It was a long, cool February night here in the bustling streets of Manila.

Once again, I looked up at the star-filled sky above me. I noticed something that looked like a big spoon but was larger and more distinct in size and brightness despite the presence of thousands; no, millions of stars above me.

The Big Dipper stared at me like a big ladle, ready to take me along on a journey towards destinations unknown.

For reasons that I cannot comprehend up to this very day, I cannot help but smile at the beauty of the constellation at night.

Most probably, it is because I had beautiful memories in life under the light of these stars.

The year is 2006.

I was lanky and tall for my age.

In addition, I was extremely curious about the world around me.

It is the final year of primary schooling at a public elementary school in Zamboanga City, a lively commercial center with an estimated population of more than a million people, give or take, at the western tip of Southern Philippines.

At the time, I never knew what a telescope looked like or what astronomy was all about. After all, our economic status did not provide us the means to buy astronomical equipment or to even buy materials for a full-fledged experiment.

Luckily, my science teachers held a camp in September of that year and they brought their precious telescopes with them.

Under a clear, picturesque sky and with a smooth, light breeze coming in from the sea, we peered upon the telescopes and identified different constellations as our teachers relayed their positions to us.

It was a wonderful experience. I learned a lot about astronomy within that night alone, probably more than what I would have learned inside the classroom or by reading these constellations in books.

However, as with many things in this ephemeral world, life has its own way of stomping through the past and erasing it into oblivion.

As such, I forgot all of them as the years passed by, except for one.

It was the Big Dipper.

Looking at the Big Dipper gives me hope that I could chase my dreams and reach them no matter the odds that I face currently.

Yes, I do face many challenges of varying complexity and novelty, stretching my faculties to its full extent.

Sometimes, the going gets tough.

There are indeed times when I thought of lifting the white towel in order to just get away from all of it.

But as with many of the best things in life, hope is the torch that keeps me moving forward.

As far as this age is concerned, we are living in a state of a partial darkness where wars, dictatorships, deaths, and calamities have become commonplace to the point that they are turned from newsworthy phenomena into an integral part of life.

They have seeped into people’s psyches to the point that hopelessness about the prospect of having a constructive, productive, and inclusive future has become the norm instead of it being the exception.

In this age, hope is a highly-esteemed currency that is held preciously by people who know the value of it.

After all, wasn’t Hope the last thing to stay inside Pandora’s box after sickness, death, turmoil, famine and all the other evil qualities went out of it?

This shows that as long as hope is alive inside a person’s heart, the keys towards a brighter future are always open for exploration and completion.

As I look back towards the ground, I realize something.

At the end of the day, the Big Dipper reminds me about a truth regarding life.

No matter how harsh and cold the night may seem to be, sunlight always follows in its path, rising to the top and eradicating the darkness and fear that is present inside our hearts, minds, and lives.

Most importantly, even though the evenings may be dark, the stars are always there, piercing the veil of darkness and serving as a beacon of hope.

A hope which states that the best things in life always come in the best way possible, regardless of how bad it was in the past.

After having that long gaze, I continue my way home with a smile.

Because I know once again that the night is always the beginning to a brighter morning and that the stars are there to remind me of that fact.

With newly found strength, I trace my steps back home and get ready to face another day in the roads of this journey that is called “life.”

Is this life?
This drastic contrast?
This black and white?
This sunshine and rain?
Is it?

Is it normal
for worlds to collide?
Combine?
Crash?

And these emotions?
To effervesce differently, yet be present,
in the same world,
the same existence.

It is.
And, apparently this is life,
When your mind and heart will be playing a tug of war,
and you sit,
you sit and realize it’s your choice.

See…
It’s your choice to visualize what you want to see. It’s your choice to just stay in the sunshine, ignoring the rain.
It’s your choice to just stare at that white and don’t look back at that black.

So this is what they meant,
when they told us to look at the cup, half full.

Even when you’re grieving the half that is gone, half is still there.

It’s the choice.
It’s the choice to chose how we look at our lives, the good and the bad.
How we smile in our happiness,
and find strength in our sadness.

