook it off. She wanted to come. But it was dangerous, he told her.
“I’m a nomad, akhi.” Ahmed dropped his little shovel and flared his hands. His palms glowed in the afternoon sun. “These hands have worked in more lands I can count. I’ve no family or home. But Quds is home for us all inshAllah.” Ahmed chuckled. The soil roared in red as he shovelled. “I’ve been blessed alhamdulilah to save enough money over the years. I was saving for hajj, you know? Everyone tells me I should do hajj first. But it’s too expensive, too expensive. But Quds? I just needed to get in line. Alhamdulilah, standing is in my budget.”
Yusuf got up to stretch his legs. He understood, of course. Everyone wanted to go to al-Quds. But there was always a price, a struggle, a violence in the way. Now there was just a door.
What preoccupied Yusuf was not how but when. The folding of space, the leaping of time. He considered every possibility. What if he jumped 25 years ahead? A hundred years? Five-hundred years? Would Earth still exist? Would it matter? He grappled with the math again, but it was coarse and unruly. Yusuf would arrive in the future—that’s for certain. When was up to Allah.
Yusuf’s phone hummed. Someone uploaded a new video of the man who returned. Yusuf’s gut wrenched and he realised, all at once, he felt miserable. It was like waiting for a doctor to confirm the bad news that was already known. Yusuf hesitated for moment but played the video. The man was small, maybe 100 meters away, walking towards the camera. He was shouting.
“What’s he saying?” asked Yusuf.
“I still can’t hear him well,” answered Ahmed. “Maybe someone closer is filming.”
The pressure in Yusuf’s chest swelled. Uncertainty overwhelmed him. Nothing could get his mind off the man who returned. He needed to know.
Yusuf stepped towards the side and looked down the line. The man who returned was still nowhere to be seen.
“Anything?” Yusuf asked, no longer attempting to disguise his unease.
Ahmed shook his head.
Yusuf scrolled through the video’s comments. Maybe someone posted another video. He needed to know what the man who returned was saying.
The comments slid in real time, a waterfall of cascading thoughts and questions from around the world.
Why would anyone come back!?
no Quds in the future, subhanAllah
Maybe the occupation gets worse!?
Yusuf flicked quickly through the comments, searching for another video. Then a comment caught his eye.
I don’t recognise this person from the list of travellers.
What list of travellers?
This site here provides the name and picture of every person who’s entered the portal. The man looks like he could be at least 70 years old. The travellers so far were all 45 years old, max
Ahmed nudged Yusuf on the shin with his shovel. “You found something?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It seems like whoever came back was there a long time.” Yusuf rubbed his neck. His throat felt dry. “He’s down there. He’s somewhere along the line.”
It seemed like everyone suddenly shared Yusuf’s thought. All at one, every second person in the line ran off. It was an incredible and oddly coordinated sight. The buddies who remained behind looked on in anticipation, holding their spots. Yusuf glanced at Ahmed who responded with a wink.
“Go. But know one thing: only the devil would convince you not to travel to al-Aqsa.”
Yusuf hadn’t run in weeks, and now he was sprinting as fast as he could. Ahmed’s final words pressed into his chest.
It didn’t take long to find the man who returned. As he drew nearer to the massive crowd, Yusuf could see the gleam in the old man’s eyes. Was he happy to be back? For such an extraordinary decision, the man looked astoundingly ordinary. Average height, dark eyes and dimples that curled as he smiled. He wore a grey t-shirt, a pair of black slacks and brown leather shoes. No electronics, of course, but Yusuf knew you couldn’t travel with those.
The 15th circle was the closest Yusuf could get to the man who returned. He could barely hear the old man’s words through the commotion.
“The knowledge was there, somewhere,” the man who returned was explaining. “It took a long time. But we made a new portal that folds back unto this one. It had to be built with the coordinates that lead here. No one else knew how to describe this exact location but me.”
A two-way portal.
“Why have you come back?” shouted a woman. Yusuf held his breath.
“I have come with a message.”
“What is it?” yelled a man.
“Go back home,” responded the man. “Don’t go through the portal.”
A gulp of air felt trapped inside Yusuf’s lungs.
“Why? Is it too violent in the future?”
“No, it’s peaceful. People live in safety and security. Everyone comes and goes as they please.”
