At one month old, your greatest dream was to roll on the floor. A single step was glory enough — you walked, and the world rejoiced. They clapped, smiled, even called their relatives to say: “He took his first step!”
Your sleep was a miracle. When you dozed off, everyone whispered: shhh... lower your voices... he’s asleep.
Then one morning they dressed you up, said it was time for school — and left you there, inside walls too tall, with monsters disguised as children.
You were terrified. A boy spat in your face, took your breakfast, and cursed you for no reason. You cried, and everyone laughed. No one helped. Welcome to life — please, come in.
In first grade, their love became conditional. You had to read strange symbols they called letters. If you couldn’t, they’d hit you. They told you to spell what cannot be spelled, to read words that tasted like dust.
They told you this is “apple.” But you knew apples had scent, color, juice, sweetness — and this was none of that.
I can still hear you screaming at the man they called “teacher”: The apple is in the fridge — not this!
And everyone called you a liar — even the stick that struck you said so. The school, the home, the silence — all agreed: This is the apple now. Lines on a page. We have changed it.
So you learned to punish yourself, to finish your sick homework every night. You memorized verses by a man named Ibn al-Mulawwah* — as if love could live in repetition. Would Ibn al-Mulawwah ever learn to use a computer? Damn it.
You passed first grade, and they smiled for a few days — then frowned again: You’re in second grade now.
And the ritual continued: daily homework, monthly exams, semester tests. Twelve long years of chasing approval. Would you ever be enough?
They told you life would finally smile after twelve years — after high school. You counted the days, waiting for the relief of being “enough.”
But when graduation came, they frowned again: If the university rejects you, you have failed us all. Stay home, and you are cursed till death. Go to university, but choose the wrong major — and the entire nation, that holy imitation of Germany, will condemn you.
Fail an exam — you’ve failed life. Fall behind — you are unworthy. Here, no one fails. They just disappear.
Finish your degree — and still they frown. You’re jobless? Shame. You’re working? Your boss is angry, because that’s what bosses do.
Arrive early, work perfectly, and he’ll still hate you for reasons that don’t exist.
If you’re a woman, they’ll marry you off to be “approved.” They’ll be pleased for a few weeks — then your husband will grow heavy with disappointment, because you’re not the dream woman he once saw on TV. He’ll glare at you with the face of a man who thinks he is flawless.
If you’re a man, they’ll ask: When will you marry? You think they’ll be satisfied then? No. They’ll wait for the baby. If you can’t have one, they’ll rage — how dare you end the noble bloodline of Ibn Sina and Al-Khwarizmi?
Have a child, and they’ll smile for a year. Then they’ll demand another. And another. Until your body gives up, and they find a new reason to be angry.
Finish your studies — they’ll say you’ve gone too far. Don’t study — you’re ignorant. Learn just enough — you’re stagnant.
Become a merchant — they’ll ask, how much is enough? A million? A billion? More?
Become a scholar — they’ll sneer: How much knowledge till you rest?
O child of Adam, isn’t it time to return to your first day on Earth? When a sip of water and a clumsy roll on the floor filled you with joy, and everyone clapped?
Go ahead, roll again now, in front of the same people. Ask them to cheer. Scream at them: Why is the somersault no longer sacred? Why must I always do more? Why?
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
*Ibn al-Mulawwah: Qays ibn al-Moullawwah was a 7th-century Arabian poet from Arabia.
Painting (2025), Hussain Ibn Ahmed Medium: Acrylic on canvas Size: 9.25 in × 11.61 in
