We saw him approach the gates as the sun was starting to set over the desert city. I shuffled nervously as he approached, not recognizing which tribe he belonged to. He led a procession of civilians, perhaps his family or other tribe members. When his group neared, he walked ahead and greeted us by himself.

The old man wore a rough homespun white wool robe with four black lines that circled the robe around his groin, and it covered his body down to his sandals. Around his neck, he had a intricately patterned long dark blue scarf that beautifully contrasted his robe like the ocean meeting the sand at a beach. He had a unkempt scruffy black beard with streaks of grey, and two tightly curled side-locks of thick hair that hung on each side of his face, which came down from somewhere in front of his ears, in a similar fashion to our sages. He wore a smooth, flat skullcap that looked like the ones we wore, but it was much bigger and covered his whole head, while ours was only a few inches in diameter. The inhabitants of my city had olive complexions, while his skin was a darker brown and leathery from a lifetime of being in the hot desert sun. He seemed happy to meet us, and it was clear he had been on a long journey.

I felt some sort of kinship with him. The language he spoke was archaic, but it sounded familiar, and I could almost understand him. It felt like when you forgot a word and were trying to remember it — the word you wanted felt so frustratingly close, just out of reach of your memory.

After some back and forth, all I understood was the word “home.” I didn’t know who this man was, but it just occurred to me that I was the first one to welcome his tribe back home after centuries apart.