“Then why are you telling us not to travel!?” screamed Yusuf. The words grazed his throat. He felt dizzy.
Only the devil would convince you not to travel to Aqsa.
“Because it’s better for you here.”
The crowd groaned and everyone dispersed. They returned to the river that leads to the portal, to the places coveted by millions across the world. Whispers fluttered as they marched. They accused the old man of homesickness, delusion, and lack of faith.
Yusuf wanted to return as well, eager to share with Ahmed the good news—false alarm. But the old man stood there, smiling. Ahmed’s legs wouldn’t obey. His heart had the rein now. And his heart needed answers.
“You’ve been waiting in line for how long?” the old man asked Yusuf.
“Two months.”
“In this heat?”
“Yes. How long did you wait for.”
“Oh, I was number 34, or 35, I think. It was so long ago.”
The old man’s eyes shimmered as he spoke. His wrinkles betrayed a long life filled with both joy and despair. Above all, the old man seemed spirited.
Yusuf eyed the river running beside him, at whose end sat the greatest invention of humankind. He couldn’t see Ahmed, but he imagined the large man, seated in his hole, looking forward with great intent.
“What number are you?” the old man asked, following Yusuf’s gaze.
“4626.”
“Incredible, incredible. Two months, you say. And to think, how much longer you still have to wait. We sacrifice everything to avoid asking ourselves if it’s worth it.”
A jolt ran up Yusuf’s back. “Are you saying it’s not worth it? Is that why you’re back?” He made no attempt to hide his frustration. Yusuf wanted righteous anger to speak on its own accord.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, brother,” the old man said. He placed his frail hand gently on Yusuf’s shoulder. “It’s essential we get there.”
“Then why are you back? Is it family? Your wife? Why? Why did you come back!?” Yusuf felt his eyes bulge. The more he considered all the reasons why someone would return from al-Aqsa—in peacetime, for God’s sake—the more he loathed the old man.
“I’m sorry,” said the man who returned. “I’m not explaining myself too well. I had a hard time explaining myself in the future as well. But over there, I was the only one from the past, so it made sense why no one could understand my reasoning.
“I have no family, or wife, or wealth. I had very little when I left. It was only by Allah’s mercy I was near the portal when it first opened. I know this land like the back of my hand—that’s how I was able to describe the precise location of the portal.” The old man stroked his white beard and filled the gaps of his speech with smiles. “Yes, in fact the only reason I was not 4th or 5th in line was because I hesitated. I was afraid of death, you know. I wanted to see if people who entered the portal exited with their life. They did, of course, and the news arrived quickly. That’s when I made my decision.”
Yusuf felt his breathing soften as he spoke. The old man heralded chaos but he was sincere, and sincerity forges a peculiar bond between hearts.
“Why don’t you want us to go?” Yusuf asked. It was the question he was avoiding. It was the one needed an answer for.
“As I said, people in the future couldn’t understand. But look at the line; look how many have come. They’re only going for themselves—as did I. It’s the easy path, the path of least resistance. But I tell you brother, if you understand what I’m telling you, this device is nothing but a bridge over our responsibility.”
“Responsibility? What responsibility, if you’re already there, how were you avoiding your responsibility?”
“That’s the problem. I prayed in Al-Aqsa for years before I realised: I was not fulfilling its rights. It has rights too, you know? But I only travelled there for myself.
In the future, its liberation was never taken for granted. People spoke highly of the past—the days of glory. Sermons recounted the efforts and sacrifices needed to liberate Palestine and Al-Aqsa. They spoke of the knockers—those who kept knocking on its door until it burst open. The more they glorified the knockers, the uneasier I felt.
I couldn’t sit in their presence anymore. They didn’t know where I’m from, they didn’t know the truth—but I did. I escaped, turned away from this world. I thought my heart would find serenity. It did for a while. But then I realised, too late perhaps, it’s not about being there. It’s about opening.
You want to enter the door, but you don’t want to knock on it.”
The old man turned towards the line and began shouting.
“Where are the knockers?” he shouted. “Where are the knockers?”
He walked on, repeating the question. Yusuf’s legs shook and he fell to his knees. Everything was clear before. He had no difficulties gazing at the pulpit of al-Aqsa in his mind’s eye.
