When I have a chance to go back to my village, I always remind

Host: The train rattled through the golden fields of the Nile Delta, cutting through waves of wheat swaying under the late afternoon sun. The air shimmered with heat, carrying the faint scent of dust and sugarcane. From the small, open window, the world looked timeless — children running barefoot, farmers guiding their donkeys, old men sitting by the roadside with silent dignity.
Jack sat by the window, collar undone, a tired smile brushing his lips as he watched the countryside roll by. Across from him sat Jeeny, her long hair tied back, eyes soft but bright with curiosity. A folded magazine rested on her lap — Mohamed Salah’s face on the cover, his quote highlighted beneath: “When I have a chance to go back to my village, I always remind myself where I came from.”

Jeeny: reading aloud softly “When I have a chance to go back to my village, I always remind myself where I came from.” It’s strange, isn’t it? How success makes us forget what used to define us — and how some people still fight to remember.

Jack: without looking away from the window “It’s not strange. It’s survival. The higher you climb, the smaller the ground below looks. Maybe remembering where you came from just makes you dizzy.”

Host: The train lurched slightly, its metallic hum deepening as it curved along the river. Sunlight flared across the glass, painting their faces in a shifting amber glow.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not dizziness. It’s balance. Salah goes home not because he needs to — but because humility protects him from forgetting his humanity.”

Jack: snorts softly “Humility? You really think going back to a village changes anything? The world worships success, not roots. You can visit your past a hundred times — it won’t stop the present from consuming you.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you think he still goes? Out of guilt? Nostalgia?”

Jack: “Probably both. It’s human. He grew up poor, now he’s a global icon. The guilt of having what others can’t is heavy — heavier than fame itself.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her cup, her gaze thoughtful, her tone gentler.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not guilt. Maybe it’s gratitude. You ever think of that? Gratitude for the soil that shaped you, the people who carried you before the world knew your name?”

Jack: leans back, crossing his arms “Gratitude is easy when you’ve already escaped. When you’re still there, it’s survival. The village is beautiful only once you leave it.”

Host: The sunlight dimmed as the train entered a tunnel, plunging them into a brief darkness. Their voices echoed against the hollow sound of metal and motion.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone running from his own shadow.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe I am.”

Host: The light returned as the train emerged. Beyond the glass, the fields opened again — endless, familiar, ancient. A boy waved from the tracks; Jeeny smiled and waved back, while Jack only watched, something unreadable in his eyes.

Jeeny: “Do you ever go back to your own village, Jack?”

Jack: after a pause “Once. Years ago. Nothing had changed — except me. The well was still dry, the same dog barked at the same gate. But it felt smaller, like a dream you outgrow.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what remembering is for — not to go back and fit, but to see clearly what made you.”

Jack: “And what good does that do? You can’t live in memory.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can live with respect for it. People who forget their roots forget their compass. That’s why power corrupts — because it severs you from the ground.”

Host: Her voice carried through the rattling train like a melody against machinery — soft, yet unbreakable.

Jack: “So you’re saying success isn’t measured by how far you go, but how deeply you stay connected?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Look at Salah — he builds schools, hospitals, water projects back home. He doesn’t just visit his village; he invests in it. That’s what remembering should mean.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “And yet people still idolize him for the goals, not the giving. The world doesn’t care about his village — it cares about his fame.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But he cares. And that’s the point. You can’t control the world’s worship, only your own integrity.”

Host: A silence fell between them. The train slowed as it passed through a small rural station. An old woman sold dates through the window; Jeeny bought some, her fingers brushing the woman’s weathered hand. Jack watched — quietly — as the exchange passed like a prayer.

Jeeny: offering him a date “Taste that. It’s not the city’s sweetness — it’s earth and sun and labor. Every bite reminds you someone’s still planting while you’re busy running.”

Jack: takes it, chewing slowly “You romanticize struggle too much.”

Jeeny: “No. I humanize it. There’s a difference. The village doesn’t need to be idealized — it just needs to be remembered.”

Host: The wind swept through the open window, carrying with it the scent of sugarcane smoke. Jack’s eyes drifted toward the horizon — where a minaret rose against the fading light, and the call to prayer echoed faintly across the fields.

Jack: “You know, my father used to tell me never to look back. Said looking back slows you down.”

Jeeny: “And my mother used to say, ‘Only those who forget where they came from end up lost where they’re going.’”

Host: Jack laughed softly — the kind of laugh that hides something fragile.

Jack: “Maybe they were both right. Maybe you look back only long enough to remember who’s still behind you.”

Jeeny: smiling “That’s what responsibility looks like — to carry your people with you, even when they can’t follow.”

Host: The train began to slow again. Outside, a sign appeared — faded letters naming a small, forgotten village. Children waved as they passed, barefoot, laughing. Jeeny’s eyes gleamed; Jack’s expression softened.

Jack: quietly “You ever wonder why those who come from so little seem to give the most?”

Jeeny: “Because they know the worth of every small thing — a cup of water, a kind word, a dream that survives hunger.”

Host: The last light of day brushed the windows like liquid gold. Jack’s cigarette burned to its end. He crushed it out slowly, eyes distant but gentle now.

Jack: “Maybe Salah’s right. Maybe going back isn’t about the place at all. Maybe it’s about remembering who you were before the world told you who to be.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t visit your past — you honor it.”

Host: The train finally stopped. A small platform, dirt road, palm trees trembling in the evening wind. Jack stood and looked out the window for a long moment before speaking.

Jack: “You think we ever really leave where we came from?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We just carry it differently. Some in guilt. Some in gratitude. But we all carry it.”

Host: The train whistle blew, long and low, echoing across the fields. The sky turned crimson — the color of endings that promise beginnings. Jeeny gathered her bag, Jack his coat.

As they stepped off, the scent of earth rose around them — raw, honest, grounding. For a moment, both stood still, listening to the rustle of palm leaves and the distant laughter of children.

And in that silence, Jack’s voice came — barely above a whisper.

Jack: “It feels strange… like I’ve been here before.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Maybe you never left.”

Host: The sun sank behind the village, painting their faces in the same golden hue that bathed every forgotten home. And as the train pulled away behind them, its echo fading into the dusk, the world seemed to whisper —
that remembering where you come from is not an act of nostalgia,
but an act of becoming whole.