How we laugh when we hear something funny,
something fun,
and hold those tears
when the sadness stings our hearts.

It’s our choice.
Our choice to be those optimisms
who just look at the glass as half full.

And who know,

deep down,
Even if the glass isn’t half full,
even if it’s only a quarter, or even a tenth, full
it will still, to some degree, be full.

And that it’ll get better.
It will get fuller.
Just know
that it will get better.
It will fill up.

No one’s glass
is constantly full…

“Honey, you already fasted last year for three days, didn’t you?” replied her mother, hardly able to hide her smile.

“Mom! I don’t mean a ‘kid’s fasting’. I am talking about the real stuff,” she said raising her soft voice.

“It is wonderful that you want to fast but you need to grow up some more. Why don’t you first try your ‘kid’s fast’ again tomorrow, fast until noon, then have your lunch. I am sure even angels will look down at you with admiration. They will say ‘Wow! Such a brave girl! She is only five years old and yet she already fasts for half of the day.'”

Rolling her eyes, she protested to her mother once again:

“Mom I am not a baby anymore! My sister is fasting, my older brother is fasting, you are fasting, and dad is fasting. Everybody is fasting except for my baby brothers and I. Please mom, I can do it, I want to do it, please…”

“Dear, you are a very strong girl, I know, but you see your stomach is still very little. Your hands, your mouth, you are still a little person. You already know that children don’t need to fast until they are a lot older. Maybe next year, or the year after you can try to fast a day or two, and when you become a teenager, you’ll be fasting the entire Ramadan. But this year you’ll only be doing the kid’s fast.”

As she looked at her little daughter hoping that her words would end the discussion, her heart was overflowing with such a joy and happiness, in the midst of compassion. How proud she was! She uttered a silent little prayer inside, “My little angel, O my dear Lord, please keep the love of worship and devotion overflowing from her heart her entire life with a child-like purity and sincerity, just like now.”

As soon as the little girl’s dark eyes caught her mother’s lips moving, she jump off of her seat. She must have had thought that it was a green light, and that her mother was about to say “yes.”

“Great!” she screamed, her face was enlightened with an excitement. Hardly grasping a breath, she continued: “Then you can wake me up for the early morning breakfast before dawn. Then I can have enough food and water and then be prepared for a day of fasting. I am so happy. And then…”

Her mother and father looked at each other, somewhat reluctant, and then her father interrupted her. “Dear, it seems like you are not listening to what your mother is saying. I know you are a brave girl, and your mother told me that your friends have been calling you ‘fearless’ since the day you challenged them and climbed all the way up to the top of the power pole on the street. I also know you love God, and you want to begin your journey as an obedient servant, and you are excited about your first full fasting, but you are missing something my dear…”

Ready to protest again, her little fingers swayed back and forth over her fork and spoon, and she asked: “What? What is it that I am missing?”

“You also have to be patient. God willing, next year you could try to do one full day of fasting.”

About to burst into tears, she mumbled with a barely audible voice:

“I am fasting tomorrow, whether or not you wake me up for the early breakfast. I am ready and I am fasting tomorrow!”

Her older sister sitting next to her couldn’t help hearing her murmuring and she whispered into her ears: “Oh, you are more stubborn than a goat!”

As she left the table and went back to her room, she wasn’t sure who the winner of the argument was. She climbed up to her bunk bed and closed her eyes tight. She murmured: “Tomorrow will be my first real fasting!”

As soon as she opened her eyes in the morning, she jumped out of bed, almost falling down as she climbed down, and ran to the window. It was already very bright outside. Was it already morning? Had she missed the dawn? Did everybody oversleep? She ran to her parents’ room, screaming:

“Mom, dad, wake up! We overslept, we overslept!”

She saw that her father had already gone, and her mother was about to finish her daily reading of the Qur’an.

