Its Not Scripted

  We often think of language as a tool, a way to speak, to write, to get by. But for some, language becomes something much more. It becomes a mirror reflecting the cultures, histories, and beliefs that shape who we are. This is the story of a young man whose life was quietly transformed not just by the languages he learned, but by the worlds he entered through them, and how, in learning to speak like others, he learned to see himself more clearly. He was born into the richness of Arabic, the Egyptian dialect flowing naturally through his home, his streets, his childhood laughter. But it was the eloquence of Modern Standard Arabic that shaped his schooling, the language of textbooks, poetry, and formality. From a young age, he lived with two voices: one for comfort, the other for clarity. And yet, neither felt incomplete. Together, they formed his first understanding of how language isn’t just sound, it’s identity. Later in life, English found him. Not just in the classroom, where g...

When I was around ten years old, my dad introduced me to a game played on a small board with two sets of pieces—one black, one white. These pieces formed two opposing armies, standing face-to-face on a checkered board of alternating colors. He explained the rules: each piece had its own unique way of moving, and the goal was to corner the opponent’s king, leaving it with no escape. It sounded simple enough, but I was completely puzzled. What was I supposed to do? My dad started playing anyway. We took turns moving our pieces, but I kept losing. I had no clue what I was doing or how to approach the game. Then, he promised me a reward—a decent amount of money if I managed to beat him. Suddenly, I had all the motivation I needed. So, I kept trying. I lost again and again, but with every loss, I learned something new. Soon, I was the one asking to play another round. I had to win. Over time, I started to enjoy the game, not just for the challenge, but for the process. I began to understand...

  I used to love drawing. It was my thing, my escape from the world. I just loved art. I remember my one and only scratch vividly. It was a rainy winter, yet the air was warm and comforting. I spent countless hours by the window, completely absorbed in it. The scene depicted an ancient temple on a hill, an angelic warrior standing over a fallen one, born from my admiration of art. Those days were magical. Each line I drew felt like a connection to a deeper part of myself. Since then, I just don't know what happened to me. Life grew complicated, and my passion for drawing faded. Responsibilities took over, and my sketchbook gathered dust. Yet, the memory of that rainy winter, the warmth, and the satisfaction of creating something beautiful stayed with me. As I look at my old scratches, I feel a flicker of that old passion. I was running from my depression into things I loved, which one day was art—all kinds of art. I was hiding in it from people and depression. It was my one and onl...