Doors ajar or flung wide, and beyond them, by the light of the moon, nothing but shadowed walls and a dusting of debris on dirt floors: an article of clothing, pages from a notebook, empty packets and peels. The sound of my footsteps answered Bahr’s like an echo as we approached a door that seemed to beckon us inside. Tentatively, we entered.

It was just two rooms with a black pit in one corner that we took to be the toilet. I thought I heard a sound, a whisper close by, but when I turned around there was nothing and no one. Nothing, not even a broken chair or a smashed cup; it was as though an atom bomb had turned everyone and everything to vapor.

As always, Bahr started scribbling and recording and photographing, while I stood there trying—and failing—to visualize the events that had led to this scene.

Wahda.

Residents of neighboring villages had failed to notice that the inhabitants of Wahda were selling everything they owned. Literally: from their scant livestock and chickens to clothes—down to underwear—dropped off at second-hand stalls and rag sellers; from the cheapest of cheap shoes and worn-through flip-flops to treasured television sets and cellphones. Trucks and taxis were disposed of at a considerable loss.

Wherever they went, they were circumspect and discrete in the execution of their plan, trying not to draw attention to themselves. Children were cautioned not to talk to strangers; the men in their gatherings smoking hashish and the women at market were instructed to hold their tongues.