SAMA

  The years do not ask our permission before they pass. They gather our ambitions one by one, until every longing is distilled into a single, sacred prayer: “Grant us serenity.” Not the silence born of emptiness, but the stillness that no storm can conquer. May it dwell in every road we are destined to walk, in every home that receives our footsteps, and in every hand that finds its way into ours. May fear never learn the language of our hearts. May doubt never eclipse the light within us. May disappointment arrive only to discover that hope has already taken root too deeply to be uprooted. And may peace descend upon us like the evening sky upon a weary earth, unhurried, boundless, and full of mercy, until it wraps itself around our souls like an invisible cloak, guarding what is tender, healing what is broken, and reminding us that the safest place a heart can dwell is in tranquility.

  Though darkness whispers false promises and rules the earth with borrowed power, its kingdom is fleeting. For when the appointed hour of the sun arrives, the fog surrenders, the shadows retreat, and every uncertain path adorns itself with the radiance of glory. Light does not merely reveal the way, it transforms it into something worthy of hope. Photo SAMA Creations

  "Enjoy the little things in life because one day you'll look back and realize they were the big things." Kurt Vonnegut

  In the dark years of the Lebanese Civil War, villages that had once shared harvests, weddings, tears, and laughter suddenly found themselves divided by invisible lines drawn in blood. Neighbours became enemies. The poison of sectarian hatred spread through valleys where children had once played together, and the idea of erasing the “other” became a cruel necessity of survival. There were no televisions broadcasting the tragedy, no endless streams of news. The language of those days was carried by the wind itself: the crack of rifles, the whistle of bullets, the screams of mothers, and the hurried footsteps of people running from death. Among them was a young mother with three boys. The eldest was four years old. The second was three. The youngest, not yet two, had been frail since birth, his small body already carrying burdens too heavy for a child. Their father remained behind with his brothers, holding the line so that women, children, and the elderly might escape. The mother’s...

  In a world increasingly illuminated by the glow of screens, teaching children to listen to the language of the earth is among the greatest gifts we can offer. To help them understand the delicate harmony of ecosystems, and the sacred responsibility we bear as their guardians, is to plant seeds whose fruits may not be seen for generations. By nurturing their connection to nature and their reverence for the beauty entrusted to us by God, we invest not merely in their future, but in the future of humanity itself.

  That is how people knew him. In fact, his nickname had long eclipsed his real name, which only a handful of villagers still remembered. Hajj owned the village’s only little shop. He lived on whatever livelihood it provided for him and his wife, supported in one way or another by every family in the village, for they had no children of their own. My father remembers him from his own childhood. Hardly a night passed without my mother telling us one of the many stories in which he and his wife were often the heroes. Everyone remembers his snow-white hair, his rosy cheeks, his laughter, and his traditional baggy trousers. And just as they knew him, so did I. I grew attached to him from my earliest years. My mother would often send me to his tiny store to fetch a few things. I would walk into what was both his home and his shop, losing myself among sacks of lentils and rice. I would plunge my hands into bags of spices and fill my palms with wheat grains, only to return them one by one...

  In healthcare, we are expected—almost instinctively—to continue functioning despite exhaustion, grief, trauma, or the quiet collapse of our own foundations. We learn to compartmentalise. We learn to carry on. And sometimes, we learn to disappear behind the masks we wear. I do not believe this day is only about doctors, nor do I believe it should be reduced to an annual ritual that arrives with a speech, posters, and flyers, only to be forgotten by the next morning. This is about all of us. Doctors, nurses, paramedics, allied health professionals, support staff—people who spend their lives caring for others while often neglecting themselves. We learn to identify depression in a patient, yet may hesitate to acknowledge it in our own reflection. I have seen clinicians continue working while emotionally depleted, anxious, burned out, or traumatised. I have seen some labelled as "unable to cope," as though suffering were a personal weakness rather than a human response to extrao...

Once upon a time, on the rugged slopes of life's mountains, there stood an ancient rock, one of the largest among its kin. Each morning, it awoke with the sun resting upon its shoulders. The dry winds would strike its weathered face, while distant songs drifted upward from valleys far below. The mountaintop was a restless place, forever swept by wandering gusts, yet the rock remained unmoved—silent, steadfast, and deeply rooted in the earth that gave it strength. Seasons came and went, and solitude became its only companion. Then one day, a tiny seed, carried carelessly by the wind, found refuge beneath the rock's sheltering shadow. It was so small that the rock never saw it arrive. Yet somehow, he sensed a quiet pulse of life stirring beneath him—a secret unfolding in the darkness. Slowly, the seed became a flower. Delicate and bright, she grew under his protection, drinking sunlight by day and leaning against his ancient body by night. Whenever her slender stem brushed his ro...

  I have always been fascinated by the quiet wisdom of plants—how they know precisely when to unfurl their leaves, when to bloom, and when to offer their fruits to the world. As winter settles in, this Narcissus amaryllis stirs beneath the earth, gently parting the soil with its emerald fingers. Yet it guards its blossoms with patience, refusing to release them until spring lingers at the doorstep. What appears to us as instinct is in fact a remarkable symphony: photoreceptors sensing the changing light, temperature whispering its secrets, hormones such as auxin and florigen carrying their messages, all guided by an exquisitely precise circadian clock. A silent intelligence, written not in thought, but in the language of life itself. Happy first of June.