Future is dim but not hopeless
The rebellion in you is not worthless
Stop listening to songs of cowardice
Act yourself out of the gloom and darkness

Your life is an example of uneven chances
Your birth was every bit of miraculous
Beaten the odds countless times
Believe yourself out of the gloom and darkness

Outwork, outlive, outwill the doubters
Muscles are tired, mind is restless
Snap out and control your emotions
Defy yourself out of the gloom and darkness

Act now you are fearless!
Believe your future is victorious
Defy pessimist thoughts and bitterness
Will yourself out of the gloom and darkness

Researchers at Georgetown University Medical Center discovered that when we look at a written word, a special part of our brain perceives it “like a picture, not a group of letters needing to be processed” [1].

The researchers studied 25 participants through fMRI (functional magnetic resonance imaging), focusing on a small area just behind the left ear called the “visual word form area.”

What’s particularly fascinating about this area is that a similar symmetrical segment in the right hemisphere of the brain, the “fusiform face area,” is the part of the brain tasked with recognizing human faces. Young children and illiterate adults use both this facial recognition and word imaging areas to recognize faces. Once they learn to read and write, the word imaging area performs word recognition only. As familiar faces are stored in our memory (facial recognition area), the words we learn are also entered one after another in this visual word dictionary.

Words we write, think, speak

The words studied in this research are written words, not spoken words, i.e., words produced by sound waves. What role, then, does hearing play in reading?

Neuroscientist Lorenzo Magrassi and his colleagues focused on neural activity in the language and speech processing/production center of the brain, known as Broca’s area [2], in 16 participants. One of the most interesting aspects of this experiment was that it could only be performed during “awake surgery”—i.e., when the participants were awake and their skull was partially open [3]. Since the brain itself does not feel pain, this form of research can be done with an open skull.

When people hear speech, it is transmitted from the ear to the brain as a sound signal or sound wave and triggers a neural activity and fluctuation in the brain via electromagnetic waves. This wave packet unit of sound is called the “sound envelope” or “sound sheath.” Hence, we can assume that each word has a sound envelope and a corresponding neural activity and electrical fluctuation in the brain.

Magrassi and his team discovered that the neural electromagnetic fluctuation matching of the sound envelope and neural electromagnetic fluctuations that occur when we read aloud or when we hear a word is the same when we read silently; neural activity in Broca’s area is the same as if the words were heard. Even before we speak, even before we intend and plan to speak, and although we only think about the word, the sound envelope of the word is already present in the brain. This discovery explains why we feel as if we hear the words inside us even when we are merely thinking about them. Accordingly, researchers started work on an interface software that would enable human-computer compatibility in transmitting thought words from the brain to the outside, even without speaking [4]. This will enable people with defective speech organs to convey what they think to their interlocutors helped by special software and hardware.

In sum, a word thought, whether read silently or pronounced, is first represented in the brain’s visual word form area and in Broca’s area as a sound envelope-neural activity. The word is given a certain form and, if we speak, it is reflected in the same areas of the listeners’ brains in a symmetrical process. These brain areas are created as “mirrors” where the word is reflected [5].

Since words also convey our feelings, when a word we choose is conveyed with its features, does it evoke similar feelings in the interlocutor? In another study on this matter [6], it was discovered that pitch changes in the pronunciation of words stimulate neurons in the brain—i.e., they mirror diverse reflections. By paying attention to the pitch of a speaker’s voice, it is possible to guess whether they are sincere or not. A person lying often averts their eyes because the feature of the word they pronounce does not match the word-imaging area in their brain.

