‘Wake up Nanshe, the morning is here.’

I toss and turn in the hollow of my bed, reluctant to get up. ‘Ningi, the morning is not even recognisable.’

‘Your young eyes can't see the sun yet, but I know it's there. Trust me.’

I imitate Ningishzida, ‘*Trust me*. You say that every morning.’

‘And that's how you know when tomorrow is.’

With a big roll of my eyes, I swim out of the bed. Morning exercise begins.

Ningi is doing his first stretching exercises. Despite his advanced age, he is still very agile. ‘How do you even recognise the morning?’

‘I don't look out for the sun, that distant point in the sky, but for the slip worms. They only come out of the sand in complete darkness. Shortly before sunrise, the first glow-in-the-dark mushrooms begin to emit their light. Then the hatchlings also disappear. That's how I know that morning is here.’

‘*And you'll already be awake and preparing for class*.’

‘And I'll already be awake and preparing for class.’ Ningi laughs. We've had this conversation many times before. He continues.

‘Our world is a world of subtlety, remember. We live on one of many moons of a huge planet far away from our sun. Either we Ravi are vigilant, or we are lost.’ With his last words, Ningi looks at me thoughtfully. The great Hathor festival is coming up and he must be reading my thoughts. Thoughts that make him worried.

‘But first to the creche. I'm sure Dumuzid is already there.’ At this name, I quickly grab my things and swim off. Ningi follows somewhere behind me.

The scramble is already underway in the courtyard in front of the crèche. The other children are playing their favourite game: slingshot. The aim is to throw a certain stone as fast and as far as possible. Whoever throws the furthest wins. Unfortunately, nobody wants to get the stone. And once again, everyone has agreed that exactly one person should get the stone. If he doesn't, other stones come crashing down on him. The children call this motivation. I arrive to find another hail of stones flying at Dumuzid.

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‘Hey, stop that!’

‘Leave us alone, Nanshe. Dumu was just going to get the stone himself,’ one of the children calls back snappishly.

Dumuzid fetches the stone with hanging fins and hands it to me. Dumu is fast, but otherwise clumsy. That's why the others tease him.

I take the stone, take a swing and throw it. It flies and flies and flies.

‘Whoa, that's the longest throw again, Nanshe. How do you do that?’ whispers one of the children. A few glances quickly silence it again.

‘Who failed here first?’ A very familiar voice is behind me. An embarrassed silence.

‘Well?’

One of the ambitious students starts to quote: ‘Words are always our first choice. If we fail with words, we have already failed ourselves.’

‘And who was the first to renounce words and use violence instead?’

Another awkward silence. The astonished child from before says meekly, ‘All of us.’

‘That's right. And you know what that means.’

Visibly annoyed, the answer comes in chorus. ‘100 words on why each of us is great and why violence is beneath us.’ The group heads towards the creche and starts writing in the sand.

Ningi turns to Dumuzid. His gaze rests scrutinisingly on Dumu.

‘And now to you. What happens when words no longer help?’

Dumu is fumbling around. ‘Then I run away and look for help.’

‘And why didn't you do that?’ Dumu looks embarrassed here too.

‘Because I didn't dare and therefore failed a second time.’

‘That's right. You get the same task, but I want to read 200 words from you. Nanshe, from you too, by the way.’

I want to start protesting, but one of those looks from Ningi leaves me mute. The fact that I threw the stone was also a defeat of words.