One Year with Kinder ~

I write these words after a surprising discovery: I don't know how to deal with Loss .. 
I keep thinking about the healthiest way to grieve, is it crying about it, distracting myself from it ? I found myself writing about it, I can't think of any other way ..

Some of the few people who may read this, might think that I'm a drama queen who cries over the loss of an insignificant pet. However, the loss of a pet is no less important than the loss of a human being, sometimes even harder .. 

As you go out into the world, you meet people by obligation, you deal with them with logic and diplomacy .. But you live with a pet by choice, you do it with your heart, it becomes a part of your day .. Everything you do is spontaneous, uncalculated, even childish and no one can judge you. 

You grieve a pet not only because you miss it, but also because it teaches unexpected lessons and fills your heart with unmeasured warmth ..

At the beginning, I fell in love with Kinder because he is unbelievably cute and fluffy, a chubby little guy with character .. I feed him every day as any pet owner would do, but as days went by, I discover that he was feeding my inner power .. 

When you come to love a pet, the selfish part of you weakens, without you noticing .. When your pet is sick or hungry, the warmth of your bed doesn't matter anymore .. You actually move your lazy arse to check on him and you do it happily and lovingly, you actually sacrifice your comfort for the well-being of another creature. 

As he crawls under the sheets, he occupies the center of the bed and you don't mind sleeping stuck to the wall .. He unwillingly brings out motherly instincts as they are nocturnal animals, they voice their every need at night and you're happy to respond. You forget you're tired as soon as he jumps on your lap, purrs softly and rubs his wet nose against your cheek ..

Your clothes are full of cat hair, you clean twice as much, you shop for salami and fish around the clock, but you don't complain because you love them unconditionally, as I loved my Kinder and will always remember him . ♡

Nature is an Arrogant Lady ~

Nature is an arrogant lady
She wouldn't let your eyes penetrate her beauty unless you stop and stare
Humans usually behold Nature while engrossed in another activity, never really devoting all senses to study her in her full blossom 

We throw glances from the window of a train, through the pauses of a book, along chattering promenades, during a family picnic on a spring day ... 

These short, unintentional, absent-minded looks do not satisfy a lady.
If you unplug from all beings and all matters, she will allow you to savor its splendor ..

You won't be able to see the clouds traveling through the sky, the stream of a river pouring furtively and purposefully into oceans beyond the horizon, or flowers swaying in the breeze unless you halt all motion and thinking and just stare ..

Like a lady making her entrance into a ballroom , all ceases to speak, all eyes shift to one being, one scene .
Nature is a proud lady emerging through the fascinated crowds, braggingly making her way among the captivated silence ..

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Time is The Image of a Heartbeat ~

     Time is not linear. Time is the image of a human heartbeat. Human hopes spark at random points during its course. It usually runs silent and tedious, even lazy on a Monday. Then, by a Friday, it climaxes with excitement over the promising possibilities of an eventful weekend. 

Time is the image of a heartbeat because it portrays how the idea of New Beginnings gives humans unexpected and unfathomable readiness to aspire for high achievements, collective ecsatic doses of energy that remain virtual, and for many, delusional. 

New Beginnings remain, for manyof us, just beginnings. Everything is exalted at a random moment in Time, then, it all quickly subsides .. just like the image of a heartbeat. 

January 1st, many of us start hitting the gym, announcing impossible book challenges, celebrating a new version of their selves. However, reinventing their selves is a process that requires constistency and perseverance. 

We cannot expect the inevitable continuum of Time to bring us instant magic .. Time is a tool, we are the operators. We can start up the engine and swiftly loosen our grip, or we can launch it with the intention, will and plan to carry it on with unfaded energies till we reach what's most dear to us. 

Happy New Year ♡

[ 20 days into the new year, I hope you're persisting, dreaming, creating little personal wonders each day .. ]

 

Chopin’s Tristesse is « Everything »

There is a song that shakes your limbs from sleep, a song that wakes up the drummer in you, a song that plays a rusty childhood tape and flashes it before your eyes, a song that makes you aware of your pain ..A song that happens without our consent and makes us relive, feel, understand and move on .. And then, there’s this song, or piece, a wordless piece that tickles your ears and settles there, with no apparent reason.