“Honey,” said her mother. “I thought we had reached an agreement last night.” She wasn’t able to get any answer from her daughter, so she continued: “Our Creator is so merciful that He never asks us to do anything that is more than we can bear, it is not only children, but many adults are also excused from fasting. For instance, do you remember when I had your baby brother, I didn’t fast for a while, or when your grandmother got very sick and had to take so many medications, she skipped some days of fasting. When you become old enough and your body gets stronger, I know you will be super cool with your fasting, but now I don’t want you to rush into something before you are ready and lose your enthusiasm for later.” She was ready to continue but when she saw the tears in her little angel’s eyes, she stopped and hugged her: “Okay, okay young lady, let’s make an agreement then. You can try and keep your fast as long as you can but it is a summer day, it will be long and very hot so when you get really thirsty, hungry or tired, you can take a few minutes break, then you can continue your fasting. If you forget that you are fasting and eat or drink something, that’s okay, that means angels are trying to help you with the blessings from heaven. And don’t forget, no matter how you do, I am proud of you.”

Finally all the shine and happiness came back to her eyes and the little girl answered: “Deal mom!”

A couple of hours later, she decided to go outside to play. It was really warm outside. She looked around to see if any of her friends were around but she could only see a few shadows from the distance. First she thought about running over to play with them, but then she felt a little tired. Instead, she sat down on the brick pavement.

” I guess I am tired, and it is not even noon yet!” She bent over her stomach and began to chat: “Hey there! How do you feel? Are you hungry?” The only response from her little stomach was a rumbling voice. She smiled and patted herself on the stomach: “Listen, we are growing up today and learning to be patient. Think about all the poor people in the world, they cannot find food most of the time, now do you understand them better?” It seemed like her stomach was convinced and stopped rumbling, she was so proud of herself. With a big smile on her face, she started to watch people passing by on the street.

All of a sudden she heard her favorite sound of summer. A street vendor was calling out: “Snow cones! I have snow cones! Snow cones with all the flavors!” She forgot about everything and quickly checked her pockets. Yes! She had enough money to buy whichever flavor she liked. She rushed to the snow cone vendor and shouted: “Hey, wait! Wait for me! May I have a chocolate flavored snow cone please? You know what, give me the one with lemon and strawberry flavor as well.”

The vendor was a dark skinned young man. As he handed her snow cones wrapped with blue papers, he greeted his favorite customer with a big smile: “Look at you! You have grown up a lot since last year.”

She giggled and handed the money. She was hardly able to hold all three snow cones in one hand, the weather was so warm that they started to melt and drip all over her hands. She didn’t seem to mind, the coolness of the icy drops helped her cool down a little, but it also made her feel her thirst even more. In a hurry as she was trying to unwrap the blue paper from the first one, she noticed the vendor’s dark face, now even darker due to walking under the sun trying to sell all the snow cones and his lips were cracked probably because of thirst. She felt so selfish to have all these three snow cones for herself. A little shy and hesitant, she extended one of them to the man and said: “Please have one of them, three is too much for me anyway.” The man answered: “You are a generous girl, but thank you, I am fasting.” Suddenly, time stopped and she remembered that she also was fasting. “Oh ok,” she said nodding her head goodbye to the vendor and headed back to the brick she was sitting on a few minutes ago. With her stomach rumbling, she mumbled: “So am I, so am I!”

As her vendor friend disappeared around the corner, she didn’t know how to feel. She looked around, there was no one watching her. Well, nobody would think that she was fasting anyway. Her stomach started rumbling again, her lips felt dryer than ever, her hands were covered with the cool-sweet snow cone drips. She took a deep breath, stood up, and began to run towards to children playing in the distance. As she was running her heart was pounding, the ground under her feet felt like it was slipping away and her lips were constantly moving: “I am fasting, I am fasting. My dear God, I promised you, I am fasting today.” As she reached the children, she was gasping for the air and her legs were shaking, she could hardly call out to them: “Hey guys, do you want some snow cones?”

As she walked away from the children enjoying the cool sweet snow cones, her stomach had stopped rumbling, her lips were still dry but wide open with a big smile. Her heartbeat had slowed down and felt like it could fit into it the entire universe. She took her every step with such confidence, she felt like a big oak tree. Her fingers were still sticky and wet, and her lips were still moving: “I am fasting today, I am fasting. I am fasting for the sake of My dear God.”

