December is perhaps the least forgiving time to visit Tunisia. The northern plains lie under a shroud of winter clouds, battered by wind and rain. The sea, once vivid, turns sombre—streaked in murky greens and yellows, thick with sand churned by restless waves. So, I moved southward, following the light and heading toward the desert.

The journey had been unremarkable thus far, plagued by fuel shortages and a few flat tyres. But then, unexpectedly, a colossal silhouette emerged through the cityscape—the Amphitheatre of El Jem. This ancient marvel stirred something within me.

Too often, the colosseum conjures Rome alone, leading many to think such structures exist nowhere else. In reality, arenas once dotted the Mediterranean, with El Jem standing as one of the largest and best-preserved, able to hold forty thousand—a capacity to rival modern European stadiums.

Here, there are no crowds, no interpretive signs or models. Only a few faded boards lean lazily by the entrance. We must read the space with our bodies, conjuring images of gladiators and roaring beasts. Dusty rooms hide ancient fears; deep tracks on the stone hint at elephants once used to carry stones.

The townsfolk, indifferent to their extraordinary coliseum, watched me instead—a foreign figure with a camera, more intriguing to them than the stone giant. It reminded me of villagers at the Wooden Pagoda of Yingxian, whose eyes focused more on visitors than their own ancient landmark. In such places, we become as much a spectacle as the sights themselves.