I have always been an ardent lover of Bach, but I have always had an unspoken weakness for Chopin. The moment I discovered his “Tristesse”, I fell in love with its poignant simplicity, so I had to learn to play it on the violin. A while later, I found myself humming it as a lullaby to my agitated little cousin. I never understood why it got to me, you never do with classical music ..

One day, as I traveled so many a time, I was gazing into the boundless greenness of God’s earth, it resurfaced before my mind’s eye. “Tristesse”, a name so unfair for a piece so telling ..

It starts with long notes slowly played, beautifully extended. Between the notes, you feel serenity, by the edge of a note, you sense calmness, and as silence starts clouding the last note, you feel nostalgia .. almost instantly. 

It begins with subtle yet powerful tone, lazy notes furtively escalating their way to a heart-wrenching climax, like a chest heaving a deep breath, ready to say something, but doesn't ...

At first, one is eased into a beguiling state of rest, gentle soothing notes conciliate the listener and take him by storm in a matter of seconds. However, the storm quickly subsides into calmness again. 

This circle-like pattern of the piece is reminiscent of life's most precious and devastating moments. Every soul born in this earth rejoices a state of eventless carelessness, then adulthood sweeps the human being off that fluffy carpet and thrusts him in the throas of life. Eventually, it grants him that initial calmness, a calmness no more carefree ..Wise, perhaps wounded, possibly lonely ...

In Death too, we perceive that inescapable cycle .. Before exhaling the last breath, an old soul lives a phase of peace, of sweet nostalgia, of slowly-weaved words of wisdom. Then, heart beats accelerate, the chest lifts itself wih quick desperate half-breaths to reach a scary non-human spot, only to be subdued into stillness again, Death.

Even in Love, the same cycle repeats itself. It starts with a shy phase of attempts to understand and penetrate the other Significant soul. A slow episode marked by hesitation and carefully-studied little steps. Soon after, the couple is taken into a whirlwind of romantic feelings and sweet excitement. Familiarity, by the end, leads the pair to solid ground again, to tranquility.

Everytime, the cycle comes to end, but the feeling of it does not, it leaves something behind .. Like the end of a last note, like in "Tristesse" .. The note stops existing, but the following note amplifies it as it amplifies and valorises itself .. With "Tristesse", we learn that there is no real end. The end never ends .. It leaves a trail of accumulated knowledges, memories that makes it everlasting ..

Love is a Classical Symphony ~

  Music is a lot like Love. This may seem like a pretty cheesy statement, perhaps because most of people would assume beauty like a common ground. It is, but it's not the sole denominator ..
In the midst of one of my day-dreaming compulsory sessions that populate my weekly travels, I get a lot of random ideas, some are frivolous, others are somewhat legitimate .. 
Anyway, I think I was listening to some Mendelssohn when, out of nowhere, this idea popped into my head; Music, specifically a Classical symphony is a lot like Love ..in its rhythms, variations and alternations .. 

When in love, at the very start, everything happens inexplicably quickly .. That spark, that rush, emotions building up at the pit of the stomach, racing up towards the heart in a pace unknown to Man .. Those emotions that get pounded and infused inside the veins running inside those vital tubes and reaching finger-tips.. That initial spark works its magic and human being here asks: "When did this happen to me ?" 
It happens so swiftly, as swift as the first movement of a Classical symphony: Allegro. 
Hearts pounding, limbs shivering, mild fever going up and down the body, operating in a beautiful synchronism with the crazy fast tempo of an Allegro movement .. Musicians sweating over quick and continuous sounds like two lovers overwhelmed by the excited, once regular beats of their own hearts. 

The second movement of a Classical symphony is an Adagio. 
After that sweet wave of new feelings, after that fast and melodious cardiac dance, lovers begin to slowly settle in .. 
This stage is marked by beautiful familiarity, hearts start to ease each other into one another, they start to confide and word their insides in an utmost serenity .. hands gliding into one another, warmth slowly forming in their midst, two beings savoring the beauty of the moment, wishing to expand the life of it, wishing to stretch seconds into an eternity 
.. Like the spell of a heart-warming Adagio, the two previously-new lovers, unknowingly engage in a internal slow dance, and the heart whispers:"I know you now, and I don't want this to end.."

