I still have my field course left to review… I won’t hide it from you—I’m going through a health slump that I’m almost pretending isn’t there…

A pounding headache that won’t settle unless I take a double dose of painkillers… but I can’t take any more. I’ve already gone past my limit.

But I still have to keep studying…

There are so many things weighing on my mind… but since there’s nothing I can do about them, I spread out my prayer mat, made my du’a.

then made Berries pancakes just to distract myself for a little while…

My dreams keep chasing me… and so does my health.

By the way, today’s Miradero morning letter was titled:

Cuánto habrá de heroico en la constancia y cuánto de enfermedad

“How much perseverance is heroic, and how much of it is illness?”

Today also happens to be Miradero’s second birthday… and I’m happy to be part of it.

But today’s title made me stop and think…

Is my perseverance heroic… or is it a sickness?

I love seeing myself harvest the fruits of everything I work for.

But I’m someone who scatters herself across countless fields, and none of them belong together in one piece of land.

Each has its own country, its own climate, its own geography.

And I’m the one constantly traveling between them… refusing to let anyone but me manage them.

And that’s where the question comes in:

What exactly am I doing?

I feel like the proverb says:

“A jack of all trades, but luck never seems to be on your side.”

I always wanted to prove that proverb wrong.

Then again… I’m only twenty-one.

What else am I supposed to do except throw myself into everything I love and try it all?

But my health stops me every single time…

It’s not in my nature to complain about being tired, but…

My body breaks my silence and decides to speak in its own language.

I only wish it would give me a warning beforehand.

I’ll teach it to do that too, I suppose…

I’m coming back now from yet another disappointment…

No—not the exam.

I honestly don’t care about the result as long as I’ve done everything I was supposed to do.

It’s the Erasmus opportunity to Italy.

It has been completely canceled for all Palestinian students .

Every single time something reaches the very end, the rules somehow change when it’s finally my turn…

I still want to believe that I’m a lucky person.

I don’t want to sit another exam.

I don’t want a single sheet of paper to decide my worth in one hour, when no one knows what I might be carrying inside me at that very moment…

And yet I still have to push through the circumstances and do what I’m supposed to do…

Without anyone caring about the world I’m living in.

Just leave me alone…

And every time another disappointment visits me, I cry over that first one—the one that stole my dream—as if every disappointment since then has been that very same one, returning in different forms…

It happened.

It happened.

And then it was as though nothing had ever happened.

Perhaps one day we’ll receive the answers and satisfy our logic.

And perhaps we won’t.

Because God’s wisdom and planning should never be confined to the limits of our understanding.

Finally

I Survived

Thank You, God, for those lessons.

for as the Prophet ﷺ said, “A believer is not stung from the same hole twice.”

So please, God, don’t let me go through any of them again.

Let everything that lies ahead be filled with goodness and beautiful compensation.

Amen.

How many places have we loved, only to find that their paths eventually became too narrow for us? And perhaps, despite all our attachment, they were never wide enough to hold our true mission.

Just as Makkah was for the Beloved ﷺ, when he stood before it and said:

“By Allah, you are the most beloved land of Allah to me, and had your people not driven me out, I would never have left.”

He departed with a heart overflowing with longing, yet he walked toward a higher purpose—one worthy of every sacrifice and every farewell.

Then there was the companion of the journey: the truthful friend who believed in him when others denied him. When the cave grew confining and fear reached the heart of his companion, the Prophet ﷺ uttered words that would echo through time:

“Do not grieve; indeed, Allah is with us.”

How deeply we need hearts that resemble prayers—people who, when we lose our way, simply point us back to the heavens.

Then came Madinah.

What a city it became.

He loved it as though he had been born there, and it embraced him as he embraced it.

For estrangement is not found in places; it is found when purpose is lost.

Hijrah is, therefore, an eternal call to every one of us:

If your land becomes too narrow for your soul, then leave.

If your mission calls you, then set out.

Do not hesitate to part with what you love if the destination pleases the One you love most.

Go forth, planting your certainty in the unseen.

Migrate—for Allah prepares the path for those whose hearts journey toward Him before their feet ever do.

May peace and blessings be upon the one who migrated so that he might remain with us forever—the one who left his homeland only to become a homeland for every believer. 🤍

#HappyHijriNewYear #BlessedHijriYear

عام هجري جديد 1448 هـ

Meera Tomazy

pero quise darle la vuelta… porque, ¿por qué no?🤷‍♀️👀

Philosophers and scientists have often compared the mind to the stomach…

Both need nourishment, and both play a vital role in growth 💪🧠

Just as the stomach affects the growth of the body,

the mind shapes the growth of understanding🤔💭

As Confucius, the Chinese philosopher who died in 479 BC, once said:

“The mind is like the stomach; what matters is not what you swallow, but what you digest.”

The stomach can swallow almost anything🫣

from pure, golden honey🍯… to stones🪨.

But the real question is not: What did it take in?

The real question is: What was it able to digest?

The healthier the food that fills the stomach,

the healthier the body grows,

and the less pain it suffers.

