Title of the book: A Letter from Harvard
By: Maryam Al-Zarouni

Introduction

Under the guidance of His Highness Sheikh Ahmed bin Mohammed bin Rashed Al Maktoum, Chairman of the Mohammed bin Rashed Al Maktoum Foundation for Knowledge, which advocates launching and promoting quality initiatives aimed at training and refining the talents of the new and young generations in the field of writing, and following the remarkable success of the children's writing category within the Dubai International Writing Program, the Foundation has made great efforts to highlight the creative potential of its young talents in the Arab world. These talents are to be among the pens that it proudly presents at the local and Arab levels, particularly within the category of writing for young adults.

Through the launch of this category of writing, the Mohammed bin Rashed Al Maktoum Foundation for Knowledge has been diligent in selecting participating talents with precision, those capable of offering something new, valuable, and enjoyable in this field. As a continuation of the foundation's distinguished knowledge project, it has closely followed the program's workshops step by step, with the efforts of the writer and trainer Dr. Wafaa Thabet Al-Muzghani, to transfer her rich experience and expertise to these talents. The aim is to reap outstanding results in the end.

Today, we present a collection of novels targeted at young adults, hoping to encourage all talented individuals to unleash their potential. These novels are meant to have a meaningful message that will bear fruit for their readers. In conclusion, we extend our heartfelt thanks to everyone who has contributed and continues to contribute to the success of this knowledge project, in order to present it in a different form and content. It adds to the achievements of the Mohammed bin Rashed Al Maktoum Foundation for Knowledge, becoming a building block in a towering knowledge structure that benefits society and enriches the minds of future builders.

Jamal bin Hawaerib
Executive Director
Mohammed bin Rashed Al Maktoum Foundation for Knowledge

Chapter One - No, you're afraid

tick, tick, tick, (May I have a minute, Mrs. Suad, with the students?)

The school activities supervisor entered our classroom and directed the question to everyone, "Who wants to participate in the school radio? We have a program next week for World Health Day, and I want to select students with clear and expressive readings." I raised my hand, and confidence washed over me from the top of my head to my toes, which were trembling with anticipation and anxiety. I thought I was the only one aspiring to appear on the school stage, but my disappointment was immense when I saw a large number of my classmates raising their hands. I said to myself, "Didn't they raise their hands? Even in the radio, they're competing with me!" Aisha raised her hand, and Shamsa, Suhaim, Mariam, and Sanaa. What terrible luck! I longed to stand on the platform, holding the microphone in my hand like a professional broadcaster, with all eyes fixed on me and all ears listening to me. Why should Zainab Morad from the third-grade section present the school radio every day, and Amina Abdullah for Quran recitation? Her mumbling voice hardly carries half the letters she pronounces, and she utters words she doesn't understand, waving her arms right and left like a traffic policeman. Oh, if my father could write poetry like the one Mahra brings every morning, claiming that her father wrote it!

After a quick glance at the class, the activities supervisor asked, "What's your name?"

After a quick glance at the class, the activities supervisor asked, "What's your name?"

"Rahef Nour Al-Din.”

"You will present the riddles. Come over when you get the chance, and I'll give you the document you'll read from."

"What's your name?" Mariam Jumaa asked.

"Do you read in English?"

Suddenly, reckless screams filled the air, "I'm a teacher, I'm a teacher! I'm excellent at speaking English!"

"What are your grades?"

"One hundred out of one hundred."

"Excellent. What's your name?"

"Aisha Khaled."

"Aisha, you'll read the external health report. Can you do that?"

"Yes, I can read fluently. I also read English stories and novels."

"Excellent. Come over when you get the chance, so I can test your reading."

"What's your name?" The supervisor looked at me, awaiting my response. She stared at me in surprise. "Me?"

"Yes, you. Didn't you raise your hand to participate?"

"Uh, yes. My name is Aliya Rashed ."

"All right, Aliya. Come to my office when you get the chance, and I'll assign you what you'll present." The class left in a hurry. My heart started to tremble with the speed of its beats, and feelings of joy and anxiety mixed in my chest. Finally, I'll achieve a dream I've been waiting for—I'll stand beneath the school flag and hold the microphone in my hand—just like a professional announcer. I'll be the center of attention, and everyone will listen to me.

During the break, I quickly went to the supervisor's room, ignoring the hunger gnawing at my stomach. I ignored the sacred school cafeteria meal just to get to the supervisor's office before my other classmates. Waiting for me was a modest five-line paragraph titled "Common Mistakes." Frustration overcame me. I had dreamt of a full page for a scientific article or a poem or even a short story from which I could draw wisdom and lessons. I read the document to the supervisor with fluency and indifference, then left. I didn't need to review the document; it was too simple to bother with. I left it in my bag until the next morning.

I don't know why bad luck always conspires against me in a deceptive form. What happened to me when standing in front of the microphone? My heart was about to jump out of my chest. My labored breath was clearly audible through the speakers. I stuttered and reread the first two lines three times. Eventually, the supervisor took the paper from me and asked Zainab to read the paragraph. Yes, Zainab is good at everything except standing in line with us and listening to the school radio. This was my first and last participation, as my dream had been shattered since birth. Every time I raised my hand to participate after that, the supervisor would say to me, "No, you're afraid." This sentence has been responsible for bringing down my dreams from their heights to the depths of disappointment and scattering me into an endless void.

Ah, the huge amount of anger that wells up inside me when I hear Mahra’s foolish voice over the speakers is enough to fill a deep pit that pierces through the layers of the earth. Undoubtedly, staring at the threads of the "Shayla" worn by the student standing in front of me in the line is more entertaining. What makes this arrogant girl behave with such audacity and determination? If only the supervisor gave me one last chance, I would show her how to read the paragraph as a news announcer.

The idea of participating in the school radio haunted me everywhere: on the bus, which I fled to the back seats where the troublemakers were, and there it was, taking shelter in my bag. I pushed it away while monitoring the cars behind us, and there it was on every road sign (I am the school radio). I will never allow you to stand on the platform, nor read your paragraphs. I see Zainab driving all the cars on the road, and the sounds of the mischievous car horns gather in Mahra's sharp voice. All these catastrophic images appeared before me, and the bus that rolled us on the rocky road was like my grandmother's milk jug, from which I was born. The heat of the sun was enough to make me feel nauseous and empty my stomach.

