The Journalist

Part 22: Through Writing

"Ah .. ah .. hssss ...."

"Don't be too noisy. Someone will hear us ...."

"Then ... shut me up with your lips ...."

The sound of two humans going through my ears. I looked back at the small tent next to my tent. I could see clearly the silhouettes of the bodies of men and women who were moving wildly in rhythm.

It was Eiji and Aoba. I call them hyper lovers. They can have sex whenever and wherever they want. Predictably, this isn't the first time I've heard of both of these intimate activities.

The moaning sound is now accompanied by the snoring sound of So coming from my tent. I who was outside the tent could only cluck while returning to focus on my laptop to type in the article that would be published tomorrow. This is what made me reject Yuna's invitation to be together tonight. I feel the need to get my work done and create a personal blog. No wonder my friends call me workaholic. Even alcohol and sex can't make me turn away from work.

"I'm almost there ...."

"Tu–wait for me .. a little more ...."

"I su–already ti–cannot stand ...."

Goddamnit! They are contributing to noise pollution!

I sighed while resting my laptop for a moment, then stood up while stretching out both hands. Because it was so late, the atmosphere became so quiet. There were only a few UN soldiers on guard at a number of points.

This situation is so calm, it makes me interested in walking around the place. Don't forget I pinned the identification card so as not to be suspected as an intruder.

Down there is a refugee camp adjacent to the tent of the medics where Yuna is staying. Maybe Yuna is asleep by now. Because, an hour ago he had sent a good night as a cover for our chat chat.

My eyes looked deep into a humanitarian aid tent. I squinted at suspicious activity behind the tent, where a female refugee was directed there alternating with other women who had just come out. My instincts as a journalist also brought my footsteps to get there.

Still watching as I walked with caution, I soon saw a hooded woman running out of the tent carrying something hidden under her long veil. The woman sprinted towards me as officers from humanitarian aid chased her. Because he kept looking back, he even hit me to make us both fall down.

He hastily picked up relief items that had fallen, including diapers, food and toddler milk. While I took my fallen journalist ID card, it was written, a journalist from J-news TV said. Looking at the card, the panicked woman spoke to me in Arabic. His tone was very fast, mixed with panic and fear. Even I could see his hands trembling and there was a puddle of water ready to flow in his eyes.

"I don't understand!" kataku.

Really, I don't understand what he's saying, but I can tell that it's very important. He continued to speak while pointing to the small tent I had suspected.

"Let's just say, how about ...." I reached into my jacket pocket, intending to grab my phone so that she could type in the words that I would later translate directly, just like the way I and Ameena communicate. Damn, I left my phone in the tent.

"Hey, you!" The sound of officers coming from the tent made the woman frightened and hid behind me.

The two bull-looking officers were glaring at my face with flashlights. "Who are you? Why are you protecting this thief?" ask them with sangar.

"I'm a journalist from J-news TV."

The two officers gasped when they found out I was a journalist.

"Is this woman not a refugee? I don't think it's a problem if he takes that help. Maybe it's the wrong way but I think he's desperate" I said in defense of the woman.

The two officers glanced at each other, as if hiding something that should not be known. Without saying anything, they immediately turned around and returned to their tents.

The next day, I made an appointment with an acquaintance of mine who also works as a journalist. Kamal Malek is a journalist from Al Jazeera. He was originally from Egypt but was assigned to this country to hunt for news. He was the first foreign journalist I was familiar with. Its stature is large in height and has thin hair fur that grows on the chin and around the face. His age is older than me, certainly makes him have more experience in the world of journalism.

"Hey, Ayano I finally get to see you again. I could barely eat or drink when I found out you disappeared in that refugee camp. I'm really sorry, recommending that place to you" he said guiltily.

Yes, the camp I went to with Ameena was indeed on her recommendation when I called her. But he's not wrong either. Who knew that our arrival there coincided with the start of the assault on the area.

I then shook my head. "You don't have to feel guilty. Now, you can see for yourself .. I'm fine."

"What happened to you during those four days?"

"That's it, there's no need to talk about it anymore. I came here to ask you for help. That's if you have the time."

"Whatis that? Don't worry, just say it!"

I stood up straight, then bowed full. "Please teach me Arabic!"

Kamal Malek's eyes were wide open, a sign that he was surprised by my request. "You want to learn Arabic?" it was as if he needed confirmation again.

"Yes, especially the Arabic used in this country" I replied. Syrian and Egyptian Arabic are more or less the same. Yes, not many know if the two countries were once a region in a common country, the United Arab Republic.

"But ... for what? You speak English very well. Don't say .. You get acquainted with a girl in this country and want to communicate smoothly with her."

"Ah, of course not!" elakku quickly, "This is to make it easier for me to get along with the people in this country. I want to create many articles with the viewpoint of the people of this country. So, I need to communicate with them" I explained.

I can't deny, the motivation to learn Arabic came after meeting Ameena. Until now, my little heart still hopes to see him again even if only to greet each other.

Kamal Malek sighed. "That's no problem. But I can't teach you like a language teacher. I can only teach you vocabulary that you will use every day."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Kamal." I bowed once more.

"I told you not to bow before me" he said, telling me to stand up.

Me and Kamal Malek made a deal to meet twice a week for Arabic lessons. I also bought an Arabic dictionary as proof of my seriousness in studying it.

Some days pass so quickly. Photographing the sky became my new hobby. Wherever I stand, as long as there is a clear sky with white clouds up there I will definitely capture in the camera.

A week since the creation of my personal blog, I can't believe my first post titled "The Ever-Missed Beauty of the Sky" became popular so quickly and has been shared thousands of times by readers. The post got a lot of comments from different parts of the world. Most of them responded to the photo of the boy I had tucked into the article with an empathetic phrase. Aoba said the photo was first viral thanks to someone uploading it on social media Twitter, so users flocked to search for my personal blog.

I read one by one the comments that came in. Of the hundreds that came in, my cursor stopped at one of the comments that caught my attention. Probably because it is the only comment that uses Arabic. Unable to read Arabic, I tried to translate the comments to an automatic machine translator.

"I love your writing.People may feel sad after reading it, but this is the most beautiful writing I've ever read. Thank you for photographing the girl and making her famous for representing the children of other war victims. By the way, may I have a photo of this child from you? I'd be very happy if you replied to my comment." That's the content of his comment.

I cringed a little. Wait, how did he know this boy was a female? I had to look at the picture of the boy because I thought he was a male.

I then replied to his comment. "of course. Please take it without putting my name, just as it is not for abuse."

His profile photo that uses sunset images in the desert, makes this finger moved to open the account profile. Not much information is written in his bio. But at least I know she's a Syrian woman freelance writer.