Now the picture was empty and fragmented, like a puzzle made of white pieces. Yet Yusuf knew the pieces fit together, even if could not imagine the final image. Everything was there. His heart found a strange comfort in that thought.
He glanced towards the line. A young man was digging himself deep into the soil. Others were doing the same.
The old man walked in the opposite direction of the river. Away from the beloved. No, towards it. Towards the beloved. Towards those that knock.
And Yusuf followed.
A river of souls stretched over sun-baked land. The sea of people at its mouth waited for their turn to join. At the river’s end stood the portal. Yusuf managed to get in line before the tens of thousands that followed. He was number 4627.
“You see this?” Ahmed played a video on his phone of a man shouting towards the heavens. The figure was distant but the scene unmistakable: the man had just returned from the other side. It was the strangest news since the invention of the portal.
“What is he saying?” asked Yusuf.
“I don’t know. It sounds like he is repeating the word ‘knocking.’”
“Knocking?”
“Think so.”
Ahmed scratched his head. He was a burly man. His eyes smiled as much as his lips.
“Hmmm.”
Yusuf didn’t know what else to say. The sun beamed quietly above, and the grasslands glowed in a bright rage. Even beneath his mobile canopy, Yusuf felt the harsh sunlight. But he was determined. The treasure that awaited was worth it.
Yusuf wiped his brow and tied his hair in a ponytail. He’s been in line for months. But waiting wasn’t the problem. He had enough food and supplies to camp for weeks. A buddy system was in place as well. People in the line partnered up so each could take turns sleeping or going to the bathroom. Ahmed was his buddy.
No one else was allowed in the area to visit or hold the place. Yusuf wondered if he’d see his parents again. But there was no time for such thoughts. Only dreams of the beloved.
Yusuf took stepped to the side and looked ahead. The line, made of all shapes and colours of the world, shrank delicately towards the horizon. Yusuf closed his eyes and imagined the teleporter.
The teleporter was made of two parts: the portal and the door. The portal sat on the plains of an east African coast. Rumours say it was built here because it presented considerable danger. Scientists may understand the theory of time and space; they can fiddle with the machinery and calculations all they like. But when you’re dealing with quantum travel, it’s impossible to predict the unknown unknowns. The folding of space presented a significant threat to its vicinity. What if the portal folded unto itself? The security risk was too great. Someone figured the coast of Africa was the obvious place for this experiment.
The door—this was the best description people had for it—wasn’t physical. It was summoned by the portal, its coordinates triangulated into space using the relatively fixed location of stars as warrens. The door proved difficult to keep it in place however, due to the earth’s natural movements. But a woman, a Muslim apparently, managed to keep the door still despite the movement of space. She transcribed her solution in an algorithm. With enough energy—which varied according to destination—the portal opens a door fixed to the coordinates contained within the algorithm for a brief moment. Those who’ve seen the door open say it’s the most incredible spectacle.
The location of the door is the cause of history’s greatest line-up. In fact, the door’s location is as miraculous as the invention of the teleporter.
The teleporter was developed in secret, so nothing can be taken as fact. Many believe a dying nation-state developed the technology to secure their waning power on the global stage. But the woman who developed the algorithm must have realised: she held in her hands the mighty pen of history. It is said she was overcome by a magnificent impulse; a dream shared by millions transmuted into her soul.
And so, she placed the door in Al-Aqsa. That is all. Small act, incredible consequence.
It’s been three months. No one has been able to decipher new coordinates ever since. The door remains in the bosom of Al-Quds—for now. As for the Muslim woman, she was never seen again. People speak of her in the past tense. “The woman who opened the door of the beloved.”
Yusuf wondered what it was like to enter that luminous haze contained in the dark, oblong structure. It is said the portal’s sheen reveals an opaque view into the heart of the mosque. It was as if one was peering through the dizzying reflection of infinite mirrors. Yusuf’s gut wrenched at the thought. He was excited. He was also incredibly frightened.
Who was the man who returned? Why would anyone return? His heart needed to feel earth. That’s where he found calm.
Yusuf laid out his burgundy carpet, prayed for guidance and prostrated. He pressed his forehead deep into the ground and the carpet sank in agreement. Yusuf imagined he was in the Bait al-Maqdis. The athan rang, the people stood in lines and lines. He felt at peace, the image washing over him like warm water. It was so close. He was just a door away.