"Aliya, Aliya, step aside a bit, I'll come down here." This was Mitha's voice, asking me to make way. She was like a feather that had been distributed to us at fast-food restaurants. I don't know if I was carrying my bag or if she was carrying me. I felt that the weight of the paper that the supervisor had taken from my hand would break my back. Her words, "No, you're afraid," kept ringing in my ears, drowning out the sounds of my younger siblings' quarrels in the house courtyard, my mother's conversation on the phone, and the chickens that used to welcome me every time they saw me in the courtyard.

Chapter Two - Thursday arrived, and the day strolled in with laughter

The weekly train stopped at the magical Thursday station. How I wished time could board the same train, then get off on Thursday, wander in the crowds, and never return to capture precious minutes since I boarded the bus. Helping me in that endeavor was my preferred seat in the front rows. We, the schoolgirls, preferred to sit where there was relative tranquility on the bus. We knew each other, and even in the floating silence, our thoughts always converged within the enclosed space, surrounded by the moving chaos outside the window glass.

I opened my Islamic Education textbook, Lesson Seven, Surat Al-Fateh:

(Quran - 48:1-3)

I was nearly finished memorizing the verses. I raised my head to see the bus approaching our house. It was only two stops away from where I would get off to start my Thursday activities. I unbuttoned my collar, then my school tie. I folded them up slightly, messed up my hair, untied it, and tucked it under my school blazer. In the final seconds, I slipped off my hidden socks, rubbing my feet together before pushing them into the front of my shoes. This saved me five minutes or more of the time I'd spend changing my clothes.

The housekeeper left the door open for me to enter directly. She knew I cherished my Thursday time and avoided my repeated sharp cries if she left me waiting for the doorbell to ring, and I had to rush to answer it. Nevertheless, I remained frustrated, despite all my time-saving efforts, when I found my two younger brothers had returned home before me and were having lunch. They had taken over the living room's TV to play their favorite PlayStation game.

I couldn't fathom how they could sit in front of the TV for hours during the weekend, manipulating their game consoles, with only their hands and eyes moving. As for me, I would retreat to my room to change my clothes and prepare for Thursday. Today, I would visit my grandmother's house and meet my cousins and aunts. In the evening, I'd listen to my grandmother's old stories and enjoy her delicious homemade porridge, which she personally prepared for my father and uncle. How much my grandmother loves her sons and respects them! She only calls her male children by the title "Sheikh." She hastens to prepare their favorite dishes and serves them herself, despite her old age. She sits close to them by the fireplace on the ground, pouring coffee made over burning wood. Then she inspects their faces as if quenching her thirst for longing and showers them with her unconditional love, which knows no bounds or conditions.

"Alia, Alia, oh Alia! Bring the food – how long must we wait for you? Hurry, the housekeeper isn't available to heat lunch a hundred times," that was my mother's voice cutting through my Thursday dreams as she walked down the hallway and reached the room.

Despite my habit of taking a nap after lunch, Thursdays were an exception. I had to complete my remaining assignments one after the other. I finished my English homework, then tackled the Arabic language reading questions. I postponed the challenging physics problems until I met my cousin Fatimah, who was a physics teacher. As for the math test, there was no point in studying for it now to avoid forgetting the information. I didn't understand why the teachers had piled up so much homework over the weekend. Why this relentless torrent of assignments? The weekend was meant for relaxation and fun gatherings. Yet we managed to snatch sweet moments among the heaps of schoolwork and test preparation.

The clock pointed to half past four. My father had finished his afternoon prayers and was waiting for us, my siblings and me, to take us to (Ummi Awsha's) house. In the car, there was always another battle over who gets to sit in the front seat. Salem always strives to secure the front seat, and he rushes to attend the Thursday afternoon prayer, unlike other days. My father knows this too, but he is happy with it anyway because it's the only thing that makes him go to the mosque without delay and excuses.

My grandmother's single-story house was built thirty years ago. It is surrounded by palm trees from the outside, and inside, almond, sidr (lote tree), hambla (desert date), henna, and palm trees are evenly distributed. On both sides of the living room door, my grandmother planted two rows of sweet-smelling jasmine. She puts some of its flowers in cups of water to decorate the windows and to scent the room every morning with rosewater and the perfume called "Abu Al-Tuyur" (which means a kind of cologne known in the UAE), and she uses its leaves to flavor tea when we visit her on Thursday evenings.

My grandmother sits on a mat in the house's courtyard, shaded by a sidr tree. She leans against the wall on cotton cushions, embroidered in red and gold. She sits on a white sponge mattress with a fringed edge embroidered in the same colors. She plays the radio with the London station, listening to high-credibility news, unlike the other stations. She has been accustomed to this since the Gulf War when my uncle was among the forces that participated in the liberation of Kuwait.

We reached our meeting point, and I gazed at the house's rooftop where we could hear the sea's murmur and see its blue when we stand on our toes at the edge of the barrier.

After sunset, my grandmother goes up to the roof with us, her grandchildren, and prepares dinner that the first ones used to have right after the Maghrib (sunset) prayer. We only follow their footsteps in my grandmother's house. After that, we sit in a circle, and in the middle is (Ummi Awsha) to tell us stories from her childhood and youth. She talks about her adventures behind the mountains or diving deep into the sea with (Al-Biyaha) or traveling through the deserts in a caravan led by the "King of the Jinn."

Chapter Three - The Art of Being Prepared

Sunday is generally an unwelcome day, except when it brings exceptional joy - a surprise school trip, the cancellation of a math test, or a teacher's absence resulting in a free period.

The first class disappointed me as it was a math test, and the second was Islamic education. Our teacher took us to the school library and showed us a short film about idol worship during the pre-Islamic era. Nevertheless, this was more enjoyable than listening to stories and looking at imaginary images of idols she gathered from the internet.

In the third period, our salvation came. After waiting for several minutes, we learned from the adjacent classroom that our Arabic language teacher, Ms. Mona, was absent. Our class quickly turned into a collection of islands, resembling the gatherings of Asian vendors in the Friday markets.

This was an opportunity to start completing my assignments and preparing for the upcoming lessons, with my ultimate goal being to enjoy my free time at home.

I sat for a moment, contemplating the class, until I could make the appropriate decision. In the front rows, there were Maryam Jumaa and Maryam Ali, and among them were Fatimah, Shamsah, and Meitha, led by Amal.