And if we "don't want this to end", the human heart unawaringly, starts to feast on each love-episode. A lover hopes that seconds multiply amid the romantic maze, that excitement lingers .. A lover, like a Scherzo movement, lives, feels and celebrates Love. Music inhabits the soul and ushers it to evolve .. touched by music, smeared by music, it progresses through music to reach Music .. It becomes the journey and the destination; to feel something, to reach it, and to still want to persue it, that is the ultimate celebration of Love .. 
Two lovers, extending a Scherzo dance, rejoicing in rhythmic living, wallowing in musical celebratory beats that know no end .. 

The last movement of a Classical symphony is an Allegro again. There is a return to the beginning, a new sort of beginning .. It's no longer that quick-paced rush of new feelings, it's the odd and sad impression that days burn out ever so swiftly ..that the longevity of shared moments is never enough, even if we celebrate each day, savor each sunset, feast on every rosy afternoon, get drunk on each blue moon, or honey-colored sunrise, we can't help but feel the brevity of days in the company of loved ones, days that go by in Allegro just like the last movement of a Classical symphony .. 
What remains is the pile of memories that we create, mental images that extend the lives of past days with a power that defeats the Allegro patterns that govern our earthly stay ..

Existential Ruminations ~

A frustrated middle-aged youth
A disgusted new-born adult
A young lady with little disperesed grey hairs
Coming out of her scarf
Shadows of wrinkles upon her forehead
Half smiling to the awkward being before her.
A still figure behind the dusty spots on her mirror
Her eyes staring back at her
Her eyelashes foggy under her heavy monotonous breathing
She clutches her heart with a sweaty palm
She tilts her head mocking that strange reflection
Ever so strange !
Do I know you ?
Yes !
I'm 5 years old
I'm a chubby little girl
Running with my boyish hair
With my tiny sticky thighs
My hands smeared with candy and cheap chocolate
Biting lollipops with my crooked teeth
I was happy
I didn't know Regret.

I'm 8 years old
I'm a left-handed little rebel
Designing dresses for my headless barbies
Drawing shapeless forms in my coloring book
Writing nonsensical animal short stories
Proud of my sweet nothings
I didn't know Reward.

I'm 11 years old
I'm a nasty mischievous pre-adolescent
Petting stray "Arab" bony dogs
Throwing grapes on evil neighbors
Sheltering dirty kittens in a small box
Sharing my Aid meat with my dog

I didn't know Unkindness
I didn't know Indifference
I didn't heed consequences
I didn't care for "accepted" girly behavior
Pretty little girls didn't like me
The rough girl with an attitude
The pet hoarder
The still-chubby kid with a weird sense of fashion
Book-sniffing in a distant corner
I didn't know Conformity

I'm 17 years old
Eyes shining behind twisted glasses
Wearing over-sized T-shirts
Dancing to senseless Bollywood songs
Fascinated by stupid rom-coms
Roses and rainbows and never-ending loves
I didn't know masked affections
and loveless "I love you's"

I'm 20 years old
I'm an odd lady in the making
With angry black curls
Humming classical music tunes
Noone hums them with me
Cause they're old and uncool
Just wordless music and me ..
I did know Art
That Art is free
And so is me.

I'm 25 years old
Sleep-walking through adulthood
Thrust into these repeated patterns of existence
Bumpy journeys into sameness, unpaid bills,
Scattered papers on a rusty desk
Adulthood is marked by papers ..
By reluctant compromises
By scary normality

The little carefree self is entrapped
The wicked rebel is tamed
The adult wins the battle of souls
Walking drowsily down a common path
Drooling over trivialities
Treading on his sweet peculiarities
And his secret dear-diary, unrecognized
Most intimate passions ..