And the same is true of the mind…

The more it is nourished with sound knowledge and clear ideas,

the deeper a person’s understanding of life becomes,

the wiser their decisions grow,

and the less regret they carry later on.

A person who feeds their body garbage

is, in truth, doing themselves a grave injustice,

inviting pain, weakness,

and unhealthy growth into their own life.

And this is no less dangerous

than a person who surrenders their mind

to negativity,

false beliefs,

and superstition.

That is why Edmund Spenser, the well-known English writer, said:

“It is the mind that makes you sick or well, happy or miserable, rich or poor.”

Looks like nutrition is finding its way into my writing a little too often 👀

Tell me, my dear silent little reader who appears every now and then… what would you like to see more of around here?

Stay in peace 🤍

Meera Atmezah

I am crying.

Crying so much right now.

Let me tell you something, human being…

Today, I received a message from an old school friend…

She told me that one of our classmates from elementary school has been asking about me for a long time

She asks everyone she comes across

She wants to reach me, but she doesn’t know how

She has no social media, no way to find me.

No one told me about her until today.

The last time I saw her was probably before COVID…

six years ago, maybe more.

I honestly can’t remember exactly.

My friend told me that she had asked her to let me know she would contact me from her sister’s account.

I asked for the account immediately.

That girl… she and her sisters… were some of the purest souls I have ever known…

She was kind, simple, soft in the most beautiful way…

Her life was hard, but her laughter never left her

And that smile… I remember it so clearly

Every time she saw me in class, she would remind me that my mother had once taught her mother,

and that her mother was sending سلام to mine.

If we gathered all the time we had ever truly spent talking throughout all our school years,

it probably wouldn’t even add up to five hours.

Repeated hellos..

Warm smiles…

A hug and goodbye…

Then another morning, another “good morning”

Then, “Tell your mother my mother says hi”

Then another hug…

Another goodbye…

Nothing more.

And yet…

When her messages reached me today,

I realized I had never really disappeared from her stories all these years.

She used to tell people that I had always been gentle with her,

and with her younger sister too

That I treated them kindly

That I never pushed them away the way the rest of the class often did

She began her message with:

“Hi Meera… I’m your classmate, R. Do you remember me?”

And the moment I heard her voice,

I broke…

Why?

Because the last time I heard those words…

the last time I heard that familiar voice,

and then the sentence:

“My mother sends her regards to yours.”

…life was still good…

Back then, the world was still gentle enough.

Back then, I didn’t yet know how cruel this world could be.

Life was beautiful.

I could smile at someone and trust they would not betray me.

I could simply be myself.

I could move through the world with that tenderness she still remembers me by.

I cried

because I can no longer be that person—

the one who overflowed with softness and love wherever she went.

I cried

because I don’t know if I can still be a remedy for others.

I cried

because I wanted to tell her how many times I showed up with all my heart,

all my tenderness,

all my sincerity…

and still came back disappointed.

But how could I tell her about human disappointment?

Her heart is far too pure to carry that.

So I won’t tell her any of that.

I will only tell her

that her voice is still as beautiful as I remember…

and that I could still recognize it among a thousand others.

And that I miss her too, deeply.

And that my mother is well,

and sends so much love to hers.

But this time…

without a hug.

Jolnar

Eid🎇🎊🎆💜💜

Yes—write an Eid greeting from us, now that it’s already the third day of Eid.

I was so immersed in Eid, and in everything that comes before it,

that I was actually supposed to send you three messages.

The first one was supposed to be titled: Ramadan is almost over (which, for me, is not exactly good news).

The second: It’s Eid 🤗🎊💛

And the third: So… what comes after Eid?

But now, at 4:16 a.m. on the third day of Eid,

I am writing to you with all three titles folded into one. You’ll understand me later, I’m sure🫣

If you asked me what my favorite month of the year is,

I would say Ramadan.

It is the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar( Hijri Months), which means it does not align with the Gregorian months the same way each year.

Instead, it arrives 10–11 days earlier every year than it did the year before, depending on the sighting of its crescent moon.

But back to the real question: why is it my favorite?

Because, quite simply, it carries a kind of peace that, sadly, I have not yet managed to find at any other time of the year.

A stillness in your thoughts—

like the stillness of a traveler in a country where no one knows them,

where it is only them and their mind.

And then, paradoxically,

there is also its noise—

the kind of beautiful noise

you would give everything you own to live inside of,

and still never truly live the same way

if you are far from home.

You arrive to Ramadan lost,

and somehow it resets the compass of your life.

It rebuilds your soul

after a long year that has worn you down.

You wait for its crescent,

then its full moon,

then its crescent again.

You wait for its nights, wondering:

which one of these is Laylat al-Qadr?

It passes quickly,

and you want more of it.

But that is just how it is—

it comes like a guest

who asks little of you

and gives you what you could never even think to ask for.

It is generous by nature.

Do we pray only in Ramadan?

No.

Do we fast only in Ramadan?

No.

Do we recite the Qur’an only in Ramadan?