Amal: According to the Pythagorean theorem, the adjacent side will give us the length of the missing side of the triangle. In this case, the answer will be four centimeters.

Maryam Jumaa: Are you sure? I didn't get a whole number; I got a very small decimal. Did any of you get the same result?

Amal, with determination: I'm sure. Even if you don't arrive at my answer, I firmly believe that this is the correct solution.

Shamsah and Meitha, simultaneously: Wow! What makes you so sure?

Maryam Ali: It's highly likely that you got the answer from students of the previous year.

Fatimah: Wise one, this is a right-angled triangle, and one of its sides is three centimeters. How can the missing side be a decimal? It must be a whole number, either four or five.

Amal: Did you arrive at the same solution, Fatimah?

Fatimah: No, I was sick, and I couldn't remember any of the material. But it's evident that this is straightforward; the teacher prepared us thoroughly for these questions.

Maryam Jumaa: My calculator isn't showing the result immediately; I'll update it or borrow another one from the adjacent class.

Amal, confidently: Alright, you can review my notebook and discuss the solution if you can't find it.

In the middle of the classroom, the three friends huddled together, speaking softly about their personal issues, their voices barely audible.

First: My father returned home after a whole month of absence. However, my mother stood at the door and argued with him until our neighbor drove away in his car, staring at us with amazement and disapproval. I'm tired of these embarrassing disputes at the doorstep.

Second: This is not the first time. Doesn't your father know what your mother will do every time he returns?

Third: I suggest that you tell him next time to come home after midnight when your mother is asleep. I also suggest sending him a text message so that he doesn't mistime it.

Laughter erupts.

On the right side of the classroom sat Aisha and Iman, two close friends, quietly on their chairs. One of them opened a Quran, and the other started reciting it softly with a melodious voice, like the gentle flow of waves on a calm summer night in front of my grandmother's house. Then they switched roles.

In the back, there was a popular gathering in our class, where noise, loud voices, and coughing following intense laughter prevailed. There were gum-chewing and the making of balloons and their popping. Sunflower seed shells that I adore were piling up on the floor, and the troublemakers in the class, led by Nawari, were sometimes indulging in mischief and sometimes mimicking the teachers they didn't like. They chatted about their sometimes naïve romantic adventures, which I am sure are products of their imagination. Most of them were scenes copied from the Turkish series that has been airing since last year. I joined them reluctantly, then withdrew in the midst of the crowd, not caring who saw me with them. I no longer care to be an active participant; I listen to stories and laugh at the jokes and satirical scenes without joining in.

But this noise brings trouble to our class, and the administration sends a substitute teacher to control the chaos and turn us into well-behaved students in our seats.

So, here's the second day without our Arabic language teacher. We enjoy another free period, during which we catch our breath in a long school day. Days three and four pass until the week is over. We were glad about this absence. The Arabic language class is one of the boring, heavy lessons for most of us. We do our best to understand the nominative, accusative, subjunctive, the grammatical states of words, and whether we have to know each word and its grammatical role in sentences. This is too much—oh my God—add a question mark.

Then Sunday came again, and my expectations for this week were lowered. Most likely, Ms. Mona would return after recovering from her illness. But the surprise was that we found a beautiful girl waiting for us with a wide smile at the classroom door, asking us to hurry to accompany her to the library. Is this a new teacher? I wondered throughout the way. She looks young for our age. Furthermore, her attire and elegance suggest that she's one of the Instagram stars.

Our new teacher gathered us in the library and opened her tablet connected to a projector and presented her CV:

Name: Nada Mohammed

Qualifications: Bachelor of Arts in Arabic Language and Literature

Occupation: Arabic language teacher

Years of experience: 2 years

Other qualifications: A master's student specializing in literature and rhetoric at the University of Sharjah.

The students were captivated during the self-introduction with dreamy background music, a short film showing her at university, the language lab, and the schools where she worked was expertly shot and directed.

After that, she got to know us, asking about our names and repeating them to remember. She concluded the lesson by distributing her first book to us, inside which was a sheet with a schedule distributing the branches of the Arabic language across the days of the week.

So, in addition to everything else, she is a poet!

We returned to the classroom, and our voices buzzed like bees as we talked about the poet who would teach us. We discussed her elegance and significant achievements compared to her age.

We also browsed her elegant book with its white and pink cover, with a large butterfly in the center, its wings outlined in silver, standing on a wild pink flower titled "Butterfly Uprising." It looked like a stylish diary, the kind we buy for our friends to write friendship and farewell dedications at the end of the school year.

How lucky we are! On this day, we have two Arabic lessons, and we eagerly awaited the second one as we counted the minutes until the last period for the math teacher to enter the classroom. The lesson has been changed, and the Arabic teacher will take us for two periods tomorrow instead.

Chapter Four - Friendship

Professor Nada continued to teach us until the end of the year, and the beautiful dream passed like a sweet poem, its echoes still resonating in our ears.

She transformed the concepts of language in my mind and mended the gaps in my relationship with the school. She was like a piece of candy. When she appeared in the courtyard, students gathered around her like bees around a flower. When she sat on the rest bench, they crowded around to sit beside her, finding reasons to engage in dialogue. I never saw her without a book of poetry, a novel, or a magazine she was reading.

Thanks to her, my passion for reading grew, and its roots took hold. I bought an elegant notebook to record my thoughts, which I shared with her whenever I had the chance.

"Good morning, Professor Nada," I greeted her.

"Good morning, Alia. How are you?" she replied.

"I'm Alia, not Afra."

"Sorry, Alia. I don't remember names easily. Besides, Alia is a common name in all the classes I teach. Afra is a unique Arabic name that means untouched land."

"Isn't Alia a unique name as well?" I asked.

"Hahaha, yes, it is. Never mind. I promise to remember the names well."

I felt a mix of shyness and something else that I couldn't define, so I asked her, "If you had to choose between the names Alia and Afra, which one would you pick as your name?"

She answered firmly, "Nada." Then she smiled broadly, took my hand, and made me sit on the wide concrete bench in the courtyard.

"Alia, a name is just a label. It doesn't matter if someone forgets it or makes a mistake. What truly matters is the essence. Anyone who sees me, knows my qualities, and remembers my personality and how I treat them will never forget me, even if they forget my name."

I looked at the notebook in my hand and asked her, "Did you write something new?"

"Yes, Professor. I wrote an article about friendship."

"Why specifically friendship?" she inquired.