The Influence of Anxiety ~

Writers are continuously seized by a throbbing urge to write; weather abruptly by a sudden touch of inspiration, or deliberately upon an important event in their lives, or .. upon an aching unfathomable feeling that needs to be worded. Perchance it is love or sadness .. or both. Writers can relate to these fits of the heart.

However, this inward tumult does not always result in writing as it is expected.  The past cripples their drives and harness their artistic flow. It is a concept called “The Anxiety of Influence”; the fear that everything we write or experience has been written and experienced before, and this fear takes over a writer’s soul and filter his\her ideas.

In my writing experience, insignificant as it is, I recall many times when I felt stifled in front of my computer at night; was this idea mentioned before ? Is this image illustration trivial or mainstream ? Are these lines ridiculously worn out ?

The Anxiety of Influence feeds on these internal wonderings and the idea that past literary glories are present failures if repeated.

I came to realize, however, that there is no such thing as repetition in literature or any form of Art for that matter.

Writing is the fruit of intimate feelings, of personal ponderings .. And because words can never wholly describe what we experience as human beings, ideas and images can never be reiterated. Texts may hold some resemblance to each other, but the feelings that culminated in their production are so wonderfully and subtly different.

It is what I like to call the Influence of Anxiety. The soul of any writer creates and annihilates, chases an evanescent idea, struggles to depict an eerie landscape, a scent, the touch of a hand, the taste of a kiss, the eyes of a stranger … The head  is a battlefield of words, disordered ideas and piled-up images .. The heart speaks conflicting emotions and inexplicable perplexities. His entire being agonizes to produce “The truest sentence” of it all.

What I want to say is that the journey that any writer goes through to give birth to his text is what makes it eternally unique. The palpitations of his heart, his uncertainties, his frustration, his constant un-creation of words are what renders very original and very specific to its creator.

The text, like Love, is a feeling .. Perhaps the most sincere feeling ever so nakedly and fearlessly exposed .. And like all feelings, we try to capture it albeit we know that it’s uncatchable. We think that we are able to see similarities between texts, but our eyes deceive us so …  a metaphor can recall another, an image can summon its root in other writings, that is true .. 

However the experience of the pre-word, the struggle of the pre-idea, the musings of the pre-image can never be repeated, translated or truly detected.

That is the reason why I believe that each text is enigmatically singular .. Diverse and particular like Human feelings, like Human loves ..

To partially employ F.Scott Fitzgerald’s words:” There are all kinds of “texts” in this world, but never the same “text” twice ..”    

The Other Side of Love ~

She was that girl on the other side of Love

Her radical heart falls for destructiveness

She rushed like a little girl into rosary illusions

With an eager pace, with that thirsty half smile

Enchanted by half-cares, by glossy small talks

By pseudo-promises, and fickle attachments

So unloved, yet she loves so …

Her heart-breaks became redundant rituals

Of self-deceptions and phony intimacies

She was the girl on the other side of Love

 Hopeful in her numbness ..

Dreamy despite her thwarted fantasies  

Her heart-failures …

A Tale through - The Symphony Within ~

                                               Ode To My Violin

(Photo Credit: Hamza Butt)

They say that the violin is the most human of all instruments ...  Wordless it is, but it can reach the deepest realms of the human inner landscape …It can also portray the human being’s journey through a wilderness, through Life itself …

When we first touch a violin, we are stepping into an enigmatic wilderness where anything and everything is expected … Our attempt to locate an eery note on a black fretless fingerboard is similar to our continuous attempts to locate ourselves in a dark and mysterious wilderness …

 It almost appears like our consistant trials to find ourselves in life and discover our special spot on the universe.

The note escapes us at first, just like our vision becomes blurry at some point in life. Approaching a violin is approaching Life …

When we make those scratchy sounds, those painful first mistakes, we are experiencing our first wounds in a wilderness, our first slurs, unfortunate falls and mosquito bites … We lose our way, we stumble and we fall into a pit, perhaps like mistakenly touching a lower string …

All these mishaps seem to be a lot like our failures, disappointments, wrong turns, plot twists and clumsy decisions in our existence on earth …

We humans often make bad decisions because Life presents us with choices, challenges and possibilities that leave our minds in wonder and hesitation; Just like when we are lost amid a hostile forest and we need to choose a direction that might lead us to the safe shore …

Its roads are dim, hidden and ominous. Its bushes are dense and scary, its awe-inspiring trees are impregnated with danger.