It can be said in light of these studies that the human brain by default bears the ability to mirror the feature of words and that words are not any sound wave in the air. At this instant, let’s remember the following observation of Bediuzzaman Said Nursi:

Just as His art in the universe is in the form of a book, describing its perfect orderedness, so too His coloring and the inscription of His wisdom in human has opened the flower of speech. That is, His art is so meaningful, sensitive, and beautiful that it has caused the components of that animate machine to speak as though they were gramophones. It has given human such a dominical coloring in their ‘fairest of forms’ that the flower of speech and expression, which is immaterial, insubstantial and living, has opened in their material, corporeal and solid head. And it has equipped the power of speech and expression, which is situated in human’s head, with such exalted tools and abilities that it has caused it to develop and progress to a degree whereat they become the addressee of the Pre-Eternal Monarch. That is, the dominical coloring in human’s essential nature has opened the flower of divine address. Is it at all possible that anything other than the Single One of Unity could interfere in that art in creatures, which is so high as to be in the form of a book, and in that coloring in human whereby they attain the station of speech and address? [7]

Footnotes

• “After Learning New Words, Brain Sees Them as Pictures”, gumc.georgetown.edu/news-release/after-learning-new-words-brain-sees-them-as-pictures/
• “Broca’s area”, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Broca’s_area
• “Why you can ‘hear’ words inside your head”, www.bbc.com/future/article/20200929-what-your-thoughts-sound-like
• “The Long Search for a Computer That Speaks Your Mind”, www.wired.com/story/the-long-search-for-a-computer-that-speaks-your-mind/
• Bediuzzaman Said Nursi, Sözler [The Words], Istanbul: Sahdamar Yayinlari, 2010, s. 767.
• “How the human brain detects the ‘music’ of speech”, www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2017/08/170824141234.htm
• Bediuzzaman Said Nursi, Mektubat [The Letters], Istanbul: Sahdamar Yayinlari, 2010, s. 265.

Following thirteen months behind my only sibling’s academic footsteps was hard. From elementary school on, she was a glowing student; absorbing, digesting, and understanding information seemingly by osmosis. She maintained straight A’s throughout her academic career and earned a college scholarship. I, on the other hand, struggled to maintain a C average and ran away from home at the age of fifteen.

Let’s take a moment and rewind…

I thought I was stupid. Compared to my sister, it certainly appeared that way. However, it wasn’t until many years later I discovered that I learn differently from how I was being taught.

There are three recognized learning styles:

• Auditory learners grasp things by hearing—the worst type of test for them involves reading passages and writing answers. They’re best at writing responses to lectures they’ve heard, and are also good at oral exams.
• Visual learners comprehend through seeing—the worst test type for them includes having to listen and respond. They’re best at diagramming, reading maps, essays (if they’ve studied using an outline), and showing a process.
• Tactile (kinesthetic) learners understand through experiencing/doing—the worst test type for them usually has lengthy tests and essays. They’re best at short definitions, fill in the blanks, and multiple choice.

When I was in school, the general teaching population were auditory teachers. A heavily tactile learner—with a smidgen of visual thrown in for good measure—I was missing the boat!

Fast forward…

Not having done any planning before running away, I didn’t know that if you leave high school before you graduate, you can’t test for a GED—General Education Diploma—until two years after your graduating class.

Biding my time, I went to work for a large, everything-under-one-roof store. Over the next few years I worked my way up to managing the women’s wear department, then added men’s wear, and topped it off with housewares and furniture.

I gained valuable life experience during that window of time. Part of this seat-of-the-pants wisdom was learning to say, “I don’t understand. Can you please explain that differently?” And that’s when I noticed that no matter how many times someone “told” me, it wasn’t until they “showed” me that I got it! When shown, I not only met, but exceeded what was expected of me.

I left high school as a sophomore in 1973. For four long years I waited and prepared to take the GED examination. On a hot day in late June of 1977, with the cut-grass tang of summer in the air, I slipped into a front row seat at the testing center; one of about twenty other people enveloped in the sterile classroom setting.

The all-day test was given in seven parts: Language Arts (writing), Language Arts (reading), Social Studies, Science, Math (calculator allowed), Math (calculator not allowed), and United States Constitution.