"Because I need a friend, and I haven't found one whom I can call my friend yet."

"Really, Alia? You're polite and kind. Have you tried looking for someone who suits you?"

"No, Professor, I haven't tried. I'm afraid of bothering my classmates, and I'm worried they won't understand me."

"Why this fear? It's simpler than you think."

"But I haven't felt a connection with any of my classmates yet."

"Just give yourself and your classmates a chance. Then evaluate the experience, Alia, and decide who you want to be friends with. Fear is a reasonable feeling when it's in its place, as it can save our lives sometimes. However, it can hinder our enjoyment of life when it's misplaced."

Then she surprised me by taking the notebook from my hands and said, "I'll read what you wrote first. Then we'll decide with whom you'll start this experience."

She began reading: "Your friend is sufficient for your needs. They are your field that you cultivate with love and harvest with gratitude. A friend is a natural need, a box of your secrets, and a breath of fresh air when the world feels suffocating."

"Excellent, Alia. You quoted the words of the writer Khalil Gibran from his book 'The Prophet' and placed it at the beginning of your article. But don't forget to attribute the quotes to their original authors."

This conversation ignited a new desire within me to write more. It opened up a new perspective on the much-desired friendship with the beloved teacher of the students.

As the school year came to an end, the weather became hotter, and the burden of the ten subjects we were studying weighed on our shoulders. I felt like there was an airport in my head, with one plane taking off for math and landing for English, then taking off the next day for another subject.

Finally, the last day of the school exams arrived. I brought my notebook to school and waited for her after the exam. All I hoped for was that she would write a few lines of her poetry for me. Here she came out of the exam correction room and approached us.

"Hello, my dears," she said

The students replied in unison, "Hello, Professor."

"How was your exam today?" she asked.

Maryam replied, "It was easy, but the time was short, and we barely managed to finish the answers."

Aisha added, "Yes, it was easy and straightforward. The problem was only the time."

Amal disagreed, "No, the time was not short. I answered and reviewed my answers twice."

I confessed, "I couldn't finish the last question. I left the last two parts unanswered."

Professor Nada comforted me with her words, "No need to worry, Alia. The many questions mean that the grades will be distributed among them. You'll lose only two or three points at most."

Her words reassured me, as if they were a dose of painkiller that sent me into a deep sleep after a long summer day's headache.

I got excited to be the first to offer my notebook for her to write something, and I asked her for a contact number. She smiled and wrote her mobile number at the bottom of the page.

Chapter Five - Summer, Oh Summer

The summer vacation began with many hopes and joys, I scored 89.6% in the tenth grade, and I will move on to the eleventh grade, a crucial turning point. Today, all virtues converged; June 16 marked the start of the vacation, which also happens to be my birthday. I turned fourteen, and acquiring Miss Nada's number was the most important part of it all.

The first few days of the vacation were radiant, shining, and blissful as usual. I would sleep soundly until late in the afternoon - no alarm, no time constraints, no homework. By the second week, the days started to blur together. On the nights we stayed up until morning, I'd be surprised to see my father having breakfast in the living room, only to discover it was Friday.

I felt a sense of relief. The real joy of the vacation comes when the concept of time fades away, and my primary daily content becomes the absence of work, feeling free and unrestricted by anything other than my personal desires.

The most delightful days by far were those spent visiting my grandmother over the weekends. This was the case in the first, second, and third weeks. However, this week, my grandmother called my father, asking him to bring some groceries from the city market, as relatives would be coming to her house on Friday. Thursday evening was spent preparing for the visit.

"Aliya, Aliya." My mother's voice called me. She handed me her phone and asked me to check one of the dessert-themed Instagram accounts. She wanted a unique dessert dish that had gained popularity recently. She wanted to impress my grandmother's guests on Friday. She instructed me to look for new types of food to bring with us tomorrow.

"Mom, there's a store in the new shopping center that sells premium Belgian chocolates, the kind they have in Belgium and Switzerland. They opened their third branch in our city not too long ago."

"Really? Are the prices reasonable?"

"I don't know, but we can check their website; they offer online ordering and free delivery."

"I found the website. The prices for chocolates start at 250 dirhams per kilogram."

"No, that's too expensive. Besides, your grandmother isn't fond of European sweets. I'll make her a large pot of 'Bober' (a local sweet made from wheat flour, sugar, and 'Bober' - red pumpkin or honey pumpkin - a favorite local treat). She loves it, and she'll proudly serve it to her guests."

I could hardly contain my laughter, which I forced myself to suppress. On the last Eid, my mother bought fancy Moroccan sweets that cost 1,500 dirhams, which she gifted to my aunt's house. To my surprise, my aunts, who are really something, try to please their in-laws with the cheapest items.

This time, my father and my brothers came to my grandmother's house early, helping with the preparations, and we quickly began to prepare for the visit. We arranged the dishes on the spread-out table in the central room. My grandmother had prepared four meat dishes, two for the men who would sit in the central room and two for the women who had moved to the living room. My aunt brought a massive pot of 'Haris' (whole wheat grains cooked with mutton, beef, or chicken until it becomes a soft mixture), which is a local delicacy. We arranged the 'Ghee,' clarified butter made by our neighbor in her farm, on its face.

As for the fish, it was my uncle's specialty; he had brought four large platters of fish, shrimp, and large grilled lobsters. The desserts, my mother's specialty, were placed at the front of the side table to be served after lunch with coffee. My mother's 'Araysat' (a dish made with semolina) was unmatched in the family. Even my aunts and cousins ask for it on their special occasions and gatherings, making it a top choice among local and rare delicacies.

The preparations and arrangements before the feast are quite challenging, consuming a lot of time and effort. However, the act of clearing dishes only requires a hungry stomach and an open appetite, and expressive faces competing for the race.

Everyone finished their lunch and started washing their hands, one by one. Then my father entered, asking my grandmother for permission to bring the guest and his son to greet her. They hadn't met for nearly fifteen years.

The guest was the grandson of my grandmother's older sister, nearly the same age as my father. He had come to pay his respects to his father's aunt according to his father's last request before his death. They lived in the desert city of Ghayathi, a place I had never visited, located in the part of the desert belonging to the state.

My grandmother put on her new shining 'Borqaa' (a face covering made of indigo-dyed cloth with openings for the eyes). The guest was accompanied by his son Faisal, and my grandmother asked me to come over.