 These roads are reminiscent of the multiple paths of Life … And this image calls to our minds the four long strings that constitute a violin.

Each string encapsulates a number of notes and these notes are translated into unique and distinct sounds … We get grave and deep sounds if we choose an upper string and softly lyrical sounds if we choose one of the lower strings.

The melodies we produce are the outcome of our choices in Life, of that particular road in the wildness … They can be beautiful, rich and heart-warming or cold, vacant and mechanical … The musical shades that color our days …

However, this wilderness does not remain forever hostile … A rigid earth needs constant care, it requires daily efforts to blossom, it needs to be sowed with love in order to reap beauty and harmony …

This is how we proceed in Life, it gets more familiar, gentler and clearer as we carry on our existence, we begin to understand it, to undress it and to embrace it. Isn’t this how we build a precious bond with the violin ?

The farther we go upon those strings, the more comfortable we get in our skin touching that wooden piece of magic … We acquire deeper knowledge and we sink into intimacy with our instrument …

As we gain more wisdom advancing in Life, we become almost one with the violin when getting closer to the bridge, our final stop …

And that good old wilderness is not that wild anymore; it is soothing, therapeutic, loving and abundant. 

This humble piece of writing was inspired by Hamza Butt, a dear fellow Pakistani violinist. 

In-betweenness ~

She is a girl in her early twenties

 The roaring twenties

But they want to tame her

They say “You are a big girl, act like it”

Thing is “She’s not a girl, neither a woman”

Funny how a Britney Spears old song crossed her mind that day

It wasn’t a dying thought; it was Illumination coming her way …

She paused for a moment, trying to frame what suddenly hit her

It wasn’t an afterthought, a vision, a random image or a déjà-vu

It was a new conviction, a strong belief that seized her entire being

Her eyes probed the blank space

Her body muscles loosened

She sat on the edge of her bed

Carelessly playing with the strings of her violin

Repeating to the empty room: “I’m not a girl, neither a woman”

As if she’s trying to compose an ode to celebrate her liminal self

Her “Liminal Self” .. 

They taught her that liminality is a miserable state of being

That inbetweenness is a lost soul, a faceless body,

A heart that wants to belong somewhere …

Thing is, she didn’t want to belong anywhere

She is in-between , she is unlabeled, she is free

She’s not a girl, neither a woman

She’s this and she’s that

She’s both and she’s not ..

She wants to sing with her scratchy voice

And play with her hair

She wants to sleep with her mouth opened

And her hands spread on the pillow like an angel

She once believed in that, she wants to believe again

She wants to wear unmatching socks and giggle with her friends

She wants to dance barefoot to her favorite song

And hide under a tent made of tiny pillows

She wants to make random decisions while she still can

“She’s not a girl, neither a woman”

She’s a light essence, strange yet familiar

Innocent and wise, clumsy and classy

A little girl in high heels 

A rebel with a black hair and bitten nails

A shy girl with granny glasses

A smartypants kid making faces to strangers

She’s this and that

She’s all and she’s nothing ..

She keeps revolutionary books

She wakes at dawn to write poetry

She plans her week on sticky notes

She bites her lips when she gets an idea

She keeps a teddy bear when studies

She’s almost a woman with the heart of a child

She’s this and that

She’s all and she’s nothing

“She not a girl, neither a woman”

She holds fierce thoughts

But she quickly blushes

She gasps when she cries

Her lips quiver when she lies

She lifts her head up into the air when she laughs

She grins when she wins an argument

She’s a so called “young woman”

 But her younger self refuses to leave 

She’s this and that

She’s all and she’s nothing

"She’s not a girl, neither a woman” ..