Hours later—head held high with a face-splitting grin—I left the facility with every confidence that I’d aced the test. Six weeks later I received my GED certificate, and that was just the beginning. Over time I earned my associate degree, then bachelor’s, followed by a master’s degree. Finally, two weeks before my fiftieth birthday, I sat and defended my Ph.D. thesis.

Hard-wired for buoyancy and tenacious as a terrier, when I set my mind on something I go after it with tremendous resolve. It took a while, but I eventually went from GED to Ph.D. And while I’m Ph.inisheD with brick-and-mortar academia, I’ll never be done learning.

The morning had withheld its sunlight and left only a gray hue to open its doors when the man turned aside to his wife facing him, her Cantu-scented curls waving in his face. The sunlight compliments her already perfect face even though the gray brings gloom to others, but not him. The sounds of breakfast cooking brew an ambience that acts as lenses onto her beauty while her eyes secure her innocence. The appreciation of sunlight comes natural for those who don’t have it, but alternatives are the only option with no availability. As a result, he finds the sunlight captured in her beauty while her eyes take the picture.

“Want some eggs,” she asks, her words softly layered.

“With syrup please,” he replies as his words stick to his mouth.

Her response echoes through the whole house, her laughter bounces off the walls. Her eyes close when she laughs and he wonders what she sees. The sight she sees contains an expression of her love with him at the center of her photograph. In the meanwhile, a whole dictionary was consumed in the process of describing what she feels towards what she sees.

The day passes them by in a swirl of heartfelt emotions. A haze of old music lingers in the house as she takes two steps back while he takes two steps forward.

She asks, “Where did the day go?”                                                                                      

“With you in my arms,” he responds.

“Ha-Ha-Ha,” she says sarcastically.

Her laugh gets softer and softer as he feels the heat escape her body. Her eyes flash red not with pain but with a warning. “Low Battery! Charge Now!” but a recharge isn’t possible, at least not in an electrical sense. With this he holds her memory tightly, tighter than the grip of death itself. He carries her soul in his heart as he steps to the cellar. Her brown hair now twisted with curls, rooted in the insecurities of others. The door creaks open to deliver a gust of contempt for death and a sense of resurrection. Human sized tubes litter the wall. The same face stares back at him at least a dozen times, providing twelve instances of relief. A transaction is made with his heart and mind, and one of the tubes opens. He feels elated but the air still chills around him, and an aura steps out followed by a hand reaching for him.

The morning withholds its sunlight and leaves only the gray to open its doors when the man turns aside to his wife facing him, her strawberry scented hair waving in his face.

Irritated
by trivialities,
overwhelmed
by brutality
and innocent suffering,
disappointed
by our own inadequacies –
–in anxiety, confusion and hope
we turn to You.

Pry us loose from our self-absorption
that we might look for You today,
for Your comfort, Your Peace,
Your power, Your direction.

Break the hold
of the posturing, presumptuous
yet finally false powers of this world.

Awaken us to Your magnificence
that we might live in awe
of nothing but You.

Free us, then, from our fears
that we might, at the least,
be courteous to all whom we meet,
and thereby offer
an opening for Your grace.

Even though the dominant figure in “Persian Poetry” is Hafiz (Saadi is mentioned only once), Emerson showed quite clearly his admiration for Saadi in the Preface he wrote for the American edition of Gulistan (1865). In addition to this, he also wrote a poem entitled “Saadi” (1899) in which we can read the poetic similarities between Emerson and Saadi, or what was the distinguishing quality of the latter that proved such a powerful inspiration for Emerson.

Emerson seems to appreciate Saadi’s “wit, practical sense, and just moral judgments,” which are shown throughout his most famous work Gulistan, a collection of stories in prose and verse combined whereby each story appears to stand on its own; however, each chapter has its own topic, which also provides a connection between the given stories. In Sufi poetry, gul (or the rose) is one of the central motifs. Every rose represents the glory of God, and every rose is perfect in its own sense.

