Lessons from 2017-2018

When in doubt, do everything. If you don’t know what to do, do everything. Do the first thing. Hate it, it’s ok. Do the second thing. When it comes to your life, there are no bad moves. No, that’s not true. Every move is bad since it brings you closer to your end, your death. So whether you think about it for one minute or one week, it doesn’t change one thing.

Try everything, talk to everyone, join every club, read every book. Don’t ask why or how. The biggest hindering is asking about the point. Know that sometimes the point will not be convincing enough for you, but do it anyway because it always adds up to your person. Don’t ask if you’re good enough, you are. Don’t doubt, don’t question.

Be fearless, don’t stay home on a Saturday night because you think the outside world is unsafe. It’s unsafe anyways. In fact, if that’s your only excuse, you owe it to yourself to go out. Don’t fear people. The first instinct should always be trust. Being trustful is not as difficult as being on your guard all the time. You will notice a looming general peace firsthand. Don’t worry, the survival instinct always has your back and will take over when needed.

Never ever take yourself seriously. Laugh at your stupidity, naivety, ignorance. Don’t just acknowledge it, fucking howl. Invite other people to laugh at you, with you. The best friendships I discovered are made in times of embarrassment, vulnerability. Don’t cover up, don’t hide anything. Richard Feynman was right about a lot of things I’m sure and boy was he spot on when he said: “The first principle is that you must not fool yourself, and you are the easiest person to fool.” Sometimes, you’re offered an opportunity to show your true colors. It can be a long conversation with a stranger who is asking for your opinion on feminism or a question that you desperately want to ask in class, and you’re not sure if what you have to say is intellectual-sounding or relevant enough. Finally, you bail. You lie to yourself: I need to read more books about feminism first. I will google it later. Stop the bullshit. Put yourself out there. If you fail, laugh at yourself. That stranger is now your friend.

Live out loud. Don’t lower the volume on your headphones because you don’t want the person next to you to know you’re listening to the most mainstream stereotypical music to ever exist. Don’t cover the book you’re holding because it’s fifty shades of grey (although you probably should and also you’re wasting your time). Whatever you do, do it loud. Blast that stupid Selena Gomez song whose beat you can’t get out of your head (You have to admit, some catchy little fuckers). This doesn’t restrict you. This doesn’t define you. You’re still a very complex creature.

Be ok with who you are at every moment. Not missing home the first months abroad? It’s ok. Excruciating nostalgia on the fifth month? It’s ok too. Extremely well-spoken one conversation and hopelessly dull and awkward the next one? It’s ok. It’s you all the way and you have to be ok with that.



The immoral identity, the immoral supremacy, the immoral ultimatum.


Adjective, violating moral principles; not conforming to the patterns of conduct usually accepted or established as consistent with the principles of personal and social ethics.
This definition is ample to some standard and muddy of course, as all social explanations are. The human mind is complex, or maybe not. The way I see it, there is no true answer or reasoning to tackle this question since we are the experiment and its results at the same time. Hum, tricky. Well, we know at least this: people aren’t keen on everything restrictions from innocent-wash the dishes-motherly order to less innocent-get out of your bed-motherly order/threat. Since defining essentially restricts, I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now.
First of all, what on earth are personal ethics? Secondly, how the heck am I supposed to know about my taxi driver personal ethics? Am I being immoral in the 5 minutes drive if I’m chewing gum, looking at his rearview mirror, humming? But all this is unnecessary to know thanks to money. You pay for a service, you respect the law which eventually refers to social ethics and MAGICALLY you are no longer obliged to care for the personal ethics. You buy your discharge.
However, when with friends, it is a bit more complicated. You are in every way possible obliged to know about their personal ethics. Lifehack: with best friends, you are freed from respecting social ethics (yes you can fart), but the pressure becomes higher on personal ethics.

Is silence immoral? The question of my life. 

I have found an answer to it but I just don’t like/understand it.
Shockingly, it is immoral (!?). I keep explaining to friends and family that choosing to keep quiet is a personal choice and is in no way an offensive and mean act. Of course, they agree (when it comes to human rights and freedom, everyone agrees because they fear this smallest inner judgement: HE/SHE IS BARBARIAN!)
However, during daily basis interactions, they are offended by a quiet room and absence of small talk. I think the true reason behind that is intimidation and fear. They are afraid of silence because it pushes them to deal with another familiar void, but this time inside their heads. It blurs the perfectly clear illusion that diminishes the absolute meaninglessness of the thousands of words that they bother to say every day.
My silence is a threat, a challenge. For me, it’s my comfort zone, whereas for them it pushes them outside of theirs.
Trust me, silence is definitely immoral. Do not ever wake up with the crazy idea of keeping your soulful and deep, but useless insights for yourself, you’ll be misunderstood and probably laughed at but not immoral. What else could you hope for?
Funny question to close: Is cussing and swearing and using all kinds of bad words in front of a one month baby immoral? (Reminder: he/she doesn’t understand what you’re saying).