No.

Does family gather only in Ramadan?

No.

Are prayers answered only in Ramadan?

No.

So what is it, then,

that makes a person weep over the departure of something

they can, in theory, keep close forever—

something they can live anytime they choose?

I don’t know.

I may fast in Sha’ban,

or Shawwal,

or any other month…

But it will never be Ramadan.

So we return to the question:

what makes it different?

What makes it different

is simply that it is Ramadan.

You may call it a Ramadan state,

a Ramadan feeling—

something I live so deeply

that I cannot even fully understand it,

let alone explain it.

I only know that I live it.

And that it is truly precious to me.

But since—

as we always say—

what is coming is more beautiful, by God’s will,

then there is Eid.

And Eid is joyful.

There is the joy of Eid,

and the children’s new clothes

laid beside them on the bed the night before.

Then they wake up,

and the toys are waiting,

and the gifts,

and the Eidiya.

And the grown-ups

who are not quite grown enough

to be excluded from receiving Eidiya yet

collect their treasures too.

And if you were lucky,

your Eidiya came in Jordanian dinars.

And because I am the youngest,

every older member of the family gives me Eidiya,

while I give absolutely nothing in return.

Which means that by the end of the day,

I am essentially discussing a new investment opportunity

with major business executives.

Those living abroad may miss the Eid gathering in person,

but they never escape the payment.

They bear the burden of bank transfers,

and for that,

I hold a special kind of respect and appreciation for them.

Then comes the breakfast table on the morning of Eid,

the gathering of relatives,

the hospitality of the holiday.

Then grandmother.

And grandmother’s house.

And grandmother’s Eidiya—

the one you will never be too old for.

Endless conversations.

Endless greetings.

And my very dramatic, uninterrupted excuse:

that I cannot possibly greet any of you properly

because I am sick.

The first day of Eid ends at night.

Then the remaining days are quieter.

Why?

Because, quite simply,

every expatriate returns to their exile—

if they were fortunate enough to return from it at all.

Exile steals them back

one by one

into its cold embrace.

And then you try—desperately—

not to cry

when you say goodbye to the people you love

at four in the morning

before they leave again.

So you stay awake all night,

because you keep wondering:

Will I cry?

Or no—

I must not. I really must not.

And then the feeling wins anyway,

without your permission,

without your strength,

without asking.

Then you come back

after praying Fajr

and drinking water—

just to comfort your inner child

with the sweet realization

that yes,

you are allowed to drink after the adhan now.

Then you go to bed,

trying to sleep.

But thought overtakes you:

Will we meet again soon?

Ya Rabb,

let us gather again soon

in goodness,

and in joy.

Eid Mubarak.

A blessed and joyful Eid to you.

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Can longing reach a place

where you hear your name

in the middle of an ordinary day..

inside the noise of students,

inside the heart of your university..

and you believe it is your sister calling you?

You turn without thinking,

with a certainty that does not ask for evidence,

& then

there is no one.

No voice returns.

No familiar face appears.

Only a silence

that knows your name by heart.

That was my morning.

A morning that began with a call never spoken,

yet one that startled my heart all the same,

and with a sister in another country

who reaches me before distance does,

who arrives through sound

even when the body cannot.

Perhaps this was an eternal call,

not meant for me, but for her…

to begin writing here,

for she is the one who taught me how.

And so, I leave you with a text she wrote,

& I translated.

On the Paths of Life

In a time when honesty becomes the greatest barrier to living,

and hopes are filed under the impossible,

you will not find anyone telling you about their dreams.

For those you see walking paths that are not theirs

are still convinced it is fate.

They besiege the past with the sentence:

“It’s gone and it will not return,”

and open the doors of the future with:

“Tomorrow will be better,”

while they stand behind windows, unmoving.

A question of astonishment confuses their thoughts:

So what is life, then?

Life, my friend,

you have taken nothing from it

except the effort your body spends inhaling and exhaling.

Beyond that, you never entered the arena of life.

You never tasted the pleasure of trying,

nor the flavor of success after failure.

You never dared to cross obstacles.

You think that what you want will simply come to you.

You did not choose—so you did not attain what you want.

You did not learn what regret means.

You did not even misread your intuition,

because you are driven, not choosing,

because the dream you carry on your shoulders

is not your dream.

On the paths of life,

there are hardships.

Choices bewilder you.

You may err, and you may be right,

but something inside you chooses—

that inner voice is stronger

than everything happening around you.

So walk on the paths of life…

First, learn how to tell

the stories of the past.

Learn how to live the present.

Learn that hope and the future

are twins:

if one dies, the other dies with it.

And know, my friend,

that what you are in

is nothing but a flat surface,

with just enough air and water

to keep you awake for your suffering.

And you possess only enough courage

to say your name

when you meet someone.

For you are driven, not choosing,

because the dream you carry on your shoulders

is not your dream.

On the paths of life,

there are hardships.

Choices bewilder you.

You may err, and you may be right,

but something inside you chooses—

that inner voice is stronger

than everything happening around you.