The stories are mostly comprised of Saadi’s personal experiences on his numerous travels,  and this is one of the aspects of Saadi’s poetry which could have been attractive to Emerson, especially because it is congruent with Emerson’s own philosophy, “Only so much do I know as I have lived.”

Saadi frequently uses natural images to describe a situation or to wrap up a story. He wrote, for example:

A flower is sometimes blooming and sometimes withering.
A tree is at times nude and at times clothed.

Saadi uses these images to portray the “wheel of destiny,” and these two verses (bayts) are also a magnificently concise summary of the preceding story about a beggar turned emperor. Natural images of this kind are the core of Emerson’s poetic theory as he considered nature to be “the symbol of spirit.” Therefore, he praises Saadi as the great observer of nature:

In his every syllable
Lurketh Nature veritable.

That is, Saadi is able to interpret the natural facts and extract their essence which opens the door of the world of Ideas, as Plato would call it, or Nature, as Emerson would call it. Therefore, we are closer to ourselves, and the understanding of ourselves, if we observe the other constituents of the physical world, because we are all essentially connected.

The poem “Saadi” by Emerson begins with a list of natural facts and among the birds and sheep are also men; however, the poet is in a way above them all, because he is endowed with the poetic gift (“the lyre”) and instructed by God to “sit aloof” in order to observe. A poet, although part of nature, still has an additional responsibility to interpret what he sees and use it for his own advancement and the advancement of “his folk.” The poet should be a “Man Thinking,” as Emerson calls the upgraded version of a man, who is able to decode the natural facts; he should refer to the “mind of the past” and undertake action in an attempt to “guide men by showing them facts amidst appearances” – and Saadi is exactly that. He learned from what he had seen and experienced, and he composed a guide of a sort for everyone who reads it, implying, however, that this guide is not universal and that it is written by a life experience and literary experience of only one man. It is very difficult to bear in mind all the wise words from Gulistan, unless a previous experience is triggered by them.

However, for Emerson, the individual is the one who can improve and not the society: he says that he “like[s] man, but not men” and that “[s]ociety never advances.” He was in love with the unbound possibilities of an individual, not with a rather fragile sense of belonging to a particular group. But does this make the notion of social action superfluous? We can make use of one of Saadi’s stories to answer this question. In the section “The Morals of Dervishes,” Saadi talks of his experience in a mosque where he was giving a lecture to a group of people “whose hearts were withered and dead.” However, one man was passing by and he caught some of Saadi’s words, which left a deep impression on him. Thus, Saadi said:

When the hearer understands not the meaning of words
Do not look for the effect of the orator’s force
But raise an extensive field of desire
That the eloquent man may strike the ball of effect.

The aim of a poet is not a radical change in society, but rather a change in a man’s heart. Therefore, in the light of these words, Emerson’s statements seem reconciled: the poet should compose verses based on his knowledge and experience, hoping to be of use to men; but only certain individuals among the group will be able to understand and learn from it.

Having all this in mind, we can see how close two poets can be irrespective of the time gap and distance between them. Emerson states in the Preface to Gulistan:

But the Sheik’s mantle sits loosely on Saadi’s shoulders, and I find in him pure theism. He asserts the universality of moral laws, and the perpetual retributions. He celebrates the omnipotence of a virtuous soul.

Emerson had a lot in common with Saadi on an intellectual level, and what truly attracted his attention and admiration was the humanity in Saadi’s poetry. Throughout Gulistan we encounter all sorts of people, but Saadi tries to understand the state of each and every one of them, be they poor or rich, ingenious or stupid, benevolent or malevolent – in the words of Emerson:

Yet Saadi loved the race of men, —
No churl, immured in cave or den;
In bower and hall
He wants them all.

If there had not been love,
How should there have been existence?
How should bread have attached itself to you
and become (assimilated to) you.

The perfected pattern of the human form is coherence with God’s love. Humanity drinks from the spring inspired by God. The drink inspired by God will remain forever, until perpetuity (Abad).