If I die tonight, what is the one thing I would like people to remember about me?

First of all, I would like to convey the existence of a strong feeling and discomfort that makes me question, in a rather serious way, the striking possibility of an upcoming heart attack.

If death is unbearable for you, dear reader. I advise you to stop at this point and not go any farther. Also, you are going to die eventually.

Dying young is a beautiful idea. You benefit from the free trial without having to pay. You ride along a dozen of years just enough to break off when the fun stops. You witness the world with a sense of wonder that is still echoing from your childhood, so you are relatively unfamiliar with the ugly plot twists. I reckon I am particularly pessimistic tonight. I think it is due to a small inconvenience I am condemned to live only every month for thirty years (I am a female). But even without the gloomy bleeding sky, to die young have always been a luxury that I can’t afford. I’m also not very keen on provoking it. So maybe I don’t like it that much after all. I guess what I’m trying desperately to say is the following: I would hate to live a hundred years. I watch elderly videos which are supposed to teach me lessons about life, but I just can’t get over my weighty pity. I don’t see wise people. I see lonely souls that have missed their train, just like my mother used to forget to pick me up from school sometimes and I would wait with the staff.

Unlike the popular assumption that living to the ripe old age is an accomplishment, it is the dumbest idea ever. To economize on life expenditures, to restrain the experiences in order to have a long life which is necessarily away from every person you have ever cared about is clearly a big nonsense. Your death is inevitable, but you do have a choice in your life. As I see it, to choose to spend your potential in an attempt to retard death is a huge loss. I mean, if you’re so eager about living, do it now.

That is only my humble and slightly hypocrite opinion, because I am far from living myself.

Oh, I still need to answer the question asked in the title. I would like them to remember my jokes, my little everyday remarks about the significance and insignificance of life (the closest thing I’ll ever be to a philosopher) and my weird walk. What would you like people to remember about you?

Why getting bored of life is physically impossible.


You live on this orbiting rock with millions of other people in the same time. Just this simple fact is enough to send you through an ecstatic mental orgasm. You share your breakfast with millions of people every day. You smile at the same time as hundreds of people. You may even have the same exact dream as another human being, very different from you. You may share the same day, hour and second of birth and death as another citizen of the earth, or of the universe (but I would not dare to go that far). In short, the probability of the most mind-blowing events is not zero. That is freaking insane. Everything IS possible.

This simple truth, so underestimated and so disregarded, changes everything.

Once you start to believe it, you are no longer alone. You can no longer feel alone. It is the mere incarnation of “You will never walk alone”, because you simply never walk alone. My footsteps in Morocco harmonize with footsteps in India, in Sudan, in Australia. My eye blinks match the blinking of a sailor in the Pacific Ocean, of the president of the United Nations, of a serial killer. My tears rival the crying of all the babies of the world, all the mothers who lost their sons to war, all the prisoners in their hours of persecution. My happiness joins the joy of all the wedding celebrations, all the proposals, all the reunions, all the glories.

I never grieve alone. I never celebrate alone. I never think alone. I never dream alone.

We all think we know our places in the world. We set limits, boundaries: this my house, my money, my husband. Nothing belongs to me, because there is no me. Sometimes, we hurt when we lose things, people. Our hearts break and our eyes cry, the only proof that we are indeed alive. Just like this quote from Fight Club: “It is only after we have lost everything that we are free to do anything”. Although the heartbreaks make us grow fonder and seem to be inevitable and almost natural, they hide one sad truth, maybe the saddest. We are incredibly and utterly condemned to loneliness.

Wait, what? Let me explain.

As individuals, we are alone. There is no escape. However, it is very hard to be an individual.

I am not an individual. I am the entire world reshaped, regulated, molded. I am a camouflage of the void.

To choose to be with the world or to be with myself? For this choice to be somehow equitable, I have to make sure that I rise to the glory of the world, the container of all small and faint individualities since the beginning of time.

Forget everything. Just this dilemma makes life un-boring.



The meaning of life. What meaning? And what life?