So walk on the paths of life…

And first, learn how to tell

the stories of the past.

On the paths of life,

live your life as you want.

Live as your true self desires.

And if you possess your self,

you will possess your heart and your mind.

Then you will choose

the paths of your dreams,

to finally arrive… at life.

And then, tell me the story of your life.

Before that, say nothing about life.

And if all paths grow poor

except the path that leads you to God,

it will enrich you beyond all paths.

By: Manar Tomazy

4/12/2014

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A few days ago, when I wrote in my last newsletter that I’m “not a writer yet,”.

someone I’ll remain grateful to for the rest of my life @rosemarydesena ,left a comment..(My humble Substack skills have failed me in figuring out how to place the comment properly ,so I’m leaving it here instead ↓↓

“What makes a writer… a writer?

Is there a shape, a form one must take to step into the light?

I’m not a writer yet — but maybe there isn’t a single mold for anything in life.”

Meera - hate to tell you, but … you are a writer. There is no “yet”.

How cool the professor not only was impressed by your work but shared it with others.

But… there is as much danger of putting someone on a pedestal as there is denigrating too soon before the fledging begins. So don’t worry about the label, just keep writing and sharing the writing (with the pictures too).

Your English prose is very poetic. I wish I could experience your words in Arabic. I don’t have any understanding of it, although there are men in my neighborhood that meet daily in cafes to drink coffee a d play cards, and I hear them speak it.

And l’ll still hope to meet one day, to sit and talk endlessly about our Spanish adventures,(hopefully by then, I’ll have mastered the language ).

At first, I thanked her for seeing in me what I’m still learning to see in myself.

And well… here’s what makes me not a writer ⬇️⬇️

Because reality, quite simply, doesn’t say so..…

Let’s start with the languages I can write in.

Arabic and English,(Turkish? Yes, I can write in it, but I’d never choose to write a full piece.. )

As for Spanish, it’s a long-awaited dream. I truly hope the day comes when I can write in Spanish.

And if you’re going to ask me why I write my titles here in Spanish, the answer is simple:

Yes, I translate them to trap you, dear reader, in the net of the text.

Most of the readers who pass through here are Spanish, and I know exactly how much their first language draws them in.

Don’t be mad.. I’m only practicing so that someday I can write to you in your own language. Don’t worry 😅.

Now, the easier topic — English—

For me, it’s very easy to jot things down in English, maybe random reflections or short thoughts.

But I don’t like writing in it, because it always steals away the depth I’m trying to reach.

I also lack vocabulary; the words I use in English don’t flow naturally in my head … they’re often translated.

Sometimes I write an entire piece just because I liked one word I came across while reading a novel, watching a movie, or listening to a song.

So don’t be surprised if you find a whole essay born out of a single word scribbled in a small notebook waiting to be brought back to life.

Now Arabic… my mother tongue☺️

Writing in it feels like diving into an ocean with no beginning and no end.

Let me admit something: my lifelong struggle with Arabic was always because of its teachers. 🫠

Maybe that’s exactly what pushed me to excel in it later — a small dose of anger and a big dose of stubbornness.

I used to dig through dictionaries and trace the roots of words just to prove my answer was correct, that no one had the right to cut my grade simply because I wrote a synonym that wasn’t printed in the book.

I saw language as something alive and flexible, breathing more than my teachers allowed it to, while they wanted it frozen on the page, never stepping out of line.

I hated grammar and syntax; I felt Arabic was being taught as if it were a foreign language, not our own.

Little Meera in fifth grade thought “fatḥa” —َ and “ḍamma” —ُ were two unnecessary enemies 😅 ..

Now, I’m learning Arabic again — on my own, in my own way —alongside a few university courses.

At Birzeit, we have a placement test for Arabic, and I remember clearly that I got placed in level one 😬.

That day I wasn’t even planning to stay at Birzeit, but the funny — or shameful — part is that I scored B1 in English and A1 in Arabic!

In reality, I didn’t take either test seriously.

But since English depends heavily on listening, my ears practically forced me to pick the right answers.

⸻

Then I began drawing inspiration from the Qur’anic verses themselves.

Each time I read a surah, I’m amazed by the precision of its structure, the way words are arranged, and how meanings are linked..…Every surah has its own character and rhythm.

But if I were to write a story one day, I think I’d follow the narrative framework built in Surah Yusuf —Joseph —

The reason behind it deserves a whole other email 💌

And I believe that to be a writer in Arabic, the least one must do is master the diacritical marks of words, knowing how each fits into its place ;because a single misplaced vowel can turn the meaning upside down.

Arabic diacritics — the small vowel marks placed above or below letters to indicate pronunciation and meaning

Take, for example, the word “العُرْف” (al-ʿurf).

If I write it in Arabic letters without vowel marks — “العرف” — it becomes a mute word;

we wouldn’t know whether it means custom, fragrance, rooster’s comb, or forbearance.

The reader may guess from context, but we’re talking here about the essence of writing, not the reader’s ability to interpret.