"Aliya, come here, my dear. Greet your uncle Salem and his son, Faisal. This is Aliya, Rashed 's eldest daughter."

"Hello, Uncle," I extended my hand, and he did the same. We greeted each other.

"Masha'Allah! Aliya, Rashed 's eldest daughter?"

"No, this is the second one. Muhammad is the eldest; he's in his first year at the university, and he was in the majlis with you."

"So, Muhammad is my son's age, Faisal."

Faisal extended his hand to shake mine, and I felt as if my hand had been placed in a refrigerator. A freezing cold spread through my entire body; I almost had a momentary blackout, had it not been for his voice as he asked, "How are you?"

I raised my head to match his height, and I don't know how my eyes found their way to his. All I knew was that I answered the question, "I'm fine." I was unsure whether my voice was audible as my lips moved, but I still hadn't figured out how I lost my ability to make my voice heard.

The guests moved to the majlis for hospitality and coffee, while I remained in that daze. I went to my room to see my reflection in the mirror. I found the most beautiful girl in existence.

I examined my eyes, my lips, and the dark strands of my hair that gracefully framed my forehead. I pushed them up and down in an attempt to enhance my beauty.

Then I went to sit in the living room with the women and girls. Afterward, I went to the courtyard and began counting the sandals arranged on the majlis's doorstep to see how many people were inside.

Feeling hot, I returned to the house, stood behind the glassy mirror door of the majlis, and gazed at those passing by without them noticing me. The door was cold due to the air conditioning, and I moved my mouth closer to the glass, exhaling warm breath, causing condensation. I used my finger to write "F..." and suddenly, Faisal came out of the majlis and headed outside. The earth seemed to spin under my feet, pulling me outside. However, I bumped into the door. My thought process paused for a moment, and I found myself outside the living room, fiddling with the jasmine tree in front of me. In a mixture of fear, shyness,

eagerness, and confusion, Faisal came back, heading towards the majlis, carrying his phone. I turned around to face him.

"I forgot my phone in the car. Do you have a Wi-Fi network?"

"Yes."

"Can I know the password?"

"It's my dad's phone; let me enter the password."

"Can I have your phone number?"

"Um... My phone... sorry... my phone isn't working. It's broken."

"No problem; I'll memorize it while you get it fixed."

"It's 052..."

"What a special number! Can you write it down for me?" He said, smiling.

I smiled back, and he turned toward the majlis. I went back inside. I headed straight to my mother and asked her about my broken phone. She told me it was in the car and that I'd forgotten to fix it in the past few days. I insisted that she fix it for me and promised me to take it to the phone repair shop on Saturday morning.

Chapter Six - Oh, My Feelings, My Feelings

Two weeks passed, and I found myself in a state of confusion. What led me to give Faisal my phone number? Why did I rush like that? I couldn't find a valid reason within me that would justify it. I didn't even have a valid reason to blame myself or chastise myself. I was merely searching for a convincing motive for my actions. It wasn't the first time a young man had asked for my phone number; it had happened at shopping centers, the Global Village, on road trips, and even while waiting for my school bus in the morning. However, I never had the courage to do so.

Would I have done it if one of my cousins had been with me then? Did our isolation in the backyard provide me with the opportunity and push me to take this bold step? Did my father's habit of keeping us away from our maternal and paternal cousins contribute? Even though I was in a state of confusion, I was waiting for my faulty phone to be repaired, which had later become lost, transferred from my mother to my father, and then forgotten by my brother Muhammad. Finally, I wondered if he had left it in his car when he took it for its regular maintenance. Every day, I asked myself the same question: Did Faisal call and find my phone switched off? Did he think I lied to him and gave him a fake number? Or did I change my mind about contacting him?

Finally, after sixteen days, my phone arrived safely and had recovered from its ailment. I inserted the SIM card and tried it. I restarted the phone and waited. Usually, if someone calls while my phone is off, I receive a text notification with the caller's number. I waited for almost half an hour without anything happening. Then I connected to Wi-Fi, and messages started flooding in from my schoolmates, relatives, and family groups. I began reading the messages. Suddenly, there was a message from an unknown number in my phone: "Hello, my beauty, I'm Faisal."

A shiver ran through me from the strands of my hair to the tips of my toes. I wasn't sure if it was joy or fear. It was similar to the shiver I felt the first time raindrops touched my face at the beginning of winter. I stared at the screen for a duration I can't measure while reading and rereading the message. I tried to break down the words and the letters and the words themselves. For the first time, I realized that my heart had little birds singing to its rhythm. I began to analyze the twelve digits of the phone number, reading from left to right, reversing them leftward, trying to find patterns to make it easier to remember. These numbers were scattered, not connected to each other in any way.

I remained confused all day. I didn't know if I should respond to his message or ignore it. Had I not ignored it already, being the one who had answered his request? But if I replied to him, he might continue messaging or calling me. Someone might find out, and it could become a problem.

On the morning of the following day, I remembered that I hadn't added Ms. Nadia's mobile number, so I quickly opened my notebook, found the number, and saved it. Then I sent her a message stating that I was Alia.

I received a message with a timestamp from last night after midnight from Faisal: "I apologize; it seems I entered the wrong number."

The same shiver that had shaken me when I received the message overcame me again, along with the fear of losing this connection. This message felt like the end of something I hadn't even started yet. My fingers started typing uncontrollably, flowing rapidly across the keyboard.

Me: Hello, Faisal. I'm Alia, and I apologize; my phone was not working.

Faisal: Good morning, my dear. Finally.

Me: I apologize for the delay; it was beyond my control.

Faisal: I thought I had entered the wrong number, but I had hope.

Me: ---------

Faisal: I've missed you. It's been eighteen days since we last met.

Me: I've missed you too.

Faisal: And what about you?

After five minutes of silence, I glanced around, even though I was confident I was alone in the room. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. I quickly jumped up to close the door and made sure it was securely shut.

Faisal: And what about you, Alia? Say it.

Me: I've missed you too.

Faisal: Can I call to hear your voice?

Me: No, no, I'm in the living room with my family.

Faisal: Alright, I'll message you later. Take care.

Me: You too.

I closed my eyes for a moment and drifted away with the words. His image, which he had placed on his display, loomed in my mind, and I could smell his distinct cologne as if he were right there with me. I felt the warmth of his hand that had shaken mine, and a smile slowly spread across my face. Suddenly, my mobile's battery ran out, and the alarm jolted me back to reality. I hurriedly plugged it in and left it in the room, then went to reflect on his image, which had never left my thoughts since our conversation.