When we talk about love our aim is true love (ishq haqiqi), not metaphorical love (ishq majazi). Ishq Majazi is related to the material transient world, but the real or true love, ishq haqiqi, is the love which is felt toward the infinite God. The real love is eternal and infinite.

The love, if its purpose is color, won’t be love.
Eventually it will be shame…

A lover acquainted and faced with true love will get burned in the heat and realize that the material world is temporary and inconstant. The lover will think how to reach the truth (Mashooq Haqiqi) day and night, and his/her feelings, respect, and appreciation toward any element in the world will grow stronger as they will be connected to the original existence.

Elements which were once valuable can lose their value. But not love: it increases the lover’s power from within. Love is an important and powerful element, powering the body inward (Batn) and outward (Zaaher) until it evolves and love can be the medicine of all causes, strengthening faith and relieving sorrow and anxiety.

Whoever tears clothes due to love
Will be completely clean and clear from greed and fault.
Be happy, lover of a happy trade,
You are the physician of all of our causes.
Love raised dust to sky,
And made mountains start dancing.

A lover like Rumi will have a special desire to become Gnostic; he or she will be drawn to this hard journey and fight their way through, driven by the ecstasies of desire. The Gnostic lover will arrange life’s style and other activities.

The Gnostic experiences a state of pain and heartache that burns from within. The burning becomes so strong and painful that it forces the lover to scream and shout. But these shouts emerge as symphonic rhymes and poems.

Search us in love, and search love in us
Sometimes we praise love, and sometimes love praises us

Rumi believed that love clears the heart, brings harmony, decreases prejudice, and brings people closer to each other.

The Gnostic love is love of humanity. It’s not lust or heartache, but love without prejudice. It’s the kind of love that takes away selfishness and brings one closer to God. Rumi’s love and understanding started at a place of spiritual retreat (Khaaneqa). Singing (semah) in the retreat made his love stronger.

Poems, music, and dance are resources of Gnostic, not the target; the aim is to reach the truth. Rumi told us the good news: that one day the religion of love will capture the entire world.

We are all witnessing the love Rumi predicted, and most people are in love with his words.

The lover’s ailment is different from all other ailments;
Love is an astrolabe of God’s mysteries.
Love may be from this side or that side;
in the end it leads us to that King.
Though the expression of the tongue is enlightening,
the tongue-less love is more expressive.

Love is the only way to recognize God, and after the power of God, love is the only power. Mansur al-Hallaj said, “The ascension of men is love!”

Whoever does not have love of the lover in his head,
Bring that person a pack-saddle and bridle.

Imam Abu Hamid al-Ghazali wrote about love: “Love is eagerness to find something that you love; therefore, love has variety. But love in the Gnostic and spiritual world is love of God. Love is the base of success.”

After Rumi discovered his self and felt what was inside of him, he began to see in others what was in him; this way, he unified the love of God with the love of humanity. He came to the conclusion that to love human beings is to love God.

Rumi said:

A servant is in desire of freedom.
A lover does not want freedom until perpetuity.

Rumi was a Gnostic poet. Rumi did all things with love: he prayed with love, and he died with love, only to reach the only Lover.

God created me from the wine of love,
I will still be love even I am dead.

I do not think that there is one human being in the entire world without love. Every human being is in love either with worldly materials or in love with God.

The description of Gnostic love is with those worlds that describes ishq majazi, but if readers do not pay attention or they are not familiar with these kinds of poems, poets and their aim, readers might think that the aim of these Gnostic poets are ishq majazi, not true love.

Love is the fundamental of the Gnostic and without love we are not able to find a Gnostic.

Rumi developed his perfection through boundless love and then he taught that love to thousands of students and followers through his poems and other works. He became a guide to mankind: from East to West, North to South, the world became his territory. He conquered the world with love, and as the sound of his feet still reflecting in the corridor of the times, Rumi describes how love remains forever:

Whatever is in this world, love is its soul.
Whatever you see is not permanent, except love.
The only way to reach the sky is from inside. Move the wings of love.
When the wings of love became strong, there is no need for a ladder.

