I dreamt that I was watching a mother and her son in a vast desert. I was not with them; rather, it was like watching a movie. He was five or six and she was in her thirties. It appeared he was neither her first nor last child. Both of them were quite dark. Their hair was pitch-black and slightly curly. They had large, dark eyes. Both of them appeared bright, almost cunning. They were at home in the desert. I remember the mother telling her son that she had something to do, that she would be back very soon, and that he should not follow her. She was stern with him. He nodded obediently, but he stealthily followed her nonetheless. She walked over the crest of a nearby dune, walked some way down the slope before she stopped, pulled her robe to her waist, squatted, and started relieving herself. The boy peered over the crest. She produced a long, yellowish turd with pointed ends. She deftly covered it with sand, and shifted to the side to clean herself with the softest sand she could find. The boy hurried to the place where she had left him and waited for her to return. The next thing I remember is that someone else joined the mother and son, and that the boy swiftly hid behind his mother’s robe. She reprimanded him for his baby-like behavior and asked him to introduce himself properly. He stepped forward, straightened his robe, bowed his head quickly, and looked straight into the newcomer’s face. “My name is Muhammad,” he said with some determination. And that is all I remember of my dream. The two scenes stayed with me long after I woke up.