A real writer doesn’t leave the reader to guess — he delivers meaning as he intends it.

I understand that ambiguity can be intriguing and that reading “between the lines” is part of literature,

but in this case, it becomes reading between the letters themselves —

one missing vowel can flip the entire sense of the sentence.

That’s exactly what I mean:

1️⃣ العُرْفُ – ʿUrf (with ḍamma on the ʿayn)means: what people agree upon as good custom or tradition.

 Example: العُرْفُ في بلادنا أن نكرم الضيف. — In our country, it is custom to honor the guest.

• & it could be العُرْفُ – also ʿUrf (same the red crest or comb on a rooster’s head 🐔— a physical description used in biology or imagery.

 Example: العُرْفُ الأحمر يعلو رأس الديك. — The red comb rises on the rooster’s head.

Other meanings of “العُرْف” (al-ʿurf) — with ḍamma on the ʿayn:

• In nature🌿🏞: it can mean a high or elevated place, like the ridge of a mountain — ʿurf al-jabal.

• In the sea🌊: it refers to a wave or the crest of the water.

• In language🗣️: al-ʿurf al-lisānī means the linguistic sense — what is understood from a word according to its established usage in the language.

And in these meanings, well… let’s leave it to the reader’s own intuition.

But Arabic doesn’t stop here.…

2️⃣ العَرْفُ – al-ʿArf (with fatḥa on the ʿayn) means: pleasant scent or fragrance.

 Example: امتلأ المكان بالعَرْفُ الجميل بعد المطر. — The place was filled with a lovely fragrance after the rain.

4️⃣ العِرْفُ – al-ʿIrf (with kasra on the ʿayn) means: patience, calmness, and self-control in anger.

 Example: تحلّى البروفيسور بالعِرْفِ فلم يغضب —The professor, draped in patience, rose beyond anger.

exactly like Professor @Samuel Domínguez, I’ll never miss a chance to say it —he’s the best professor I’ve ever had.

So that’s it…

One single word — four meanings — all changed by a tiny diacritical marks.

Here lies both the beauty and difficulty of Arabic.

We all know every language has words with multiple meanings,

but in Arabic, the writer must know which vowel grants the intended sense and which one distorts it.

And if not, at least when reading his own text aloud, he must pronounce it properly —

for in Arabic, meaning lives inside the sound, not just the letters.

I admit I’m still far from that level that would let me call myself a “writer.”

I know the basic rules, I can place words where they belong,

but I haven’t yet reached that subtle linguistic awareness possessed by those who weigh a letter as carefully as an idea.

And I don’t blame myself much — this sensitivity belongs to the world of pre-Islamic poetry,

that vast sea even Arabs themselves today hesitate to dive into.

Reading or listening to those ancient odes feels almost like hearing a foreign tongue,

except for those who truly love the language and delight in uncovering its old treasures.

I’ve always wished to write in Arabic so it could be read in Arabic.

I’m not only someone who loves writing, but also someone who loves reciting.

I adore standing on stage before a full audience, without fear or hesitation,

because in that moment I see no one — I’m completely immersed in my words and emotions; it’s just me and them.

But can I publish a book now?

Yes…despite all this imperfection!! yes.

Writing isn’t measured by linguistic flawlessness, and there are always editors who master what we don’t.

A writer is never born complete; each piece refines them, each mistake discovered after publishing shapes them.

Maybe when I publish my first book, I’ll finally allow myself to say: I’m a writer,Not entirely, but at least tangibly — a proof that I left something on paper.

Or maybe I don’t need a book at all; maybe it’s enough to keep writing here,

to have my words read, for someone to pause at a line of mine and feel something real.

If one sentence of mine touches an honest soul, that’s enough.

Then, maybe, I’ll truly feel like a writer.

Because the point isn’t to write — it’s to be read.

What’s the purpose of a forgotten poem hidden in a phone file, or a line buried in a notebook,

if you yourself have forgotten why you wrote it?

And I have a perfect example of that..

A couple of days ago, my phone’s storage filled up, So I started dusting off old files, checking them one by one, deleting whatever no longer needed space.

Between the photos and forgotten notes, I opened a small file I didn’t even remember writing —

and found these lines inside:

هُنا حيثُ تَحدَّثَتِ القلوبُ بلغةٍ لا تُقالُ، فكلُّ نبضةٍ بألفِ سؤالٍ.

هُنا حيثُ كانَ الصمتُ سيِّدَ الكلامِ، يروي الأحاديثَ عن ماضٍ جريحٍ،

لعابرٍ سبيلٍ،

والعيونُ كانت طفلًا بريئًا مجهولَ المكان.

عصفتْ رياحُه نحو أرضي، لكنْ ما أدراهُ عن أرضِنا، بأيِّ خصوبةٍ هي؟

فهو لم يرَ سوى تلك السفوحِ الجليديّةِ في غربِ الأرضِ،

عن أيِّ أرضٍ أُكلِّمُه؟ وعن أيِّ خيراتٍ أُعلِّمُه؟

Here, where hearts spoke a language unspoken, every heartbeat a thousand questions.

