Orbits of Experience, Eid al-Adha Diary

30 June 2026, by Maha.

I made a promise to myself this holiday: to try something new. And so I chose to go to Cosefan — that place where my soul remembers how to breathe — and there, I would try my hand at painting. I am no painter, just as I am no singer, yet I believe deeply in every soul's right to attempt; what labels come after the attempting are of no concern to me now. It was through this very spirit that I once discovered my love of writing — I remember how, as a child, I wedged myself into the women's gathering for months on end, searching for the gift hidden somewhere inside me. I told myself then: "we will try everything within our reach, until we find the thing that makes us forget time altogether." Writing rose to the surface first. But today, I have no quarrel with bringing "Maha the Painter" into the light.

On the road there, as always, we crossed mountains and rolling hills to arrive — I had grown so far from that place — yet "Majda" rode alongside me, singing "Be My Friend." And in a scene that played itself out for the second time, beneath a blazing sun and a road shimmering with heat, just as she cried out: "Why do you notice my face and miss my mind entirely?" — a flock of doves lifted and swept across the air before me, breathtaking in their grace, as though they had taken a stand upon hearing her. I was struck with joy at the sight, as if it had all been arranged in secret. Surely they had felt the vibrations of her voice, that voice which passes through the body like light through silk, carrying a question I too had once asked of the world.

I arrived at Cosefan and greeted Fahad at the counter, asking him before anything else for his famous hibiscus brew. I was nearly alone in the space, and so I did not shy away from venturing into the experience before the eyes of the world. I purchased my ticket, signed my oath of allegiance, and sat before a white canvas. The first thought that came to me was to fill it with blue — I was thinking of two blues who had once met and pretended not to know each other: the sky and the sea. Then there floated into my mind a question I had read the day before: "If grey chose to return to its origin, would it return to white — or to black?" I believe it would return to blue. I began to paint my ten figures, the white and the black; the white soils easily, shifting its color with the world around it — sometimes turning blue, sometimes surrendering to grey beneath the weight of the black. Then the eyes came to me: the eyes of others, heavy with their judgments, watching every attempt and every stumble; and the eyes of the self — that ever-watchful, ever-relentless inner judge.

I believe I painted something meaningful, something good. And as we have said: it is stories that make meaning. Perhaps I will sell it at a contemporary art exhibition one day — after all, the famous "Banana and Tape" is no more deserving of its place than I am.

The Maghrib call rang through the trees, and I went to pray among them, turning over in my mind an idea they had pressed upon me for years. Whenever I asked, "Why do we not plant our places with trees?" they would answer, "The climate is against us." And yet the climate in Cosefan had not been against it. If every soul carried a responsibility like this toward the earth, Riyadh herself might be transformed into a cool and verdant garden, all shade and sweetness. Palestine was present everywhere — I had read that there is no room for the neutral here, and how I love to find myself in spaces that take a position, that stand for something; places that feel as though they were made for the living. I watched the workers speaking freely among themselves, at ease — a sight seldom seen in the temples of capital — and for a moment I envied them their work, carried out in so bright and gentle a place.

I prayed. Then I took the small plant gifted with every artwork made here. I passed through the restrooms and was moved by the thoughtfulness I found there — sanitary pads, left for whoever might need them. I recalled a time I had done something similar at my workplace, placing pads in the women's restroom, only to be scolded by the very women it was meant for, told I had no shame — and the restroom was theirs alone, and the pads were for them alone. And so here, I felt no strangeness. Here, I felt I belonged.

I left light — light in spirit, light in step — grateful to that place for being what it is: a refuge, a sanctuary, a home my soul has learned to trust. In one hand I carried a canvas that tells the story of my private wars. In the other, a new responsibility: a small living thing I must tend and protect, so that together we may resist the world. A plant that will grow alongside me, just as I grow with every new thing I dare to try.