In limbo, she wallows in carelessness

She rejoices in her inbetweenness

She’s uncategorized…

“To define is to limit”, her Oscar Wilde whispers in her ear

She is limitless, fearless, unbridled, unbounded

She can go on a random road trip with her retarded friends

She can stay up all night re-watching her favorite show

She can have breakfast at lunch, take a nap into the evening

 Go for a run at night, do laundry while dancing to music of her neighbors’ party

She can discover the guide-less corners of her country

She can give free hugs in the street to make a point

She can learn a new language, pick up a new instrument

 Dream a new dream, set new goals ..

She’s undecidable, irreconcilable, uncertain, uncontrollable

 She’s happy because she’s unclassified

She’s strong because she’s undefined

She’s Invincible because she’s self-sufficient

She is not bound to state or a person

She responds to her impulse  

She follows her heart

She acts upon her nature ..

She’s unthinkable, unpredictable, undefiable , unstoppable

She wants to age is no regrets

“Now is good”, now is the only possibility

She cherishes her liminality

Because liminality is not a loss 

 Alienation or estrangement

Liminality is a soul found,

 Innocence celebrated, memories made …

In that old negation, she has found her elation

“She’s not a girl, neither a woman” ...

She Is Made Of Music ~

She slipped from under the warm pile of her bed sheets, for once she was reluctant to  wallow in her daily ritual of lazy and empty mornings. The wooden floor was cold under her feet, but she did not walk on her toes as was her ordinary girly habit. She marched steadily with a shadow of a smile almost touching her cheeks. She had a confident air that day, her eyes wore the color of morning and her skin wore the color of summer. Her brown hair embraced the breezy light as she stepped into her small balcony. It smelled of bitter coffee and old books. She remembered the night before, expectation kept her awake till the aurora light started to beam.

 Her eyes examined the street before her as if watching a surreal painting. The city seems tired and  drowsy, slowly ushered towards its daily demise. It will rise again, but the idea was not exciting. Every morning, it witnesses a battle of souls; the safety to remain in one’s shell,  or the risk of toiling to no avail. Routine, like a subtle monster, gently coaxing the moving bodies to settle in their cubicles to make money and produce a standardized brand of happiness.
  

Her young soul acquired the habit of reflecting upon these old-new miseries. She had an eye For the underlying pains of commonality. However, this time, her whole being was directed towards the promise of a sunny afternoon, of a new love, of holding hands without fear of letting go.

She was made of disappointments, but molded to dream again after every fall. She was familiar with the act of crumbling to the floor; it took stages and phases foreign to medical explanations. The naked eye only beholds weary muscles and bent figures. It is the labor of the spirit. Healing makes the spirit ancient.

 First, she becomes numb; she sits on her bed for hours, her head resting on her bent knees, her eyes staring at nothing .. then she suddenly closes in focus as if listening to a soothing lullaby stemming from earth .. she tries to word her pain into some fragmented lines on a rugged paper, but letters soon desert her .. It is not easy to capture a feeling, depiction is betrayal, her hand loosens the pen .. There is a peculiar symphony of sadness that only the miserable can hear, notes so furtively played at the back of her mind, she can see their harmony with her mind’s eye, she can feel  their relevance with her resigned pulse .. At last, she crawls into herself and listens to the symphony that cries her being .. She survived.

Now is Good ~

« New year .. New me » is a phrase I come across every day on the internet, when the year starts crawling to its end ; People annually indulge in false optimism and publically manifest their will to improve themselves .. just as soon as the new year begins, not now. “Now” is not “good” like the movie suggests, now is messy , now is wicked, now is their minds in too late.

Inactivity is a very active state of mind, a decision that we live with every day, it lives through us, out of us , and thrives at our expense. Do we really want this ? No, we rather exhaust ourselves with loathsome obligations than go ahead and do something that makes our hearts pound, and our souls flourish and sing.

 What about our ambitions and aspirations ? No, we are a preoccupied race, we are busier than bees; we have duties, fully-scheduled weeks, pre-designed lives that suck the life out of us. We rather wake up “bright and early for [our] daily races, going nowhere ..” as go the lyrics of the song “Mad World”.

We are mad not to live now, “live immediately” like Seneca advises. But no, We leave the things that we love till after exams, after graduation, after marriage .. till time becomes untimely and our dreams undone ..