I checked my phone after two hours and found no message from him, but there was a message from Ms. Nadia welcoming me and asking about my vacation. I wished I could describe the happiness that overwhelmed me at that moment and tell her about what had happened during this unique holiday.

The day felt long and dull as I waited for Faisal. The clock seemed to mock me, with the minute hand moving only one minute every five minutes. My younger sister called me for dinner. Our mother had ordered pizza from our favorite restaurant, but I didn't feel hungry or have any appetite. I felt the beginnings of a headache, so I lay down on my bed, scattered my hair on the pillow, and closed my eyes, listening to Sherine's song:

Feelings consult, bidding farewell to a traveler.

Feelings die and revive other feelings.

Oh, feelings, oh, feelings.

Oh, my feelings.

My mother suddenly opened the door and interrupted the euphoria that had engulfed me. She called out to me:

"Alia, dinner is ready. Why aren't you coming? I sent you a message twice."

I replied, "Alright, alright, Mom. I'll come right now. Don't eat my portion."

I went to the mirror to check myself, fixed my hair, and then went to the living room in search of the pizza. I found only the cheesy edges left and ate them out of hunger.

That night passed, and Faisal didn't appear on WhatsApp. I started to worry about him. I hesitated to initiate the conversation, so I waited until the morning. When I didn't receive a message from him, I decided to reach out.

Me: Good morning, How are you?

His response came shortly before noon.

Faisal: Good evening, my dear. I was sleeping. How are you?

I heard the notification tone, and I had set a special tone for him. I read the message and replied.

Me: I'm fine, thank God. I was worried about you.

Faisal: Really, my dear? Were you worried about my absence last night?

Me: I was watching for your entry, and I noticed you didn't log in since yesterday afternoon. It made me worried.

Faisal: I'm sorry, my dear. I should have told you I was on a hunting trip with my friends. I love hunting, and I go out on moonlit summer nights; they're the best.

Me: But you didn't log in until this afternoon!

Faisal: Yes, because the trip from our desert city to the nearest coastal town takes about two hours. Then I continue staying out until the early morning hours by the sea. After returning, I was very tired and slept until this hour.

Me: Thank God for your safety, You must be hungry.

Faisal: Yes, I'm starving. I haven't had lunch yet. But I'm dying to hear your voice.

There was a silence, and I felt embarrassed by what he had written. His words made me blush, and I felt his gaze piercing me as I looked into his eyes in the picture.

Faisal: When will I hear your voice, Alia?

Me: We are already talking through text, Isn't that enough?

Faisal: It might be enough for you, but I can't get enough of you.

Me: Your words are making me blush.

Faisal: What's embarrassing in my words? Haha, your shyness is beautiful, Alia. A question mark. I'll message you later, Take care.

Me: You take care too.

I couldn't fall asleep easily that night. I kept thinking about his request. At times, I felt worried about taking the step, but then the feeling would fade. I was flooded with questions that I had no answers to, and my thoughts repeated in an endless loop.

I considered going back to text messages to avoid the embarrassment and anxiety his request caused me. I successfully used my sister as an excuse, stating that her air conditioner was malfunctioning in her room, which required me to stay there due to the hot weather.

Our calls gradually decreased during the late summer vacation, down to once or twice a week, and they eventually stopped when he traveled with his friends to Germany.

I was saddened by this disconnect, which continued even after the summer vacation ended, but I made a promise to myself to treat him the same way. If he wanted to reconnect, I would be more formal in our conversations. He should have said goodbye before his trip and kept in touch while he was abroad. What was preventing him from doing so? We all use our phones and social media when traveling.

I had no explanation for his behavior other than he was moody. He continued to communicate with me during his free time when he was in the country, but his travels seemed to have occupied him and provided more enjoyable forms of entertainment.

I, too, could find things to occupy me that held higher priority and significance than communicating with him. I would give him a lesson. But if he ever reached out again...

Chapter 7 - Crossroads

The past few weeks of the summer vacation felt heavy, and boredom crept in. I didn't expect the impact of Faisal's trip to be this significant. I began to adapt to the situation and kept myself busy preparing for the new school year.

One morning, my mother took us to the largest stationery store in a huge shopping center. We spent the entire day shopping, starting with pens and rulers, moving on to notebooks and stamps, and finishing with backpacks. I was very particular about buying all the supplies from the same brand and in the same colors. I recruited my siblings to help me find the items I couldn't locate on my own to have a complete set, which would allow me to show off my taste and choices in front of my classmates. Then I asked my mom for permission to buy a decent perfume that would get me in the mood for school. I chose a light, summery fragrance with a hint of lemon and a sea breeze.

It was an enjoyable outing, and we bought a lot. We wrapped it up with lunch at our favorite Italian pastry restaurant.

On the way back, my mom jokingly asked, "Hey, my sweeties, is there anything left that you haven't bought from the shopping center?"

Shaimaa replied with a smile, "Yes, I wanted to buy whiteboard markers to gift them to my teacher at the beginning of the school year."

My mom responded, "I won't finish all your requests. It's not your job; it's the teacher's responsibility."

Shaimaa insisted, "But she recommended that we bring some supplies at the beginning of the school year."

My mom said, "This is what we lack – spending on the school."

We all laughed except Shaimaa, who got upset and remained silent for a moment. Then she said, "But I love my teacher. She brings us candy and cartoon stickers every week, and markers run out quickly. I want to surprise her with a supply when she needs it in class. We also use markers as students, as she asks us to solve math problems on the board."

I suggested, "Why don't you coordinate with your classmates, Shaimaa? You could all contribute a small amount from your allowances to buy the needed supplies together. This way, you can share in purchasing what's required."

My mom responded, "Well done, Aliya. That's what I meant – for us to provide for our children's needs. They need to learn to take responsibility and find solutions to what they face in their school lives at least. I will buy what you've requested this time, Shaimaa, but afterward, try your sister's suggestion, and you'll feel the difference."

Suddenly, Abdullah exclaimed, "Mommy, why don't we go to the beach? I want to wear my new swimsuit and go swimming."

My mom replied, "Do you want us all to suffer from the heat just so you can swim in your new swimsuit?"

Laughter erupted again, but Abdullah had another idea. He said, "Let's all swim, so you won't feel the heat, Mom. Please."