Gnostic lovers like Rumi drink from the cup of truth and are cleansed by the truth, which has been inspired by God; their hearts are clear as crystal.

Gnostics drink from the cup of truth,
They knew the secrets and covered those secrets.
Whenever they taught the mystery of truth to anybody,
They sealed and sewed up his lips.”

Furthermore, love of these true men cannot be described in writing or speaking, as Rumi said:

Love cannot be contained in an exchange of words.
Love is a fathomless ocean.

Every Gnostic can be a poet, but not every poet is a Gnostic, as they might be in love, but their love may be ishq majazi. I would like to conclude this article with another poem from Rumi:

There is no end to describe these words.

What stories are still there to be told? Everything in my life is on hold. Tomorrow is a big promise to behold; I’d rather speak of how I feel extremely cold or how, in just a few months I became so old. How did my memories fade into complete despair? That is definitely not fair!

I fled home for no reason, except staying would put me in danger. My status is unknown and I have no right to use a phone. Who will I call? Nobody is left at home.

I have given up standing with high respect to peep behind people’s necks; I’d rather disappear before anyone notices that I am here. Will I cross the sea in hopes of a better tomorrow, so that I might be able to see? Or will I stay to struggle and get sympathy?

How did my heart become so bold? Is it because of my neighbor who died in a boat? Because of the bomb that smashed everything on the road? I wish this was a dream or just one more bad thought.

I did not want to interrupt other people’s daily lives. I did not seek to be a burden about which everyone would speak. I wanted to help those in need rather than becoming the one who needs help, indeed. I wanted to celebrate the ‘Eid’ and have a nice photo with my friend Saed.

I am left alone with nothing to say except that my heart still beats anyway. Should I give up on having a real life or should I continue to strive? What are my best options? To live in distortion? Why did my smile go away? Where are my friends? I still want to play. I begged my dear uncle to stay, but he left the other day. My rainbow’s colors have turned black and grey, but all I can do is continue to pray. My only hope left is my mom, who is still okay.

I am not glad when my country’s on the news; it only means we have something more to lose. One more day apart, and I feel the aches reaping my heart. One more tear to hide. Let’s hope that everything is going to be alright: those are the words my mom says when trying to sweep our pain away. She struggles day after day; she deserves a nice holiday. I wish she knew I am by her side and that she is my only source of pride. I wish to bring her joy, for I am no longer a young boy.

I wish to tell the world that even the finest rose will not equal the beauty of Homs, or the tasty dish of kebbah I once ate in Aleppo, my home. I miss the mountains overlooking Latakia; and, oh Damascus, the capital of my beloved Syria!

Now I have a big responsibility; to be strong is no longer a choice. This is not an inspirational quote or wisdom I gained by reading a note. I lived a life that has given me lots of stories to be told; normal is no longer my favorite word. It is ironic how we cannot choose our world. We know we have rights, but who cares which of them has been applied? If you have not gone through my fight, how can I believe that you’re truly by my side? I am sorry but my mind is so occupied, I cannot sleep no matter how hard I have tried. I wish the facts could be clarified, and the ones responsible identified, so that peace may come upon those who died, and once and for all we can leave the painful past behind.

Far away from home and everything once known; going day by day, the promise of tomorrow still far away… The world is watching and the war has taken city after city; my people have lost their long standing durability. Everyone can sense our insecurity, our constant instability. We try to use the maximum of our abilities to live in decency and achieve a sense of serenity.

I am learning to live a new life, to adapt and pretend to be alive. I go to school and hide the misery inside my soul. I cannot pretend to be cool: if I tell a joke, would it make me look like a fool? I am scared to even come close to a pool, and I run away when someone is holding a sharp tool.