***

“Excuse me, could you speak a little louder?” With the kind voice of the moderator, she was pulled back from her childhood. It was an interfaith group meeting where people were discussing various faith related topics including their stories in regards to how they shaped them as adults. She must have zoned out in the midst of the last question.

“Oh I’m sorry!” she said, clearing her throat nervously and a little embarrassed. “Where were we?”

As her group-mates smiled at her, the moderator answered:

“So it was your turn. Would you care to share with us your first memory of when you felt the presence of God in your life? It might be very difficult to pin-point, maybe in your teenage years or later? It’s okay if you can’t recall the exact moment, we are just causally sharing.”

She quickly glanced at the wondering faces of her friends. After 20 some years, she could still feel the cold-sugary drips on her hands. With a smile, she took a deep breath before she started to tell her story….

“That’s okay, I know exactly what moment it was.”

Ayse Kubra Coskun, MD, is currently serving as Vice President of Boston Dialogue Foundation.

Funny though, sometimes while walking in the enchantment of the awakening nature around me, I run into a tree, and I hug it as if I met a friend. You can imagine how entertaining I am to the passers-by.

It was one of those days when I felt the presence of a second person near me. Strange enough, though, he wasn’t laughing at my hugging the tree.

“Hi fellow, what is wrong with you? Why aren’t you laughing at this lunatic who is in love with trees instead of people?” I asked.

I was shocked upon hearing his answer:

“The sight of people is of no value to me because I cannot see the light coming from them. But you are certainly shining through your voice.
“For me, people shine through their presence; they change my heart beat.”

I exhaled the air that was hiding in my lungs with anxiety, and teased: “So, I should be careful when I am talking to you since I cannot hide my true feelings from you!”

“You bet. But don’t worry; your voice is giving me positive signals.”

Then, I quickly returned: “I am happy to hear that. So, shall we play a game together?”

“Like what?”

“Alright. Only by listening, we are going to try to predict the coming of the next person.”

“I’ll take your challenge,” he said.

And, we kept silent in order not to miss the clues of an approaching person. Believe it or not, we waited for minutes and not a single person passed by. We could hear voices of kids running in the distance, wind rubbing the leaves, trunks of the trees squeaking as they swing, flies, birds flying or landing, etc., but not a single person passing by. Suddenly he said:

“Maybe we should play something else.”

“You know what? You are the ever first person with whom I can play the game of solitude. We are together but not like cans on a shelf. We are together like two flowers smiling at each other although we cannot see or hear one another. Outsiders may think we are lonely. But in essence, we are hand in hand in the depths of our hearts.”

“It is strange that you say this. Why should you enjoy solitude?” he asked.

I did not answer that question. Actually my silence was the answer; and I think, or hope, he got my answer. I didn’t want my discovery of a solitude-mate to disappear so abrupt.

“Here comes one!” he exclaimed. I could feel his joy of catching the first person. I smiled; and he felt it because I give out a warm and vibrating breath when I smile.

“It is so alive,” he said.

“What? The person?” I was startled. Why was he using “it” for a person?

“No, your smile. I don’t feel many smiles like yours. I usually hear frozen laughs and smiles of mass-production, which carry no sincerity.”

I was embarrassed by his compliment. Again I kept silent, but my face was burning up, and he felt that as well.

“Now you are as flushed as I was when we started talking.”

“Yeah, what had happened to you? Why were you so flushed earlier?” I inquired.

“I climb this tree often. I actually do this whenever there is nice weather. Sometimes, I feel the footsteps of someone, whom I want to catch. I rush down to the ground hoping not to miss the encounter. But always, I miss the person. Now, that spirit is standing before me.”

Once more, I was embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say. We both kept silent for a while. Then, I heard my daughter calling: “Dad, it’s time.”

She was the one predicted by my solitude-mate.

“Forgive me for disturbing your conversation,” she added.