Then the person who returned flashed before his mind, and the people dispersed. Yelling filled the great halls of the mosque.
“Knock!” shouted the man who returned.
He was approaching Yusuf, walking along the ranks. Beyond the man, darkness. Yusuf’s heart fluttered and he struggled to will the focus in prayer. As the man walked, the walls came apart and the people fell into the void.
“Knock!”
The man who returned was meters away. Nothing was beyond him; he swallowed everything in his presence. Yusuf held firm. This was his place. This was his destiny.
The man who returned grabbed Yusuf by the shoulders.
“Knock!”
Yusuf woke up. His shirt was laced with sweat and a dark stain filled the spot where his forehead rested.
“You OK, akhi?” Ahmed asked.
Yusuf clenched his chest. It felt tight and filled with lead. He struggled to breathe.
“Yeah,” Yusuf lied.
The shame of losing composure in prayer lingered in his soul. Yusuf settled his knees in the soil beneath the carpet. He was unsure, for a moment, if the ground intended on swallowing him. He considered pleading to Allah not to be eaten by the earth but held back. Yusuf knew he was rattled—he’s been rattled before. This was why he’s here.
Yusuf sat with the strain in his torse for half an hour, disentangling it. He had no difficulties coming to terms with the journey he was on. He knew what he wanted. He knew what he was leaving behind for it. But the man who returned—that damned man. His presence chipped at Yusuf’s resolve. Why would someone return from the beloved? His purpose was tainted now.
In moments like these, Yusuf found refuge in his mind, deconstructing and reconstructing lines of logic. He had to consider every possible reason why a man might return. We’re rational creatures, after all. There were thousands of explanations. Yusuf only needed one.
The math—maybe the math would provide relief.
“How many have teleported so far?” he asked Ahmed.
“So far, 57,” Ahmed responded, either ignoring or uncaring of Yusuf’s panic. Yusuf was satisfied with Ahmed’s reaction. “Fifty-eight if you include this evening, first one again in a week.”
“Number 18 didn’t appear right away.” Yusuf stroked his beard, nodding along his own observation.
“No, he showed up around an hour later. And 37 appeared an hour and a half after she entered.”
Yusuf shook his head. His heart fell as he considered the implications.
“Don’t,” said Ahmed. “The equation isn’t linear. You won’t be able to calculate when you’ll appear, akhi. One thing we can say for sure: it won’t be now. I think that’s the best part! Imagine you show up and get shot in the face.” Ahmed roared and slapped his knee.
“What’s the best guess at the moment?”
“You mean the algorithm? I just saw a video—I’ll send it to you. She said the time for every travel. If the first person travelled for one second, the next person’s travel would take 0.0013 seconds longer, the next person twice that, and so on. But she doesn’t have enough data to say for sure.”
“We’re 4626 and 4627,” said Yusuf. “If the portal keeps extending the time, I don’t know…”
“Yes,” Ahmed grunted. “Anything is better than now.”
He looked up towards the sky. A helicopter buzzed in the distance.
Commotion rung across the river. Every time the portal was ready, the line was a person less. It was time to step forward. Yusuf was 4626 now.
He slid his belongings with his feet while Ahmed dug himself a new hole to sit in. Others were doing the same. Ahmed explained this was a gesture of their commitment. Ahmed was going to enter that portal even if the stars began to fall. The hole grew deeper each time he moved.
“Any more news on the man who returned?” Yusuf asked. He tried to hide the quiver in his voice.
Ahmed glanced at his phone as he shovelled. “None.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Probably missed his family. That’s what happens with people who make hijrah. They love the thought of leaving. But they always miss where they’re from.”
“What about you? You’re not afraid of missing your loves ones?” The image of Yusuf’s mother flashed in his mind, but he quickly shook it off. She wanted to come. But it was dangerous, he told her.
“I’m a nomad, akhi.” Ahmed dropped his little shovel and flared his hands. His palms glowed in the afternoon sun. “These hands have worked in more lands I can count. I’ve no family or home. But Quds is home for us all inshAllah.” Ahmed chuckled. The soil roared in red as he shovelled. “I’ve been blessed alhamdulilah to save enough money over the years. I was saving for hajj, you know? Everyone tells me I should do hajj first. But it’s too expensive, too expensive. But Quds? I just needed to get in line. Alhamdulilah, standing is in my budget.”