Here, where silence ruled speech, telling stories of a wounded past —to a passing stranger.

And the eyes were an innocent child, nameless in place.

His winds blew toward my land, yet what does he know of our soil —of how fertile it is?

He saw only those icy slopes in the far West.

Of what land do I speak to him? Of what blessings do I tell him?

Jolnar 🤍

If you ask me who I was writing to — honestly, I don’t remember 🤓.

I tried to recall someone I know who lives among icy slopes… no one. 😬😬

Maybe it was a real passerby, or maybe just a memory.

The goldfish memory works perfectly 😅.

This is just a small glimpse of why I don’t consider myself a writer —and there’s much more.

But truthfully, I don’t care whether I’m called one or not.

It’s enough for me to write.

It’s enough for my words to touch a sincere soul.

That’s what makes me Meera, regardless of what comes before it.

Be at peace, wherever you are.🤍✨

Meera .

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Actually, this email was written yesterday.

So every time I say “today,” I actually mean “yesterday.”

But out of pure laziness from the promised writer who’s supposed to translate from Arabic to English, yesterday became today..and today became yesterday.

Anyway, just so you don’t get lost: everything happened on October 27th.

I didn’t know what language to speak today…nor what tone would fit the weight inside me.

All I knew was that certain feelings had visited me again.

And I’ve always believed there are no coincidences in life; everything happens under God’s quiet arithmetic.

Those who truly know me remember how much I disliked Birzeit in my first year.

I never studied for it—I studied to leave it.

But destiny kept me here, long enough to enroll in a summer Arabic class with a professor, He was coming from Qatar, and he studies & teaches at Qatar University — one of the universities I used to dream of studying at.

It was an ordinary day until he discovered I write.I didn’t even know that what I was doing had a name—those short reflections I’d attach to pictures, thoughts I once believed were just noise in my head.

He asked to read more.I opened my gallery and read to him words that were never meant for anyone.

He listened and said, half-smiling, half-serious:

“Meeta, these are your jewels. You have to start your book.”

I laughed then. A book? Me?

But something in his voice planted a seed I didn’t recognize until today.

Time passed. A year and a half, maybe more.

And today..by what people call “coincidence”I saw him again.

He still remembered my name.

“How could I forget?” he said. “Some names just stay with you forever”

—Thank you, Professor — it’s truly an honor for me.

— How are you, really? Do you still dream of Qatar?

—Hmm… yes, but not exactly as before.I must admit.. my direction has shifted, and so have I. And well… I’ve started to love this place. But don’t worry, I haven’t given up on the idea of continuing my studies abroad.

— Oh, that’s good, it means you’ve adapted here.So now your eyes won’t sparkle anymore when you hear me say, “Back when I used to teach at Qatar University,” ?

—They still will… absolutely.But let’s just say they’re a bit scattered now, unsure which place they’re drawn to more.They’re still discovering where they truly belong.

We talked, we laughed, and when he invited me to his lecture, I had another class.

But God has His ways—mine got canceled.

I returned to the Faculty of Arts, wandering through its maze of hallways until I finally found the room.

When I walked in, my eyes met faces — some familiar from past courses, others completely new.

He introduced me to his students, saying softly,

“This is Meera, my student — the one I told you about.”

A voice rose from the back rows,

“Yes, Professor, you told us about her. She’s the promised writer!”

surprise rippled through the room —

“Wait, this is Meera?”

“The one from the CS class?”

The professor smiled, his eyes gleaming with warmth.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s her — she’s here with us now.”

As for me, I was still lost in astonishment, unable to grasp what was happening.

I had always thought he’d gone back to Qatar — and that I was nothing more than a passing student in one of his classes.

But then I found out that, every semester, whether there or here, he would tell his students about me. He’d begin his courses by saying:

“I once had a student….The timing couldn’t have been worse — the heat was unbearable, and she was disenchanted with the university.Yet she did what no one else did…She gave life to images, made the camera speak, and painted every scene with reflections that brought us back to its original meaning.

When I left the classroom, a group of students gathered around me — their curiosity tinged with the same kind of wonder I’d felt moments earlier.

It was as if they wanted to make sure I was real, not some legend their professor had made up.

“So… you’re Meera?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“But you don’t look like a writer!”

“That’s because I’m not one.”

They started asking for my social media accounts and pages, while I stood there quietly observing them, half amused, half bewildered.

What struck me most was that some of them already knew me — from a CS lecture with another professor. They admitted they were the ones who used to roll their eyes at my questions, thinking I was taking the class too far, dragging it into philosophical tangents it didn’t need.

As if thinking too deeply were a burden rather than a gift.

Then one of them said, surprised, “Our CS professor used to joke that every tricky exam question came straight from Meera’s questions — because she was the only one who really got what he was saying.”

Another student smiled, “We never connected you to the Meera from CS! Back there, you spoke only in English — we thought you were from the U.S.”

And a girl added teasingly, “And here you are, the promised writer! You’ve confused us — which one are you really?”