“A conversation by presence cannot be disturbed by words,” replied my friend. We all chuckled.

I felt my daughter pulling my arm – an authoritative sign meaning “let’s go.” I grasped her hand firmly, turned back to my solitude-mate, and gave a goodbye silence, and he did the same to me. Then I gave him that lively smile, and he went through that shower of heat. I picked up my cane and started knocking on his ears again as I returned home with my daughter as my guide.

The dark breathing its last, lights panting for air.

Fog and smoke dissipate in my vision

There! New spring with its emerald hair.

Like a conquering army, a generation marches forward

The walls of the fortress bent down in awe

Earth and heaven smile at my bliss

To the arch of victory, the paths lead

When all these dreams come true, one by one

Invigorated is the friend’s heart while petrified is the foe’s.

Instead, she fumed: “Marrying a Turk! Bah! Unacceptable! A girl as clever and educated as you! What a shame!”

My tears swelled around my eyes and my hands holding the lokum package began to tremble.

“You are going to be beaten three times a day,” she continued forcefully, like a fortune teller. “Like a donkey!” she finished, culminating in irritation.

Her words, as you may guess, saddened me beyond description. Coming from a well-meaning, educated and gray haired person, her comments were hard to disregard.

She knew nothing of Ali, my fiancé, other than the fact that he was Turkish. Yet, this very little information had sent her into a fit that materialized into unleashed accusations as if she had decoded his DNA fingerprints: “Caution! Prospective Violent Husband!”

I left the box of lokum on her desk with the flickering hope that she would change her mind, take one and wish me happiness. I walked out of her office and wiped away my tears, which were now flowing down my cheeks unconstrained.

Since the first day that I broke the news to my family that a Turk had asked for my hand in marriage-as you may know, sensational news travel with the speed of light-I had to bravely face comments coming from all directions.

“Why marry a Turk? Is there a shortage of Albanian bachelors?” mocked my father.

“How will we communicate with him?” worried Mom. “We don’t speak Turkish. He doesn’t speak Albanian.”

My eldest sister wanted to see his picture before saying anything about the matter. As soon as I showed her one, she cried with relief: “Thank God, he doesn’t have a mustache!”

My second older sister, looking at the same photo commented: “He doesn’t look Turkish. Look at his green eyes and his light skin. Are you sure about his origin?” she teased.

My 80 year old grandmother wasn’t interested much in his good looks. “You have my consent” she said “only on condition that he will not force you to wear a headscarf over your hair.” My sisters very quickly assured her on my behalf that the future groom seemed a modern person and would never do such a “backward” thing.

My uncle complained that since the groom did not drink alcohol he wouldn’t be able to join his toasts at the table.

Obviously, our neighbors, who had witnessed me grow from a wailing baby to a well-mannered college student had something to say about this unusual betrothal. I overheard our next-door neighbor whisper to my mom: “The Turks are conquering us again, but this time …” she paused, nodding in my direction as I passed by, and continued “… from inside.”

My classmates gave me the thumbs up for finding a smart man-apparently his Ph. D. studies in physics in the U.S. proved that beyond a doubt.

“You are lucky!” one of the girls commented. “Life in America is worth anything.” She acted like I would still get a pat on the shoulder, even if I was to marry a drug dealer as long as I landed on the other side of the Atlantic.

My roommate made the most mischievous comment: “Our national hero Skanderbeg” she said, “is turning in his grave upon hearing that one of his compatriots is marrying a descendant of the Turks he fought against for more than two decades.”

She laughed hard when she saw that her words had distressed me. “Don’t worry,” she changed her tone. “Nowadays everybody is marrying anyone; Italian, German, Spaniard, Greek, you name it. The only thing that matters is love, isn’t it?”

I could come to terms with all these opinions, except my professor’s reaction, which was very hard to swallow. Why had she been so negative about the very idea? If my future unhappiness was so obvious, how come my family, the people who cared about me most, had never given me the slightest hint?

Was my professor simply envious? Could it be sheer ignorance? How could that be? She was a highly educated person. I knew she was Orthodox Christian. Could it be that she simply disliked Turks because they are Muslims?

