Citizen of our Earth

Tag: writing

  • Rediscovering Childlike Curiosity as Adults

    Rediscovering Childlike Curiosity as Adults

    What About You? Where Are You From?

    A few months ago, on my last flight, I sat in the departure lounge watching the world go by. Amidst the monotonous hum of the airport, a vibrant scene caught my eye: a youth football team, clad in matching jerseys, carrying their bags with infectious enthusiasm. They were led by two young men, and the air was filled with the rhythmic calls of “Coach!” from the boys.

    Our paths didn’t diverge at the gate. On the plane, I found my seat right next to a twelve-year-old boy and his teammate. They were part of a group ranging from eleven to fourteen years old. From the moment we took off, they shattered the usual silence of the cabin. They didn’t wait for a social cue or a polite opening; they simply started.

    With immense pride, they told me about their football academy and how they were returning from a spirited regional competition. Throughout the flight, the conversation flowed effortlessly. One of them reached into his pocket, pulled out a bag of chips and some chocolate, and shared them with genuine generosity. When the screen in front of me malfunctioned, he leaned over and fixed it without hesitation, before turning his pure curiosity toward my world:

    “What about you? Where are you from?”

    As the wheels touched the tarmac and it was time to say goodbye, they reached out to shake my hand warmly, saying, “This was the best trip because of you.”

    Those moments still echo in my mind. What is it that gives children this audacity and innocence to open up to someone so different from them — in age, gender, and even skin color? Where does this social simplicity vanish as the years go by?

    I confess, with a hint of caution in my heart, that I have often chosen silence. I have stepped back, avoiding situations where I should have been present. I admit to taking side paths just to avoid a meeting — whether with an old friend or a passing stranger. Now, I find myself wondering about the scale of the opportunities lost.

    Was it a double loss? I lost the possibility of a radical change or an idea that could have opened a new horizon. Meanwhile, the other person lost my humanity, my perspective, and perhaps the comfort I failed to offer.

    How do we rebuild the muscle of innocent curiosity and unlearn the caution we’ve accumulated over the years? How do we return to that version of ourselves that saw the world as a playground rather than a minefield?

    Children don’t carry the “ledger of accounts” we adults fill to the brim — pages dense with anticipated rejections, fear of misunderstanding, and calculations of gain and loss before every simple “hello.” They move driven by curiosity and love. We move driven by the need for protection.

    But I think we can find our way back. Not in one grand gesture, but in small, deliberate ones.

    • By observing people on public transport or in cafes — without labeling or judging them.
    • By allowing ourselves to be genuinely amazed by the stories of ordinary people.
    • By offering a candid admission of ignorance, without the reflex to pretend we know.
    • By searching for those common human intersections where the differences — so magnified by our ledger — simply melt away.
    • By being kind without an agenda.

    Is it possible? I believe so. And I think the twelve-year-old boy on that flight already knew the answer.

    Sara

  • A House on Hold, But a Garden That Grew

    How Ten Trees Kept a Dream Alive

    When the war broke out in Khartoum, my husband was outside Sudan, working tirelessly and sending money to build his dream home in the city. And it was going well. The construction was complete, most of the finishing touches were done, and he had even planted trees around the house — hoping they would grow tall and shady by the time we moved in.

    But on the morning of Saturday, April 14, 2023, everything changed. In the blink of an eye, the city turned into a battlefield. People fled for their lives. Some were killed, some displaced, and some stayed behind to face the horror and destruction.

    The streets we once walked without fear turned into war zones. And with that, my husband’s dream house stood still — abandoned like so many others.

    ⚒️ The construction stopped.
    💔 Belongings were stolen.
    🌱 The trees? They died — thirsty, forgotten, abandoned in the chaos.

    At first, everyone was paralyzed, trying to understand what was happening, absorbing the shock. But slowly, people began to reposition themselves, to find new ways of living within the chaos.

    That’s when my husband made an unusual choice. He hired a guard — one of the few who chose to stay in Khartoum. Not because he wasn’t afraid, but because he, too, believed in staying alive in place.

    And then, from thousands of miles away, my husband did something that seemed small, almost irrational at first: He started planting trees again.

    🌍 Not waiting for peace.
    ⚡ Not waiting for electricity or water or functioning institutions.
    🔥 While bombs still echoed through the city, while neighborhoods burned and families mourned — he began to rebuild the green.

    Every morning, before sunrise, he’d wake up and call the caretaker:
    “Are the trees okay?”
    “Did you water them?”

    I watched him every day. He would ask about the battles in Khartoum, about the condition of the trees, whether they had been watered. He would ask if it was possible to bring another sapling from the nursery, how to solve the water shortage, or how to raise the fence to protect a fragile plant. He would request photos and videos of the trees, then call back again to discuss why one looked pale or how another could be better supported.

    And the caretaker — patient, committed — would answer, and act, and send back proof: a small tree standing straight in cracked soil. 🌱 A leaf unfurling. 🍃 A shadow beginning to form.

    This went on for months. Then years. Through explosions. 💥 Through silence. 🤐 Through grief. 🕊️

    Now, more than two years later, the war in Khartoum has subsided and shifted to other places. People are beginning to return. And in front of our house, ten trees now stand tall — proud, defiant, and unbroken.

    They stand like sentinels around a home that isn’t even lived in yet. And they say more than words ever could.

    🌳 What My Husband Was Really Doing

    At first glance, you might think he was just obsessed with landscaping. But I’ve come to understand — this was never about trees alone.

    It was about control in a world that had lost all sense of it. When he couldn’t stop the war, he made sure the soil was watered. When he couldn’t bring us home, he made sure something was growing there, waiting.

    Psychologists call this symbolic action — doing something small and tangible to represent a belief too big to speak: This place still matters. I still belong. I will return.

    It was emotional anchoring — a way to stay connected to home when exile threatened to sever every tie. Every photo, every video, every instruction — it kept the house alive in his mind, and in his heart.

    It was hope as action, not wishful thinking. While others waited for peace to begin, he began peace. He planted it. 🌱 He nurtured it. 💧 He measured its growth in centimeters and courage.

    And beneath it all — it was grief transformed. The grief of lost time, of interrupted dreams, of a city bleeding. Instead of collapsing under it, he channeled it into care. This is what psychologists call sublimation — turning pain into something life-giving.

    He didn’t just mourn the trees that died. 🌳 He resurrected them. And in doing so, he preserved his identity. Because to stop caring would have been to let the war win — not just over land, but over his soul.

    And now, two years later, those ten trees stand as living proof of his quiet defiance — his refusal to let war have the last word.

    And when we finally walk through that front door — dusty, delayed, but standing — we won’t be entering just a house.

    We’ll be walking into a story of resilience. One that began not with bricks, but with roots. 🌱

    To the man who planted trees in the middle of war — I see you. And I know: where you grow, life follows. 💚

    Sara