I laughed and said, “I’m all of them. But every place has its own language, its own way of speaking.”

And in that moment — surrounded by faces that knew me and faces hearing my name for the first time — I realized how much people love to build ready-made images of others.

Images that are easy, comforting, quick to judge — requiring no real understanding.

They live inside those images as if they were truth itself, until something small, almost accidental, turns them upside down.

As I walked slowly away from the classroom, I found myself asking a question :

What makes a writer… a writer?

Is there a shape, a form one must take to step into the light?

I’m not a writer yet — but maybe there isn’t a single mold for anything in life.

Maybe that’s what writing really is—

not talent, not skill, not even courage.

Just the slow act of remembering who you were before the world told you what to be.

And if one day I ever write that book

It’ll be about this very moments

Well, the promised writer is also just a student — expected to graduate in 2027.

So I suppose this is where I should stop.

I’ll leave you the pen now,

so you can share your thoughts instead.

Take care, all of you🤍

P.S.: At the beginning, I wrote that every “today” actually meant “yesterday.”

But I done it after midnight —which now means that every “today” was actually two days ago.

Still, don’t worry about the timeline;

everything simply happened on October 27th.

for anyone who’s curious.

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This week, I didn’t go to university.

My body asked for rest, and its silence spoke louder than any excuse I could write in an email.

But the university doesn’t believe in silence.

It believes in paperwork📑

When I said I was tired, my fatigue wasn’t valid until it came stamped with a doctor’s signature.

An official report stating that I was sick — as if the body could only be acknowledged when it speaks the language of bureaucracy.

There was a quiz in a course about how to treat patients.

I thought of writing to her, simply:

“Today I’m treating myself; that’s my practical application.”

The curriculum wants you to know how to heal others,

but it never imagines that you might be the one who needs healing.

It doesn’t believe you can take care of yourself,

because that’s not something that can be graded.

In the end, I went to the doctor.

He signed the paper and prescribed the same medicine I was already taking.

Then I went back home thinking:

Do we actually learn,

or are we just being trained to obey?

Is education an awakening of consciousness,

or just a collective choreography of compliance?

Everyone sits in the same classroom, writes at the same speed,

and at the end of the term, gives the same answers that are supposedly “correct.”

Sometimes I feel I’m not a student of knowledge,

but a small cog in a giant machine —

one that trains us to conform in the name of excellence,

and convinces us that success lies in memorizing answers we already know open no doors.

If studying were truly an act of understanding,

the professor would have smiled and said:

“Good. Take your time to heal yourself; that’s your first lesson in human medicine.”

But she didn’t say that.

She only said:

“Bring the report.”

And I — on my way back from the clinic — kept thinking:

Maybe we don’t live in an educational system at all,

but inside a vast social laboratory

where every generation is trained to obey in its own specific way.

Maybe I’m just looking at it from too narrow a lens.

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Peace 🫡

to those who heal in silence,

and still choose to learn.

Jolnar 🤍

P.S. If you’ve read this, leave a trace here.

I have the energy to write every day,

but not always the energy to share every day.

So if you want more—feed me some cosmic energy from your corner of the universe,

just so I know you’re here, reading, and wanting.

Not All Endings Are Sad……

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The sunset has always captivated me.

It doesn’t matter where I am …

the feeling is always the same❤️

I began watching it closely back in tenth grade,

from the window of my room in our house in Hebron.

I’d gaze at the horizon, especially at this time of year,

when the air turns cool,

and the call to Maghrib prayer fills the neighborhood

with a calm, sacred stillness.

Then I would watch the houses light up,

one by one …

most of them belonging to my relatives.

The main street would grow quiet,

cars parked neatly in front of every home,

as if the whole town was preparing for rest.

I’d keep watching until darkness settled in,

then go to pray before the time passed.

I grew older,

and moved to another place…

spending most of my days alone…

yet I still revere that same hour.

I traded a house for an apartment,

and the garden that once lay beneath my balcony

became a street.

The homes of my relatives, whose lights I once waited to see,

turned into tall buildings filled with strangers.

Still, I wait for the lights.

One by one, the apartments across the way begin to glow,

as if continuing an old ritual I’ve known all my life.

And here, the call to prayer sounds even clearer ..

the mosque is closer now.🕌✨

I keep my same quiet routine,

in this sacred hour.

Then I grew a little older.

I began to watch the sunset

from the window of an airplane ✈️

alone this time.

No brothers beside me,

no race for the window seat.

Just me,

and that sacred hour again,

among clouds laced with golden threads,☁️🌥️🌇

and the sound of the adhan

playing softly in my ears.🎧

Places change,

and time moves differently each year,

yet I remain …

and the sunset still dazzles me.

It reminds me

that not every ending

is a sad one.

✨

Farewell

Farewell — in all its names — is difficult and bleak.

The words spoken within it are like thorns planted in the soul,

leaving marks that time can never erase.

You don’t simply bid them goodbye;

you question yourself in silence:

when we meet again,

in what state will we be?