“Now is Good”, do not wait for the next year to create the new you. Now, be brave and say that long-awaited I love you, that reluctant I am sorry .. burst out, without thinking, and I say the things that have long been heaping upon your chest ..

Start that diet already ! .. Finish that wickedly inaccessible book .. Write that beautifully abstract short story that was long spinning melodiously in your head .. Make that damn delicious looking cake you saw on the internet with the secret ingredient .. Think of ways to concretize that dream project of yours for dreams do not exist in notebooks .. Start practicing your passion on a daily basis, you’re never too old to learn a new language or pick up a new instrument or embark on a new dream  ..  

The new You is up to you to make .. Time does not make you, it just pours down quietly like a stream, in one direction , you mould it to your liking .. You choose to live or just exist .. Now is Good ..              

AIESEC Tunisia _ Get Ready 2014 ~

Paulo Coelho once said : “ If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine, it’s lethal. “

We are Tunisian students. We are young, painfully young and dreamy. Our souls encapsulate tremendous energy and potential. We want to step out of our shell, we want to delve into the unknown, the beautifully enigmatic. We long to take risks, to plunge into the wide and rich realm of opportunities. We long to experience something new, because routine means death .. Routine means tastelessness but we are young .. fearlessly young ! And we want to breathe, we want to dream, we want to live.

We are Tunisian students. But our educational system cuts off our wings. We go through courses, exams and presentations on a daily basis. We sit through lectures , silent and inactive, receiving knowledge without participating in creating it and memorizing information without asking why, without having the right to speak our minds.

We are Tunisian students and we do not want this anymore. We demand that our opinions be voiced. We want our voices to reach and fly though the entire globe. We do not want monotony and routine. We do not want to be forced into silence and passivity. We want to act .. And act sustainably!

This is what AIESEC has taught us for the past month and especially for the last three days. It was a weekend of wonders, of laughters, of fulfilling experiences, of new friendships, of bitter-sweet sensations; we were tired but excited, we lacked sleep but there was an incredible amount of energy dormant within us. We unleashed it, we enjoyed participation to the fullest ! We worked as much as we danced. We engaged ourselves in fruitful conversations, we let our voices be heared, we discovered the beautiful Other, we authentically lived diversity.

We are Tunisian students. And we found in AIESEC, a wholesome space and a rich platform to forget the monotonous academic lives we lead, to rebel against a system that has long silenced us. Thanks to AIESEC , we were able to transmit our ideas to more than 700 delegates, we were given the chance to genuinely activate Leadership through the different workshops we participated in. We operated within numerous groups and competed amiably between each other. Each group strived for excellence; all you see is people running around tirelessly , all you see is faces marked with determination and enthusiasm to make their project work and thrive. At the end of the day, we were exhausted, but we were satisfied.

Once upon a hot Sunday, toward the end of this amazing journey, an inspiring man called Nadhem Bardaa, infused within us overflowing streams of zeal and dedication through his wise, funny and stimulating words. He implemented  inside us Hope and eagerness to carry on as such; with the same passion and hard work to create a positive impact in our communities and leave a meaningful heritage behind us.

We went home exhausted but our hearts were filled with new loves and new hopes. We will never forget this weekend as long as we breathe. We heartily thank you AIESEC .. :’) 

Bach .. Thy Middle Name is Magic ~

Air - Johann Sebastian Bach ~

The first rays of sunshine tickled her eyes,

 Bach’s Air was furtively heared, beautiful notes from under her pillow

Never was she delighted in being  so still, with her head tilted towards the Earth as if rejoicing in a subtle Heavenly music ..

As if Bach’s Air is enticing her to feel her way past the senses to capture the loud unplayed notes ,

For strings unleash their melodious cries and leave an everlasting echo of a second’s pause .. to catch a breath, to halt a motion, to release a sigh, to undo a frown ..

The pleasant soundless void is music to the soul ..

The faint dying remnants of a note .. Empathy in a silence never silenced .

It dwells in the heart of every note and reigns in a moment, unbridled

Ever so aching to tell a story .. Ever so craving to touch a heart ..