Another life within life

It is the voices of children in the courtyards that fracture the silence, an echo rising up, drawing the deepest memories to the surface: those of a life within life, as though another current were moving beneath the skin, while the very sense of being in the world turns dim, almost opaque.

This is the story of a rose.

She is called damascena, for she comes from Damascus.

Her petals, over time, fell one by one, and still she endured, motionless for years, in a neighborhood drained of presence, and of time itself.

Now the children have returned.

Some are new; others are known again by the lightness of their step.

Beneath the snow, against all seasons, buds have appeared.

It is winter.

Small hands shape snowballs, while in the air a premonition of spring already slips through:

as if nothing had ever truly been lost,

as if a future might still dare to be spoken.

When life surfaces again, even for a single instant,

hope returns to being, another life that persists, quietly,

within life itself.

Jasmine and the Lost Streets

This is the story of Jasmine, a flower that once lived widely across Syria, when the world was still dormant and seemed to breathe slowly, sweetly, and safely.

Jasmine was pure and luminous, climbing with quiet modesty along the railings of homes and the balconies of Damascus, carrying elegance through the air and releasing a fragrance woven from fragile, unspoken dreams.

Anyone who passed beside her, even for an instant, felt suspended — captured by an intoxicating happiness that tasted of eternity.

Flowers remember those who once walked beside them, those who stained them with bright, living blood, and the children who played ball in the courtyards.

Some who fled still remember; others have lost the ability to feel anything when they think of the fractured streets and alleys. Yet when Jasmine drifts into their thoughts, her scent becomes the echo of a story far deeper than memory.

“Home” has an aroma that fills their senses as if nothing had ever happened, as if yesterday and today were still the same — but only for a fleeting moment.

The jasmine in my garden does not carry that same scent; it lacks the enchantment that overwhelms, the light that slips through the bones. I try to draw near to a memory that is not mine, to feel the thrill of a past I never lived, but the unique flower that once represented Syria was shattered, along with its ancient history and the dreams of millions of innocents of the Levant.

Jasmine is a botanical wonder, yet in Syria it was more than a flower: it embodied resilience and beauty, the fragile strength of a people who endured — a symbol no distant garden can recreate. I searched in vain for a resemblance that might let me enter its biography, but I found nothing.

So I surrendered, for some flowers — some memories — must remain untouched, far from the hands that seek them, living only in the hearts of those who have not forgotten, and in the silent eyes of those who once saw them bloom.

No jasmine will ever be equal to another.

What remains is not what was said, but what was felt

The five keys of the Unseen

For the Persians, the word garden meant Paradise: a place of beauty, harmony, and peace where everything exists in perfect correspondence. And it’s precisely this correspondence that I’d like to reflect on.

The garden is a gentle workshop of creation, one that speaks in the language of nature rather than the noise of humankind. Flowers reveal their secrets only to those who observe with patience. They trust that only a few will truly understand. And that’s the test: to learn how to listen to what nature is trying to tell us.

The garden is not just a paradise that inspires; it’s a paradise that speaks.

In the 1980s, correspondence meant pen and paper. Children would find addresses in parish magazines and write to pen pals around the world. Friendships blossomed through ink and envelopes, and waiting for a reply became part of the joy.

Life moved more slowly then, but that slowness gave weight to every word. Today, communication happens in seconds. We text, post, scroll, and move on. We no longer focus on what we say, but how quickly we can say it.

Yet nature has its own rhythm. Truth has its own pace. And truth only arrives when knowledge walks beside it. In nature’s world, what matters isn’t how beautifully you speak, it’s what you say, and why.

Life should be a slow, deep journey. Instead, it has become a race, fast and shallow.

Flowers have a different way of speaking. Their communication is gentle, silent, and fragrant. They don’t use words, but they leave traces in the air: waves of perfume that fade softly into the wind.

Sometimes, words aren’t necessary at all. What remains is not what was said, but what was felt.

The Art of Communication in Islam

In Islamic tradition, communication is a sacred act built on three principles: honesty (as-sidq), justice (al-‘adalah), and moderation (wasatiyyah). The Qur’an offers timeless guidance on dialogue, reminding us that how we communicate reflects who we are.

“Call to the way of your Lord with wisdom and good exhortation, and argue with them in the best manner.”(Al-Nahl, 16:125)

True dialogue, the Qur’an teaches, must be wise, respectful, and compassionate.

“We did not send any messenger except in the language of his people, so that he might make things clear to them.”(Ibrahim, 14:4)

Communication isn’t just about speaking: it’s about connecting hearts. It requires humility, gentleness, and the awareness that every word can heal or harm.

“And tell My servants to say that which is best. Indeed, Satan sows discord among them.”(Al-Isra’, 17:53)

Kind words protect peace. Silence, sometimes, preserves it.

Not everyone speaks through language. Some express themselves through art, music, or silence. To communicate well, we must first understand who we’re speaking to and choose the language that truly reaches them.

Nature models this perfectly. The waves, the trees, the sunrise, all are forms of divine communication. God is constantly speaking to us through creation, but our minds are often too full of digital noise to notice.

“And He is with you wherever you are. And Allah sees all that you do.”(Qur’an 57:4)

Communication is meant to build bridges, to bring hearts closer together. But in our fast-paced, hyperconnected world, it often does the opposite, fragmenting attention, breeding impatience.

Maybe that’s why the art of slow correspondence deserves a comeback. Writing by hand. Waiting for a reply. Rediscovering patience, curiosity, gratitude.

Every letter carried a touch of mystery, something left unsaid. And that absence was the most precious part, because it left us wondering: How did the message end?

But perhaps we aren’t meant to know. Some answers belong only to God.

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“There are five keys of the Unseen which no one knows except Allah: what will happen tomorrow, what is in the wombs, when it will rain, where one will die, and when the Hour will come.”(Al-Bukhari)

And so, we return to the garden, where silence speaks, fragrance becomes language,and every petal whispers a timeless truth:

God alone knows.