Yusuf got up to stretch his legs. He understood, of course. Everyone wanted to go to al-Quds. But there was always a price, a struggle, a violence in the way. Now there was just a door.
What preoccupied Yusuf was not how but when. The folding of space, the leaping of time. He considered every possibility. What if he jumped 25 years ahead? A hundred years? Five-hundred years? Would Earth still exist? Would it matter? He grappled with the math again, but it was coarse and unruly. Yusuf would arrive in the future—that’s for certain. When was up to Allah.
Yusuf’s phone hummed. Someone uploaded a new video of the man who returned. Yusuf’s gut wrenched and he realised, all at once, he felt miserable. It was like waiting for a doctor to confirm the bad news that was already known. Yusuf hesitated for moment but played the video. The man was small, maybe 100 meters away, walking towards the camera. He was shouting.
“What’s he saying?” asked Yusuf.
“I still can’t hear him well,” answered Ahmed. “Maybe someone closer is filming.”
The pressure in Yusuf’s chest swelled. Uncertainty overwhelmed him. Nothing could get his mind off the man who returned. He needed to know.
Yusuf stepped towards the side and looked down the line. The man who returned was still nowhere to be seen.
“Anything?” Yusuf asked, no longer attempting to disguise his unease.
Ahmed shook his head.
Yusuf scrolled through the video’s comments. Maybe someone posted another video. He needed to know what the man who returned was saying.
The comments slid in real time, a waterfall of cascading thoughts and questions from around the world.
Why would anyone come back!?
no Quds in the future, subhanAllah
Maybe the occupation gets worse!?
Yusuf flicked quickly through the comments, searching for another video. Then a comment caught his eye.
I don’t recognise this person from the list of travellers.
What list of travellers?
This site here provides the name and picture of every person who’s entered the portal. The man looks like he could be at least 70 years old. The travellers so far were all 45 years old, max
Ahmed nudged Yusuf on the shin with his shovel. “You found something?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It seems like whoever came back was there a long time.” Yusuf rubbed his neck. His throat felt dry. “He’s down there. He’s somewhere along the line.”
It seemed like everyone suddenly shared Yusuf’s thought. All at one, every second person in the line ran off. It was an incredible and oddly coordinated sight. The buddies who remained behind looked on in anticipation, holding their spots. Yusuf glanced at Ahmed who responded with a wink.
“Go. But know one thing: only the devil would convince you not to travel to al-Aqsa.”
Yusuf hadn’t run in weeks, and now he was sprinting as fast as he could. Ahmed’s final words pressed into his chest.
It didn’t take long to find the man who returned. As he drew nearer to the massive crowd, Yusuf could see the gleam in the old man’s eyes. Was he happy to be back? For such an extraordinary decision, the man looked astoundingly ordinary. Average height, dark eyes and dimples that curled as he smiled. He wore a grey t-shirt, a pair of black slacks and brown leather shoes. No electronics, of course, but Yusuf knew you couldn’t travel with those.
The 15th circle was the closest Yusuf could get to the man who returned. He could barely hear the old man’s words through the commotion.
“The knowledge was there, somewhere,” the man who returned was explaining. “It took a long time. But we made a new portal that folds back unto this one. It had to be built with the coordinates that lead here. No one else knew how to describe this exact location but me.”
A two-way portal.
“Why have you come back?” shouted a woman. Yusuf held his breath.
“I have come with a message.”
“What is it?” yelled a man.
“Go back home,” responded the man. “Don’t go through the portal.”
A gulp of air felt trapped inside Yusuf’s lungs.
“Why? Is it too violent in the future?”
“No, it’s peaceful. People live in safety and security. Everyone comes and goes as they please.”
“Then why are you telling us not to travel!?” screamed Yusuf. The words grazed his throat. He felt dizzy.
Only the devil would convince you not to travel to Aqsa.
“Because it’s better for you here.”
The crowd groaned and everyone dispersed. They returned to the river that leads to the portal, to the places coveted by millions across the world. Whispers fluttered as they marched. They accused the old man of homesickness, delusion, and lack of faith.