Four months later. What has changed? I have become a tiny bit more focused, maybe happier at times and much more peaceful.

But maybe too peaceful…

For the major part of my life, I was lost. In my thoughts, in my feelings, in supermarkets. I was lost. I cannot for the life of me define one complete, fulfilled and relevant moment I was truly my full me, not awaiting, not expecting, not aspiring and not holding back.

And that, my friends, is agonizing.

Let me put it in other words: I have never lived one day of my life.

I keep getting out, closing doors, being cautious, waiting and waiting and waiting. I am in a cage. I want to fly and right when I am about to flee, this idea starts to develop inside of my mind that frees me more than anything, and locks me up again at the same time: “Et après?”

What a silly little idea!  “O men be3d?”

Yet, so deadly. Why? Because it is irrefutable, true at all levels and does not base, in any way, its trueness on specific speculations.

 I am eighteen years old. Et après?

 I am Moroccan. Et après?

I like the color green. Et après?

I have a crush on my teacher. Et après?

I am very inconsiderate of other people’s feelings. Et après?

I support the LGBT community. Et après?

I do not support the LGBT community. ET APRÈS?


The world becomes a funny place once this simple thought is deeply rooted in your mind. You are immune to life, uncertain of everything and anything. There are no limits to your imagination. In fact, your world becomes your imagination and your imagination your world. You start seeing the uselessness. The complete and absolute uselessness. So definite, so wild and so there.

To deny it is to “live”. To set the alarm. To wake up. To choose your clothes. To have your breakfast. To go to class. To ask questions. To use the correction pen. To laugh at grim jokes. To be polite. To feel hungry. To have your lunch. To wash your hands. To listen to music. To react to the world around you. To notice the change of seasons. To grow tired.

To acknowledge it is to sleep. Literally.

I share with you a quote from “Solitude” By Maupassant:

« Quant à moi, maintenant, j’ai fermé mon âme. Je ne dis plus à personne ce que je crois, ce que je pense et ce que j’aime. Me sachant condamné à l’horrible solitude, je regarde les choses, sans jamais émettre mon avis. Que m’importent les opinions, les querelles, les plaisirs, les croyances ! Ne pouvant rien partager avec personne, je me suis désintéressé de tout. Ma pensée, invisible, demeure inexplorée. J’ai des phrases banales pour répondre aux interrogations de chaque jour, et un sourire qui dit : “Oui”, quand je ne veux même pas prendre la peine de parler. »

Is this some sign of defeat? I did not know I was in a fight in the first place. What an ugly idea! To think that life is a war zone.

No, it does not stand for anything. It is a simple choice.










How love is portrayed in different languages: My hindsight on love in Arabic, French and English.

When love takes over you, your analytical and reasoning capacities suddenly all serve another goal: the survival of this sweet innocent love. Just like any other virus, love feeds on your insecurities, fears and hopes. It hugs and suffocates only to addict and to subjugate. A person in love is not to be trusted with anything really, since love is a criterion changing, danger under reckoning disease.

Those are the words your classical anti-love uses when asked about love. However, love is the essence of everything.

I remember my very first conception of love to be vague and foggy. At first, I did not think it was for everyone. An exclusive bonus for the most noble and most accomplished people. The ultimate reward for lifesavers, heroes and mothers. To some standard, it is true that love brings up mothers. A pregnancy only creates potential.

Growing up, love was a big hit. Every acquaintance I ever had seemed to look for it or pretend to have it. I wasn’t that infatuated with it so I thought I wasn’t very special. Later, after watching movies and witnessing the love between mice and bees, I understood that it is for everyone brave enough.

Today, my conception of love hasn’t changed much. I still believe in its holiness and sanctity, but also in its rareness. This soreness of mine is a result of the highly disturbing lack of braveness in the world. A brave heart is a disappearing kind.

To me, the most fascinating love is the one existing between strangers. Two human beings who don’t share any common ground, any common interest and who don’t have any pressure on each other. They love each other without any effort. It’s in their core. I am talking about the same love that makes a person risk his life in order to save another’s one, a doctor does not rest until the heart of the complete stranger on the table starts to beat again, a civil rights militant stands up heartedly for hundreds of unknown faces in the crowd.

I wonder how many people would have fallen in love if they had only spoken to each other. Strangers sitting next to each other on an airplane at night, watching the world grow smaller beneath them. Or in a tiny bookstore filled with old stories, their pages yellowed and dusty with age. Or sitting next to each other at a concert, both wanting to linger in the same note of a song that they think contains a universe. How many strangers have shared lovely, beautiful moments together? How many people would have found the love of their life if they had decided to say something? – Polarioid

This suggests that love is in fact human. It is not specific nor private.

