The dust swirled around Ahmed’s small stall, coating his shelves of knock-off American football jerseys and cheap sunglasses with a fine layer of beige. Business around Al-Asad Air Base had been… different, lately. The crisp, fresh dollar bills that used to change hands after payday were now crumpled and worn, like they’d been clutched in sweaty palms for weeks. Even the money changers were giving him the side-eye, a subtle shake of the head when he tried to deposit his earnings. A bad omen, he knew.
The whispers had started a few weeks ago, swirling through the souk like the desert wind. “The Americans are leaving,” they’d said. “Finished. No more dollars.” Ahmed had scoffed then. The Americans had been here for as long as he could remember, a steady stream of customers eager for cheap souvenirs and a taste of home. But now, the whispers were louder, more insistent. They spoke of a deadline, a withdrawal. And the new, crumpled bills seemed to confirm it.
Today, the whispers had taken a new, more unsettling turn. Old Khalil, who ran the tea stall near the gate, had leaned close, his voice low and grave. “Syria,” he’d hissed, “They say Syria might… move. Across the border. Boost morale, they say.” Ahmed’s stomach churned. Syria. The name conjured images of chaos and instability, a far cry from the predictable rhythm of American patrols and payday spending sprees.
Khalil had continued, a glint in his eye, “My cousin, he has a shop near the border. Says business is… brisk. Syrian soldiers, they have their own money, you know. Might be worth… relocating.”
The thought had taken root in Ahmed’s mind. Move closer to the Syrian border? It was a gamble, a desperate one. But staying here, with the Americans pulling out and the specter of Syrian incursion looming, felt like a slower, more certain kind of ruin. He looked at his dusty shelves, at the faded jerseys and the cheap sunglasses. They wouldn’t sell to ghosts.
He pictured himself setting up a new stall, closer to the border. Maybe he could learn a few Syrian phrases, offer something different. Perhaps they liked different kinds of souvenirs. He’d have to find out. It was a risk, a big one. But as he swept the dust off his wares, Ahmed knew one thing: he couldn’t stay here. He had to adapt, to survive. He had to follow the whispers, follow the money, even if it meant venturing into the unknown. The desert wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of uncertainty and the faintest whiff of… opportunity.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms.
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