My mom responded, "The sun is about to set, my dear, and I'm tired from strolling in the market. Also, the new swimsuits are for the kindergarten's activity day, which you'll attend."

Abdullah asked, "Will they take us to the beach at the new kindergarten?"

My mom replied, "No, my dear. They will give you swimming lessons in the pool they have."

Abdullah insisted, "No, Mom. I want to swim in the sea with the sharks."

My mom chuckled and said, "You want to make us all die of heat to swim in your new swimsuit! Alright, I promise to ask your dad to take us to the beach on Friday morning."

Finally, Abdullah was convinced. He fell silent, and the rest of the trip went smoothly, without his crying and screaming, which, once it starts, may go on forever, as they say.

The countdown to going back to school began, and I was occupied with the thought that I hadn't decided which department to join. My parents kept asking me about my decision, and it had become a point of disagreement between them. My mother encouraged me to choose the scientific department and aimed for me to have a future to be proud of in medicine or engineering, while my father scolded her and insisted that it was my decision and asked her not to pressure me.

Why don't I ask my friends in the WhatsApp group to see what the majority's favorite department is? That could help me make up my mind.

Me: Hello, girls. How are you?

Amal: Hello, Aliya. I'm fine, thanks. How about you?

Maryam Jumaa: Hi Aliya! Where have you been all this time?

Shamsa: Hi Aliya. I'm doing well.

The responses kept coming in quickly, as if they were glued to their phone screens, waiting for me to start the conversation.

Me: Did you travel?

Maryam: No, we didn't travel. We just roamed around the country.

Shamsa: We took a quick trip for Umrah; my dad's vacation days ran out.

Reem: Hi Aliya. Yes, I'm in Thailand.

Raheef: Good evening, everyone. How are you? I'm in Oman, and I'll be back the day after tomorrow.

Me: I didn't travel either.

Aisha: Hi, girls. I'm in London, and I'll be back in a week.

Me: Yes, Aisha, I have your Snapchat account. London is fantastic, and your daily updates make it look like a dreamy Turkish series.

Aisha, Maryam, Raheef, Zeina, and Shamsa in sequence: Hahaha. Then they sent laughing emojis with varying degrees of laughter.

Me: Hahaha! So, who are the sweet girls joining the scientific department?

Aisha: It's not as simple as that, Aliya. The school administration will consider the grades in scientific subjects as a condition for admission to the scientific department.

Maryam: Hahaha! You cracked me up, Aisha. Who would want to join the scientific department? You'll see, as usual, most girls will choose the literary department, and only a few will fill one or two classes in the scientific department.

Reem: You're right, girls. Even if our number is small, the administration won't allow students with low grades in scientific subjects to join the scientific department.

Shamsa: No, my dears, who told you that? I'm going to join the scientific department despite everyone. I love chemistry and biology, even though my math grades are low. Last year, the administration allowed students with low grades in scientific subjects to spend the first semester in the scientific department during a trial period, after which they could decide to continue or switch to the literary department.

Me: Really? I didn't know we could try the department. Does this apply to the literary department as well?

Reem: It should be like that.

Shamsa: Hahaha, she said it should. No, my dear, I don't think so. How will you manage to catch up with the scientific department in the second semester if you've missed the first semester while trying the literary department? We can barely understand despite our daily presence and follow-up today. What if we miss an entire semester with its material, assignments, and exams? Hahaha!

Me: Okay, girls, who decided to join the scientific department?

Shamsa: I did, and so did Maryam, Ali, and Sheikhah.

Reem: Me.

Maryam: Me.

Aisha: Me.

Me: And the others? Are we really only six or seven from our class?

Maryam: Yes, and I expect some of them to drop out, like Shamsa. She put on a smiling face.

Shamsa: What do you mean, Maryam? This is my business. It's not your concern.

It seemed like they were about to argue through text messages, so I thought it best to end the conversation.

Me: It's getting late, and I'm feeling sleepy. Goodnight, everyone.

The last few days passed by at the speed of light. It was the last Sunday of the vacation, and evening had caught me off guard on the last Saturday. This hot and humid morning was dry from its very beginning. I didn't get enough sleep because I had gotten used to staying up late during the vacation. The school, however, felt even drier; it was devoid of Teacher Nada, and my confusion hit its peak in the first hour as we stood in the morning assembly line.

The PE teacher began giving instructions and asked students transferring to the eleventh grade to line up in two groups based on the department they would be joining. I closed my eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and with each breath, Faisal's image appeared before me. Faisal! What brought Faisal to mind? He's telling me, "The scientific department... The scientific department" as long as the trial is available. So I turned to the left, remembering he graduated from the scientific department, and a delightful smile overcame me as I blended into the small and modest group later known as the eleventh-grade scientific class.

Chapter Eight - Me and Tesla

The first month of the school year passed, and our number dwindled to eighteen students after we were originally twenty-seven. The teachers were pleased, thinking that those who dropped out were not suitable for the scientific section, believing that their abilities did not match the required skills in scientific subjects. In the second month, our math teacher gave us our first practice test before the end-of-term exam. I became more comfortable with the timing and was open to new ideas. I made progress in my second short test, thanks to my reviews and getting used to unusual ideas in mathematical problems. Finally, all of us managed to dissect a sheep's heart. Our biology teacher and the lab supervisor divided us into pairs. Each pair received a large heart. One of us would open it up, while the other would identify its parts, learning about its chambers and valves. For the first time, I grasped the concept that the left ventricle wall is thicker than the right one. Now I understood why we repeatedly wrote in our homework notebooks and during lesson questions, finally comprehending it during the exam.

I got lost in the endless whirlwind of scientific projects for each semester. First, I had to get along with a decent number of classmates to form a research group, which was the most challenging part of the project. Then came the issue of choosing a topic. I pondered between the strangest and

Most puzzling ones, but I couldn't guarantee that the group members wouldn't prefer an easier topic or one for which tools and references were more readily available.

As the second month of the semester approached its end, I found myself representing my school in a regional physics Olympiad. I wasn't keen on participating because my schoolwork was already demanding, and I couldn't find time to complete it all. However, the insistence of my teacher, the school principal, and the physics counselor led me to accept.

I remained confused about my physics project. It was worth thirty percent of the total grade, and I had to find the right topic and the group that would fit to begin the first part of the project for the first semester. The day I'd been waiting for, the day Sheikha told me about the film she had watched on her way back from London after the summer break, finally arrived.