A feeling of shame overtook me as soon as I realized that this line of thinking might lead me to commit her very mistake. It dawned on me that prejudice, as ugly as it is, could be sneaky as well, creeping into your conscience with no warning. Was it possible to be totally free from it?

I felt angry at my weakness. Why hadn’t I been brave enough to sit down and have a conversation with Professor Lydia? If I had talked to her, then at least I would have learned her motives.

“Don’t be silly!” My roommate commented when I shared my concerns with her. “Hers is just a stereotype! The Turks ruled Albania for five centuries and she doesn’t want to forget it! Why do you even bother to think about it?”

Could that be the reason? Or was it just another consoling prejudice? I wondered.

True, history had been taught as the Communists saw fit and the Turks had been given the worst share of the blame, a vivid description which materialized in one ominous, infamous sentence: “Where a Turk has stepped, the grass never grows back.” However, this phrase is defied not only by the country’s green pastures, but also by the school buildings, water fountains, bridges, hospitals, and clock towers built by the Ottomans that are still standing as silent witnesses; nonetheless, this terrifying description has been engraved in the minds of my Professor’s generation. It had never crossed my mind that history would be involved in my marriage.

The absurdity of it put a smile on my face; this didn’t escape my roommate’s curious eye. “See? All this silliness for nothing. You will probably laugh when you think about it ten years from now.”

And, right she was. Ten years later, I smile as I remember in retrospect all the fuss about my marriage. My family forgot all their worries and demands, pleased by Ali’s genuine respect and accented Albanian. He called my parents mami and babi-something my sisters’ husbands never did-and he became their favorite son-in-law. My uncle didn’t mind him toasting with a glass of coke either.

Everyone is happy, I, most of all. In my husband’s eye the measure of a man is the way he treats his wife, as suggested in the prophetic tradition: “The best among you is he who treats his wife the best.”

I have read somewhere that one simple way to know if someone is a good spouse is to look how the household greets that person when he/she comes home. Do they smile when they see him/her? Are they happy that they are back?

In the evening, as I witness our four children jump for joy and chant their happiness “Baba is here, baba is here” the moment they see their father’s car enter the driveway, my heart swells with love. My husband beams with happiness at this daily celebration and I am seized by a desire to travel all the way over the Atlantic, find my professor and have that delayed conversation I had no courage to have earlier. I owe this to the wonderful man I call my husband.

Mirkena Ozer had her major in Turkish language and literature. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia.

It was interesting to understand in time that animals, plants and children were never made of paper and adults started wearing costumes and masks of papier-mâché only when they wanted to be something they were incapable of, and when they knowingly tried to convince others of their worth or unknowingly believed in their genuine worth. Tearing up this last group of people was the most amusing part of my task, since till the very last second they would think that they were, in fact, real. That day, as I entered the conference room a man in his fifties was talking about a subject that had been attacked by many others before. He talked in a soft voice that had a sort of compassionate timbre and an overwhelming modesty to it. When asked a question, he would turn to the questioner with his whole body and answer all points one by one, without faltering. He saw me enter the room, but he didn’t avoid my eyes and welcomed me with a smile, contrary to all previous speakers –real or paper- since I became famous. I listened patiently to the very end and observed his movements.

Finally I stood up. Feeling the pride of my colleagues’ looks, I walked and stopped right in front of the speaker. He was surprised. As I lifted my arm to touch his shoulder he took a step back, and he waved his head as if saying no and smiled at me with the most kindhearted eyes I have ever seen. I returned his smile with malicious disdain and I pressed on to grab his shoulder. As I touched his arm, I felt that it was harder than most paper people, which gave me more joy knowing that I caught a very good impostor. Then, I felt a cold in my palm and saw that my fingers were falling to the floor. The speaker, as if expecting this, held my arm and made me crouch with him, being very careful to hide all this from the audience, picked the broken clay pieces off the floor and put them in my hand. He once again looked at me with the most kindhearted eyes.