Ayesha Recommends: Loneliness, Being Alone & Living In The Moment
Intertwined solitude, different experiences.
I haven’t written in months. Not because I have nothing to share, but more so I don’t think my little travel lists, recipes, ramblings and unhinged memes are anywhere near as important as speaking about Palestine (they’re not). All I want to do is talk about Palestine. I want to see liberation for all occupied lands. I want to live in a world where the word “genocide” is used as some alien concept that can never happen since it’s so vile.
I pray. I wish. I hope. But today, I write.
BEING ALONE
I rang in 2024 in Dubai, alone. Dubai, a city that another version of myself stubbornly avoided spending time in because I judged her from her glitzy exterior, only to be happily proven wrong. I loved Dubai. More importantly, I loved the people I met there.
Yet, I still spent New Year’s Eve alone.
Ten minutes to midnight. I heated up my talabat-ed shawarma (y’all knowwww I’m always on the quest to find the best), grabbed my journal and went out on the balcony to see the fireworks show - something I truthfully never care for, but nonetheless feels like a rite of passage for the New Year. The clock struck midnight, the fireworks began, and panic gripped my chest, leading to uncontrollable sobbing for the first ten minutes of 2024. I didn’t expect to be triggered, but the sound of fireworks resembled the bombs we’ve witnessed in Palestine, and I felt a massive amount of guilt, alienation, and doom. I can’t start this year crying, I thought. My half-eaten shawarma was cold by the time I pulled myself together, the ink from my pen seeping into my tattered journal where I had scribbled some half-hearted goals.
I don’t mind being alone; in fact, I love it. But in the early hours of a new year, I didn’t feel excited, hopeful, or even happy. I felt lonely.
The next morning, I woke up, stretched and brewed myself a hefty cup of chai. I inhaled my go-to breakfast: semi-boiled eggs with chili oil (particularly, laza) and a slice of toast. Reheating my chai for the third time, I revisited my journal where I left my half-baked thoughts last night. Between the smudges of spilled ink and tears, I rewrote my goals, wondering if I’ll bother revisiting this page again. I then took myself to the beach, did some Pilates in the glorious sunshine, and headed to a cafe to do some work.
Yesterday's feeling of doom felt smaller. I was fine, and I meant it. I felt happy.
Within the life of travel, you get used to being alone. I do believe learning to be alone is a necessary aspect of life — we’ll all go through it, and finding peace in it is freeing. But admittedly, being alone can still sting, usually in my happiest moments. It’s like when you see the moon — it looks so marvelous you try to take a picture of it on your phone, but it always comes out looking like a blob. You want to capture this moment because it’s so beautiful, but maybe it’s beautiful because it’s temporary.
It’s the same with being alone — it’s only beautiful when it’s temporary.
LONELINESS
I was jolted out of my bed at 4 am on the 9th floor of a hotel in Tokyo, my phone blaring, "SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY." Rushing into the hall, panic gripping me, I anticipated a scene of chaos on the entire floor, but to my surprise, it was just me. Alone in my Japanese nightdress, on the 9th floor of a Tokyo hotel. An earthquake – something considered normal here, I suppose. Having experienced the Kashmir earthquake in Pakistan in 2005, I still don’t handle earthquakes well.
Unable to return to sleep, I impulsively booked a train to visit Mt. Fuji, hoping nature could clear my head, as it often does. I had read that Fuji was a symbol of good luck - something I needed. I headed straight to a bike rental store and communicated with the cashier through my translation app, expressing, “I’m excited to see Fuji-san.” In response, he said, “I hope you get to, as that means you will return to Japan.”
I love cycling, so I rode around the lake for 40km. I love matcha and egg sandwiches, so had that for lunch. I love thermal baths, so found a public onsen. I don’t love getting caught in a storm, but hey, I love adventure and biked through the icy rain. The sun even came out for a bit - joy! I was singing on my bike as she warmed my hands and face. I sat across Mt. Fuji, engaging in a conversation with her, even as she remained shy behind the grey clouds. But despite it seeming like a pretty perfect day, I couldn’t shake away the panic I felt from the morning.
As darkness fell, I hurried to catch the last train, well beyond the return time for my rented bike. The man at the counter remarked, "So, I guess you didn’t really see Fuji," to which I replied, "Only partly. But she was still there." He paused, typing on his translation app: "Then maybe you are not welcome back :)" I understood his intention was devoid of any malice, yet I left with a subtle sense of defeat in my stride. Perhaps Fuji didn’t want me there.
On the train back to Tokyo, my wet, tired and hungry self huddled next to the heater, rubbing my cold hands together, feeling not an ounce of warmth. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to my empty hotel room. I needed a proper hug.
This wasn’t my current reality so I was forced to sit with these feelings, letting them take space next to the empty chair on my left. I didn’t run away, like I thought I could escape to Mt.Fuji, but allowed loneliness to linger with me as long as he wanted to.
Upon returning to Tokyo, I grabbed my favorite snacks from 7/11, brewed some tea, and called my mom. Sometimes an 'L' isn’t a loss; it’s just Loneliness.
LIVING IN THE MOMENT
How do you live in the moment when the moment isn’t livable?
Last year, I experienced the loss of three family members while scattered across three different countries. I was grateful to have friends around me, but the hollowness echoed with each death announcement in our family WhatsApp group. "Inna lillahi wa inallah-e-raji'oon," I typed in Arabic each time, a shortcut on my keyboard saved through unfortunate frequent use in recent years.
When I return home to warm hearts, I wonder where has my wandering led to? I see my friends buying homes, having kids, getting promotions and I think: have I sacrificed what’s truly important in life? And as they see my untethered lifestyle, experiencing the world, taking risks, they wonder: have we sacrificed our freedom?
This reflection touches upon a concept I resonate with often - gazing into a mirror and a window. In the mirror, we discern fragments of our own journey as we contemplate the choices made and paths taken by friends. Yet, as we shift our focus beyond the mirror's frame, we encounter a panoramic view—a vast expanse that extends beyond our personal reflections. It's a reminder that our individual narratives intertwine with the collective experiences of those around us, each person navigating their unique trajectory in this woven quilt of life.
As I wrote this newsletter, nestled on the sofa with ‘Planet Earth ‘ playing on the screen (my comfort show), I dozed off and awoke to find someone had lovingly placed a blanket on me.
There are times I want to be alone - need to be alone - but now is not the time, and I’m living in this moment.
This was so beautifully written. I am in a similar boat as you where I travel and have other experiences alone out of choice, but sometimes you can't help but feel a little alone or bad for yourself. It's not to say sharing moments with others is always fun, but sometimes a lovely moment with a friend or family member beats doing something by yourself.
A flower growing among one million blades of grass will always feel alone. Life needs petals like yours because you were never meant to be grass. Swaths of green are immensely beautiful in their own right, but to be born a lone flower in a world of repetition is brave and powerful. A higher power blessed you with this purpose because it knew you could handle the colours…