I was not searching for a shadow when I found her, there, standing at the edge of a small square near the stream. A towering tree, its branches intertwining like the fingers of a woman who knows the secrets of an embrace. She was not one of those trees whose leaves catch your eye briefly before you move on; there was something in her that made one linger, as if every leaf guarded a sentence yet to be written. I sat by her trunk, and the wind passed through her branches as if reading a hymn in whispers we could not hear. I felt I was facing a memory greater than my age, a memory sprouted from the seed of a word spoken long ago, a word that multiplied in the soil, root after root, until it reached me. Her roots plunged deep into soil whose boundaries I did not know, yet it was more than just soil; it was a hidden extension, like a network of veins exchanging messages among unseen trees. I imagined those messages, as tiny pulses, as if the earth itself breathed in words. I could not stop myself from thinking: how many corrupted words could leak through these roots to reach a tree that has committed no sin? How many fruits could spoil because their water came from a poisoned stream? The wind that passed now was not clean; it carried a hint of ash, making the tree’s leaves shiver. I realized danger does not always come from axes cutting trunks; it comes from the air everyone breathes, from polluted clouds watering bitter rain. And since I was no stranger, I knew this tree did not grow alone in this square. There are other trees, in distant places, connected in ways we do not see. If one root is poisoned, the pain spreads like the shadow of night over all of Sana’a. So it was not a matter of the life or death of a tree, but a matter of the fate of life itself. And I understood that every word spoken or written, every pulse traveling through these roots, is not merely the concern of its originator. I sat long under the shade, sensing that the tree was waiting for someone to hear her. Perhaps she was trying to whisper: “Do not plant thorns in the ground you wish to walk barefoot.” Or perhaps: “Do not pour poison into the stream you will drink from.” When I rose to leave, the sun leaned toward sunset, and the tree’s leaves gleamed with a sorrowful golden hue. I touched the trunk gently, realizing that from now on, whenever I speak, I must remember this tree, and imagine her roots stretching to places I will never reach. For whoever plants a word, plants with it a world, and the world born from a pure word can provide shade for generations yet unborn. But the poisoned word will seep into the soil, and remain there, until it bears wounds in chests unaware of who planted it. I stand amidst a void that gleams like a still mirror. Every sound I make reflects, forming a shadow that shapes itself and then drifts away. Some shadows vanish into the depths without trace; others return swiftly, as if they found me after being lost. I extend my hand toward one of these shadows and feel its coldness—not from the air, but from something deeper, something resembling nothingness when it takes form. I realize this shadow comes from others, carrying traces of their hands and minds, perhaps even their scars. There are other shadows carrying a strange warmth, a warmth like someone placing a hand on your shoulder when you need it. When these shadows touch me, they leave a living tremor, as if inhaling from a distant lung. But the void is not filled by warmth alone. I see shadows heavier than lead, dragging tails of impurities and toxins, trying to cling, to seep into my pores, to leave within me an echo that alters the tone of my coming words. I understand now that what emerges in this space returns in other forms, sometimes more beautiful than what we sent, sometimes uglier than we thought we could endure. And every shadow that returns, whether we summoned it or someone else did, becomes part of our image, even if we refuse to acknowledge it. I cross an ancient stone bridge stretching over the Sana’a stream. Solid rocks laid by ancestors with hands that knew the meaning of keeping the path open, no matter how times changed. The stones are soaked with the scent of rain and smoothed by countless feet, sometimes carrying joy, sometimes carrying anger. Beneath the bridge, the stream flows in season, carrying in its current water that is either murky or clear, like a mirror of the tongues we use in conversation: sometimes pure, sometimes weighed with mud. Even when it dries, it remains a witness to passage, a witness to absence. The bridge does not know the names of those who cross, yet it preserves a silent memory: a child chasing a ball, a woman stepping cautiously, a man pausing mid-way as if searching for something lost. Eyes meet here, others avoid each other; some exchange smiles while others pass as if the world were too narrow to hold them. Standing in the middle of the bridge is like standing in the heart of an unfinished dialogue, where both sides exist, yet the distance is measured by intent, not steps. Those who choose to cross extend an invisible thread of trust; those who stop or return leave behind a void that grows colder. I realize that the stone bridge, like wisdom, collapses only