We recognize love in ourselves first. As babies, we learn to love our mothers unconditionally, even though our senses are very restricted and our understanding of value, benefit, interest and quality is absent. We are born capable of love. However, as we grow, we become impure and smirched while love stays unflawed and whole.

Secondly, we start to recognize love everywhere; in the tender eyes of a man, in the constant smile of a woman, in the sound of laughter and the smell of freshly made cookies outside homes, in the excited tone of a kid talking to his parents over dinner. Some little things betray the human being. Luckily, those delicate and fine details are internationally shared.

I am blessed to witness love in three different cultures: Arabic (حب, Hobb), French (Amour) and English (loooooove).


Before you continue reading, please listen to this music:

An Arabic love song: Hobb

A French love song: Amour

BONUS: A Turkish love song: Aşk  ♥

From my not so limited contact with Arabs (if modern Moroccans could ever be considered real integral Arabs) and from my long wisely spent (I testify to that only now) hours watching quondam TV, Arabs love intensively. They take love very seriously and often offer sacrifices of name, honor, fortune and even life to their lovers. In return, they are highly possessive and excessively jealous. Although faithfulness is a priority value, they believe that love is the ultimate moral weakness of reason. The person in love becomes a fool, a vagabond wandering his days -mostly nights- away, looking for his beloved, longing to catch a quick glimpse of her shadow or fully covered body around a corner. Some of you may ask the most distinguished question: How can a man fall in love with a robe? I don’t know the answer of that question as much as the next person does. It doesn’t bug me yet because I strongly believe that love has its ways, although sometimes very mysterious.

This mystery, however, greatly shows in love poetry. Actually, the eyes seem to fascinate the poets and so take all the credit. Eyes kill, enchant and weaken. They have the most impact of all parts of the body.  Strangely, one look at the eyes of a passing woman in a crowded place is all it takes.

If I dare include Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, a Persian poet when talking about Arabs, He really was and still is the master. He first understood love, then felt it then became it. His wisdom and clarity are almost infinite that sometimes we mistake him for a fictional figure. His quotes about love are visionary and impractical at first. However, later on, you discover that they were exactly what you needed to hear. In his life, he did “experience” love. He had one of the purest and most truthful love stories of all time. Maybe the purest one ever. I couldn’t and wouldn’t even try to put it into words because I will fail miserably. If I do try, however, the short version would be that he loved his best friend. Before you continue with your but’s, please know that the words love and best friend are in this exact occasion extraordinary and should in no way be treated lightly. For more insight on the subject, I recommend the book The Forty Rules of Love by Elif Shafak.


I miss you in French is “Tu me manques”. This next picture is the reason why I decided to write this in the first place. I remember reading it a few years ago and it completely struck me. Each language portrays love in such a beautiful way and you eventually forget about the beauty of the language itself, but pass it all to love, as if language is one of the other many servants of love, along with water, wind, sand and rain. You see a language is only as beautiful as its words of love.

7324982578_b3fc2a5f7f_bFrench people love love. And sex.

Some may argue that it’s strictly a widely spread stereotype, that happens to be highly supported by the media (Moulin Rouge), however, based on my modest encounters with French people and the French culture, I believe that the myth is quite valid. Isn’t the image of the entire country romantic?

French people are obsessed with love. Consequently, they are very good at it as they make successful lovers.

 They don’t hold back and aren’t scared of love.

 They master the art of loving.

Many times, love in French “Amour” holds in itself a sexual connotation. That explains why French is considered the sexiest language worldwide. Not to forget that French is also the language of love! Well, after all, love and passion expressed themselves forcefully in French literature. Most major French novels are related to love from Stendhal’s “Le rouge et le noir” to Balzac’s “Le lys dans la vallée”.

Lately, I have come across a wonderful article titled: The miserable French language and its inadequacies. It’s hateful and mean, but also facetious, clever and very perceptive.

Check it out here.

Meet the most cliché picture of all time. Sorry, I needed the quote!


Personally, I like love in English. It’s easy and close to the heart. English uses very simple words to express complex feelings and to create beautiful connections. It focuses on the reality of the feeling rather than the mere expression of it. On the other hand, French tends to use sophisticated and convoluted words to express feelings that may not even be true nor deep.

Overall, love is an international language. To love, love is love. Any time, any place. Wherever, whenever.

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