Thanks to my brother, who sent us some money; we were finally able to buy some honey. I know it sounds funny, but who believed we would not have a penny? My baby sister has become so skinny; she needs to be outside when it’s sunny. I do not want to become so whiny, but we have not heard from dad; he said he would search for a better destiny. Did he commit some sort of felony?! I miss being in his company – and the delicious cake he made with my favorite brownie.

Every now and then a stranger comes, and I get some toys and feel a new chapter might begin. The doctor who examines me is so chummy; he must have graduated from a famous academy. He always asks me questions about my family; he checks my tummy and thinks I’m funny. He tells my mom I am so bony, I should grow strong to be able to ride a pony. I think this is the same doctors’ monotony, but I can see my mom listening in agony. I hear her prayers and I secretly say, “Amin, she must be a hero from within.” She says he who waits longer will eventually win, and I believe her words because she does not sin.

Sometimes I look at the beauty of life, contemplating the splendor of the magnificent sunrise, and I let myself dream of winning a Nobel Prize. I want to teach future generations how to become wise, so that life does not take them by surprise. Our neighbor tells me I have dreams of a big size, and they might be very hard to realize. But this is truly what keeps me alive: how would I keep going otherwise?!

I still manage to smile. I have lots of things to be thankful for: I have a roof, a clean bed, and a lot more. I will not hide behind any door. If they steal my notebook, I will draw on a wall; if they take my pillow, I will sleep on the floor. But I will move forward because I have a lot to be looking for. This is not about me anymore; it’s about finally getting to a safe shore, and raising hope in a time of historical detour, to let people know that from our sour we have created the best velour!

My pen is heavy and my words are messy. Is the world I know gone already? Each day’s news carries a new tragedy, and our hearts have become full of melancholy. I switch my phone off to escape the painful reality, trying to find a safe haven in a world of duality. Some live it like a party, others suffer from vulnerability. It became hard to maintain our rationality; we need to live in solidarity, stand for true values and sincere morality.

We no longer need to suffer to understand what it would be really like. We all know what the world’s refugees have to fight, how their cause needs our efforts to be combined. It has been reaping our soul and mind, and there are no doors to stay behind. Their suffering increases each day and night, shredding families apart in plain sight, increasing the numbers of displaced people in the history of mankind. Despite all the rules created to abide, children are carried in the seaside, and we find their bodies within the tide. We lose them every day to that deadly ride, and we have become truly terrified because we all know it is not right; this very fact is hurting our pride. It has grown into a huge responsibility, shared worldwide.

I have written my words in sorrow and pain, but I hope I will not have to write them again. I will keep on dreaming that tomorrow things will not be the same, and peace will be easier to obtain. Many hardships are hard to explain, but every effort exerted will not go in vain. We have a lot to maintain, some happiness to spread in the air, and a lot of children to entertain. I will keep on dreaming, even if I have to pretend: who said dreams are meant to reach an end? I know it has been hard for you to blend; believe me, I wish I could give you a hand. Your cause is the greatest I would ever represent, and despite everything, I will never give up on you, my friend.

Note: This essay won honorable mention in The Fountain Essay Contest 2016 “I Am an Immigrant.”

So many times
I become a Majnun at Your door
And sensed You deep in the heart.
When deceived by the mirage of truth
I lost my sanity,
Lost, away from home.

At times, I am connected to You
With all of my being
As Jacob burned with yearning for Joseph.
I wail and lament with longing,
my fervor invisibly deep.

“Love,” I say, despite the wounds in my spirit.
“Yes,” said I already,
turning to ashes with Your Love
As the memories I conversed with appeared before my eyes
My head was at Your doorstep; Your yoke around my neck.

On the darkest nights, I took refuge in Your light.
My heart was devastated, and my tongue stuttered,
But I always praised only You.
The elixir of love, I’ve found it only in You
And I woke up from the sweetest dream.

My soul weeps and aches with pure enthusiasm
I pray it is not invaded by any other than You.
Oh, that I may not experience longing in the hands of the disloyal
When there is a Faithful Beloved like You
for the forlorn ones like me.