Yusuf wanted to return as well, eager to share with Ahmed the good news—false alarm. But the old man stood there, smiling. Ahmed’s legs wouldn’t obey. His heart had the rein now. And his heart needed answers.
“You’ve been waiting in line for how long?” the old man asked Yusuf.
“Two months.”
“In this heat?”
“Yes. How long did you wait for.”
“Oh, I was number 34, or 35, I think. It was so long ago.”
The old man’s eyes shimmered as he spoke. His wrinkles betrayed a long life filled with both joy and despair. Above all, the old man seemed spirited.
Yusuf eyed the river running beside him, at whose end sat the greatest invention of humankind. He couldn’t see Ahmed, but he imagined the large man, seated in his hole, looking forward with great intent.
“What number are you?” the old man asked, following Yusuf’s gaze.
“4626.”
“Incredible, incredible. Two months, you say. And to think, how much longer you still have to wait. We sacrifice everything to avoid asking ourselves if it’s worth it.”
A jolt ran up Yusuf’s back. “Are you saying it’s not worth it? Is that why you’re back?” He made no attempt to hide his frustration. Yusuf wanted righteous anger to speak on its own accord.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, brother,” the old man said. He placed his frail hand gently on Yusuf’s shoulder. “It’s essential we get there.”
“Then why are you back? Is it family? Your wife? Why? Why did you come back!?” Yusuf felt his eyes bulge. The more he considered all the reasons why someone would return from al-Aqsa—in peacetime, for God’s sake—the more he loathed the old man.
“I’m sorry,” said the man who returned. “I’m not explaining myself too well. I had a hard time explaining myself in the future as well. But over there, I was the only one from the past, so it made sense why no one could understand my reasoning.
“I have no family, or wife, or wealth. I had very little when I left. It was only by Allah’s mercy I was near the portal when it first opened. I know this land like the back of my hand—that’s how I was able to describe the precise location of the portal.” The old man stroked his white beard and filled the gaps of his speech with smiles. “Yes, in fact the only reason I was not 4th or 5th in line was because I hesitated. I was afraid of death, you know. I wanted to see if people who entered the portal exited with their life. They did, of course, and the news arrived quickly. That’s when I made my decision.”
Yusuf felt his breathing soften as he spoke. The old man heralded chaos but he was sincere, and sincerity forges a peculiar bond between hearts.
“Why don’t you want us to go?” Yusuf asked. It was the question he was avoiding. It was the one needed an answer for.
“As I said, people in the future couldn’t understand. But look at the line; look how many have come. They’re only going for themselves—as did I. It’s the easy path, the path of least resistance. But I tell you brother, if you understand what I’m telling you, this device is nothing but a bridge over our responsibility.”
“Responsibility? What responsibility, if you’re already there, how were you avoiding your responsibility?”
“That’s the problem. I prayed in Al-Aqsa for years before I realised: I was not fulfilling its rights. It has rights too, you know? But I only travelled there for myself.
In the future, its liberation was never taken for granted. People spoke highly of the past—the days of glory. Sermons recounted the efforts and sacrifices needed to liberate Palestine and Al-Aqsa. They spoke of the knockers—those who kept knocking on its door until it burst open. The more they glorified the knockers, the uneasier I felt.
I couldn’t sit in their presence anymore. They didn’t know where I’m from, they didn’t know the truth—but I did. I escaped, turned away from this world. I thought my heart would find serenity. It did for a while. But then I realised, too late perhaps, it’s not about being there. It’s about opening.
You want to enter the door, but you don’t want to knock on it.”
The old man turned towards the line and began shouting.
“Where are the knockers?” he shouted. “Where are the knockers?”
He walked on, repeating the question. Yusuf’s legs shook and he fell to his knees. Everything was clear before. He had no difficulties gazing at the pulpit of al-Aqsa in his mind’s eye.
Now the picture was empty and fragmented, like a puzzle made of white pieces. Yet Yusuf knew the pieces fit together, even if could not imagine the final image. Everything was there. His heart found a strange comfort in that thought.
He glanced towards the line. A young man was digging himself deep into the soil. Others were doing the same.
The old man walked in the opposite direction of the river. Away from the beloved. No, towards it. Towards the beloved. Towards those that knock.
And Yusuf followed.