when people stop protecting it. And the Sana’a stream, with all it carries or conceals, is merely a reflection of the hidden current in which our words flow between the banks. The path connecting us may be of stone, but what keeps it alive is the intention with which we traverse it. I enter the courtyard, the door closing behind me with a creak like the end of a chapter in a book. Here, the walls know my secrets more than anyone else. I walk toward the room that has been waiting for me since morning. On the table rests a clear mirror, free of dust, as if it had been observing me before I arrived. I sit before it and understand that the harshest passage in my homeland is the distance between myself and myself. I stand before a flawless mirror, its silence deeper than all surrounding sounds. It does not flatter, nor invent excuses. It places me before myself, as I am, without masks or shadows. At first, I think I am seeking my features, but I discover I am seeking the trace of my existence in the eyes of others. The mirror reflects intentions. It reveals how often I chose words that wound, and how often I kept silent when a phrase might have healed. In its reflection, I see those moments passed in silence but leaving an echo longer than any clamor. Sometimes, I see in depth a face not entirely mine; a mixture of images people captured of me through what I said, wrote, and withheld. Every reflection is the result of a decision, and every decision builds an image that will not leave me, even if I wish it would. The frightening thing about the mirror is the impossibility of deceiving it. You may smile before it, yet it knows if the heart smiles truly. You may lower your gaze, yet it sees the thought you wanted to hide. Every attempt to decorate the frame changes nothing of the scene’s truth. When I stare long, I realize the mirror is a silent covenant between me and myself: to be present in every word I speak as if I would see it here later. To leave behind a trace I can meet without averting my eyes. To live in a world that does not demand perfection but demands honesty. And I understand that clarity comes from having the courage to see error when it occurs, and the ability to apologize even if the echo has faded. I read a passing post on a crowded page, yet my eyes cling to it as if the words carve into living flesh. A cybercrime. The victim: a name, a small image in the corner, and a fragmented story offering nothing but the taste of bitterness. I feel a mysterious weight, as if these black letters suck the air from the room. I see how a word, an image, a comment, can leave cracks in a human soul, unseen and unnoticed by anyone. I close the phone, leaving it on the table like a hot stone. I breathe slowly, then move toward the window, as if seeking something capable of washing away what just clung to me. The sky above Sana’a, at this moment, resembles a page without end. Electric wires intersect with the remaining dim light, and the air carries a mixture of dust and a cold breeze slipping down from distant mountains. The horizon asks nothing of you; it merely opens enough space for you to breathe. I reflect that the digital space could resemble this scene, if we wished it so: a spacious square that stifles no one, a sky safe for anyone crossing it, and an expanse allowing voices to meet without turning into arrows. Peace is a continuous act, like the constant guarding of the sky to keep it clear, no matter how much dust seeks to settle. Words, once released from our fingers, never return the same; they carry with them our features, our scent, even the heartbeat that wrote them. Some texts return to us years later, carrying only the warmth we bestowed; others return as a dumb stone knocking at our doors in the dead of night. Writers know that ink never dries, and the shadow we leave on others’ walls may accompany them longer than it accompanies us. And the window we open to the world is not mere glass; it is our eyes and conscience stretching into an endless space. Everything that passes through it—images, whispers, letters—shapes our presence in the minds of those we have never met. Some traverse this space lightly; others weigh the atmosphere with dust. The matter is not in the crossing itself, but in the trace that remains after departure. In the end, I discover that everything I experienced on these pages was merely a journey among symbols, each opening a door to another. From the tree of the word, from which I learned how to root in truth, to the bridge carrying me between distant banks, to the mirror placing me before my true image, up to this space overlooking Sana’a, resembling an open promise to all who cross it. Peace, in essence, is a daily practice, a constant movement like the breathing of the earth, an awareness accompanying our steps both in the streets and in the digital space. We may live amid relentless noise, and see letters turn into weapons, yet within each of us lies the capacity to plant a kind phrase, extend a bridge, reflect a pure image, and keep the sky clear as much as possible. We may not prevent all dust, but we can preserve the air we share. This is our responsibility, and this is our peace. Bashar al Aqab, Editor-in-Chief
1 January 2026