You… me… us.

Farewell is not a passing moment of separation;

it is a new test of calm —

the kind that tries to settle in our hearts

after the moments we lived… and that lived within us.

And perhaps, in our deepest selves,

we whisper:

I’m not only parting from you,

I’m parting from safety itself.

I return to a land that no longer knows the scent of peace,

yet somehow — despite everything —

it makes me miss it,

as though nostalgia itself were an unfinished embrace.

In farewell, every feeling awakens at once:

those you have lived,

those born in the moment,

and those waiting for you after the departure.

As if sadness, in parting,

extends its roots through time itself.

Farewell is life’s decree — inescapable,

no matter how far you run.

I have said goodbye to many I loved,

and every time I told myself: “Maybe I’m used to it.”

Yet the moment I stretch out my hand for that final wave,

I realize I am beginning sorrow all over again.

There is no getting used to farewell.

Every goodbye feels like the first,

and every parting tastes different.

Sometimes I’m the one staying while they leave,

and sometimes I’m the one leaving while they remain.

And sometimes, we’re all departing —

leaving behind a place that held us for a while,

then quietly closed its doors after we were gone.

But in all its forms… farewell is cruel.

Farewell is wider than an airport embrace.

There are those we part from without hugs,

without even saying the words of parting.

We leave them between ourselves and our hearts,

hoping that some strange coincidence will bring us together again —

but what kind of coincidence reunites the East and the West?

Still, we whisper: no matter,

for every farewell is tied to a meeting —

its time, its place, its reason

known only to God,

and I am but one of His servants,

walking His path as He wills.

I cry often,

not because I am weak,

but because memories never truly leave me.

Because I cannot forget those I loved,

nor let go of the small details that shaped us.

Then comes the deceitful digital phase —

when faces turn into screens,

and conversations become floating squares of light.

The call drops, features blur,

and hearts become nothing but frozen pixels.

I love arrivals… and I despise departures.

Places, people, memories — all weigh heavy on me.

I’m not one to let go easily,

not out of attachment,

but out of loyalty.

For those who never hold lightly,

can never release easily.

And here I sit,

gazing at the sky —

at those golden threads of light

that confirm departure at the last breath of sunset.

I arrived here at dawn…

and I leave at dusk.

Didn’t I once say that every meeting has its goodbye?

If only someone could prove me wrong.

In farewelling children —

those who cannot grasp what farewell means —

the ache burns deeper.

They welcome you with innocence,

and leave a piece of their world inside you.

You know you’ll go before you can explain why.

How do you tell a child you have to leave?

And what language convinces him that absence is necessary?

In the last meeting, I hold them tightly,

trying to gather in that embrace

all the days I will miss them.

But they soon run off,

and I remain searching — in every face that resembles theirs —

for that same embrace.

Today, I carry a part of them with me:

their laughter, their gestures, their words,

the echo of their footsteps in the halls…

they’re all still with me, in some way.

And I try to believe that.

But, if you want the truth —

I’m lying.

I want the ones I love to return,

right now,

and sit beside me. 🤍

( 2min)

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Lately I feel like I’ve started imitating my professor in the way he writes.🫣

I’ve started writing down the time and experimenting with different newsletter styles.🥳

I once heard: “If you want to succeed at something you have no experience in, copy someone successful—but in your own way.”

But let’s be clear: I’ll never promise you the kind of consistency he has—he’s the king of punctuality and discipline 👑@Samuel Domínguez.

Now, about Snapchat Streaks.

Honestly? I think it’s the dumbest invention humanity ever came up with 🙃.

Here’s how it works: a Streak is a chain of days where two people send each other snaps every 24 hours.

Miss a day? The number resets.

And the big question: What do you actually gain?

Nothing at all. Just collecting points.

Some people literally send a black screen just so the score doesn’t disappear ⬛️.

Here’s the thing: I’m not on good terms with this. Sometimes people even call me just so I’ll send back a snap and keep their score alive. I don’t😒.

Yes, I’m Gen Z, but that doesn’t mean I have to act like every Gen Z stereotyp🤷‍♀️.

The problem doesn’t stop there.

People keep sending Streaks like your digital life matters more than your real one 📲➡️🌍.

And the funniest part? When I meet them face-to-face, they don’t even say hi 🤓.

They just ignore me. Like… seriously?

So here’s the question:

Have we really reached this point?

I don’t know where the world is heading, but it feels like it’s spinning into the madness of numbers:

• 💰 Bank accounts

• 👥 Follower counts

• ❤️ Likes

• 🔥 Snapchat Streak scores

• ✈️ Airline miles: travel more, collect points, and travel “for free” (though it’s really just another number game).

It’s all numbers.

Some of them are actually useful—I get that.

But the truth is: we built these systems, and now they own us.

Instead of numbers serving us, we’ve become their servants.

And honestly… that’s what frustrates me the most 😤.

so..

tell me, dear reader:

👉 Do you feel trapped by numbers too?

Or am I just overreacting—as usual—whenever something gets under my skin? 😅