Along the paths of the world, there once walked a giant, and his name was Al-Hamil. There was a great noise when he moved, for he was covered in the remnants of a thousand sorrows, all clanking together with his heavy steps. A patchwork of cloth and leather hung from his shoulders, fragments of metal and glass clinked at his waist, and countless small things, tokens of grief and shame and rage, were tied to every part of him. Each object he carried had once belonged to another, a burden given freely. For when Al-Hamil came upon those who were troubled, he would lower himself to meet them, and they would place upon him some token of their anguish. And though their burden remained in the world, it no longer rested on them alone. So Al-Hamil grew larger with each gift, his frame expanding to hold what was given, and his footsteps grew heavier upon the endless path he walked.
One night in an open field, a man frantically runs with iron shackles weighing down his wrists and ankles; it was a slave escaped from his master. Kneeling down, Al-Hamil extends his arms out to him, and the slave locks his shackles around Al-Hamil’s wrists and ankles, walking away now a free man. And Al-Hamil continues forward, bound in chains.
The path winds through a village, and there stepping out of the shadow is a woman with bruises hidden beneath her sleeves. Al-Hamil reaches his hand down to her, and she silently slips her extravagant wedding ring onto his finger, for its rich jewels were never more to her than a prison. She turns away, down a new path, never to return home to her husband.
Thereafter, a man approaches with no particular tragedy to name, yet carries a heaviness he cannot release—for he has forgotten how to weep. Al-Hamil sits with the man, listening to his small disappointments, accumulated slights, quiet loneliness. When finished, the man drapes a dried-up waterskin on Al-Hamil’s shoulder. The man walks away awash with the pent-up tears of his disquiet torment.
Time passes and he comes upon a man carrying a burning torch through the night. For many years, the man had kept it lit with rage from his quarrel with his brother over some inheritance. Both bore some blame in the affair, yet incensed by the other’s wrongdoing, both had been too proud to compromise. At the sight of Al-Hamil’s enormous, discordant figure, the man recoils and waves his torch to ward off danger. But the motion snuffs out the flame. Al-Hamil bends low and gestures to his belt. The man, understanding, ties the burnt-out torch to it. The weight of rage lifts, and he turns homeward to seek his brother and make amends.
There is the sound of a weeping carried in the wind, and it is a couple mourning their young child who died in the spring. Neither has been able to speak the child’s name or enter the now empty bedroom without suffocating in grief. Al-Hamil bows his head low, and they tie their child’s small shoes around his neck, the laces still new from steps never taken. They walk away, now able to speak their beloved child’s name aloud, reminiscing that short time they had been blessed.
Now as Al-Hamil trudges down through the path, larger and heavier than ever before, there is a growing weariness in the motion of each step. The clanking of his thousand objects had long-since become deafening. Far beyond him are the jagged precipices of a cliff. There, peeping between the cracks, he sees a white flower growing out, twinkling in the reflection of moonlight. The beauty of it smote his heart, and his strength returns to him. The thought pierces him that in the end, the burdens were only a small and passing thing; there was light and high beauty forever beyond their reach. He makes way towards the defiant flower. At the base of the cliff, there is a little girl staring up longingly at the flower. He reaches up towards it, intent on plucking it for the girl, but feels himself buckle, crumbling under the burden of all he carries. And Al-Hamil fell, never to return to his path or ease another burden.