I asked Sheikha, "Are you serious, Sheikha? No, no, I can't believe this. How can a person light bulbs without connecting them to an electrical wire, just by inserting them into the ground?"

Sheikha responded with a smile, "You are free to believe or not, but I understand your skepticism. I was the same. I wanted to verify what I had seen as soon as possible. I waited anxiously until the plane landed, and I could use my mobile's internet. On my way home, I read a lot about Nikola Tesla."

I asked her again, "So, let's assume that Tesla truly deserves the real credit for inventing alternating current. Why did Edison claim it for himself?"

Sheikha replied, "It's all about love for the spotlight and fame, not to mention the money he made from the electric company he founded in the United States. This company distributed electric current across most parts of the United States in the early 20th century. This is in addition to his initial invention of direct current, which was less practical and efficient. It was eventually replaced by alternating current."

Then I asked, "How can a person with obsessive-compulsive disorder, who isolated himself from society in his later years, think so differently and invent all these wonders?"

Our conversation ended on November 4th. On that same day, a new and unique passion for energy and electromagnetic waves was born within me. I decided, along with Sheikha and Rahef, that our physics project would be about the electromagnetic field and its applications. I immersed myself in reading everything I could find about this remarkable scientist and what he had accomplished.

Concurrently with my readings about the miraculous scientist, I began conducting random experiments to observe the effects of the electromagnetic field on living organisms. On a Friday, I collected a considerable number of ants at my grandmother's house, consisting of two types, one small and peaceful, and the other the "Samsom" (a local name for large biting ants that cause pain and itching) that had bitten me throughout the week.

I placed the ants in a tightly sealed plastic container with some sugar pieces and set it close to the antenna on my mobile phone. I noticed a change in their paths every time I received a call or message.

I was astonished by what I witnessed. The ants moved in all directions trying to find an exit from the container but in vain. They kept trying until I placed them beside my phone, where they started to move in limited paths. After a while, they almost stopped moving, and I would occasionally help them when they seemed restless.

It was sweet potato season, and my grandmother went outside to gather some and prepare them for grilling on the charcoal stove in the backyard.

My grandmother saw what I was doing and became concerned. She asked me, "Alayyah," (which is a local diminutive of my name, Alia), "What are you doing here? What are these ants? Have you gone mad?"

I replied with all seriousness, "I'm going to make you ant soup; it's beneficial, especially in cold weather."

My grandmother muttered, "My daughter has gone crazy."

I responded with laughter, "Hahaha, believe me, Grandma, ants are rich in vitamins and very delicious. I'll raise them until they grow and fatten up. Then, I'll make you a soup with vegetables on your next visit."

Chapter Nine - The Plane and Beyond

The world seems so different from what I knew fourteen years ago. In these few months, I have learned things I never knew throughout my past life. Faisal comes to my mind as I soar at a great height.

I wonder, does he ever think of me when he travels? Does he still remember me? Does he revisit our conversations as I do now?

I glance out the window and see clouds taking familiar shapes - one resembles a cat, another looks like a school bus. Oh, and there's Faisal's face! Yes, his face is right there on those clouds. I take a picture of it, a memory to show him one day.

These marvelous machines that carry us above the clouds, I can't help but think of how our lives would be without the mathematical calculations by trigon metrists. How would we navigate the skies, and would fighter planes hit their targets precisely? How different our world would be if Archimedes hadn't deduced the buoyancy of an immersed object, making it possible to transport thousands of tons of cargo across bodies of water.

Scientists dedicate their lives to a higher purpose, and female scientists, too, make sacrifices for the greater good. One such scientist gave up her life's privacy to unlock the most beneficial radioactive element for humanity. She won the Nobel Prize twice, once in physics and once in chemistry. Her discovery led to the development of the X-ray machine, which saved thousands of lives during World War I. Another scientist tirelessly pursued her research for decades, eventually discovering how to separate human blood into its core components and saving the lives of injured soldiers during World War II.

In life, there are moments of great significance that are worth living for. Imagine how much more beautiful the world would be if it were shrouded in peace, if people devoted themselves to the betterment of humanity. What if aggressor nations acknowledged their wrongdoings and proposed a peaceful solution to mend the rift and stop the bleeding wounds?

Here I am at this lofty altitude on the plane, and the world below seems minuscule. As we ascend, objects diminish in size and eventually fade away. I embarked on this journey by chance, ever since I was nominated for the International Physics Olympiad. However, I reached the finals through planning, effort, and the professional training I received.

I'm on my way to Korea for the final exams on a global level. From this vantage point in time and space, I see another Alia who looks remarkably like me, only older. She stands on a dignified platform at an international gathering, and all heads turn towards her. She reaches out her hand to me, grips my hand firmly, and says, "Repeat after me: I pledge to take myself to new heights in my life, to enrich it with meaning and value, and to travel through the gates of the future through science, making this planet the optimal place for the flourishing of humanity."

I dozed off for nearly two hours, and I woke up to the voice of the flight attendant, who tapped my shoulder to wake me for mealtime. I continued to think about what I had seen, overwhelmed with immense, almost overwhelming love, to the point where I felt like hugging the chairs, the flight attendants, and everything around me.

After many hours spent watching documentaries, listening to music, and conversing with the scientific trip coordinator, who sat beside me throughout the flight, I finally checked the schedule for the trip. Most of it consists of theoretical and practical physics tests, interspersed with meetings with other delegations to get acquainted and showcase training experiments.

The first day at the National Research and Technology Center went off without a hitch. Students from all over the world gathered there to take their tests in the presence of technology and physics experts from the giant Samsung Corporation, specializing in phones, computers, and technology.

I successfully passed the first day, and the second day flew by like a diamond's sparkling flash when exposed to bright light. The coordinator and the translator praised me, passing on the admiration of international judges in the first stage of testing. I was surprised by the mathematical abilities they saw in me, and I knew that God had provided me with this opportunity to teach me things I didn't know about my own capabilities.

The second day began differently, as our supervisor took us on a visit to a traditional candy factory in the city. They gave us gifts in wooden souvenir boxes containing pieces of candy made from rice and sugar cane honey. They had our names written in Korean on the boxes.

We returned just before lunch to prepare for the second stage of the tests in the afternoon. We had lunch and sat in the hotel lobby, reviewing some general physics laws that might appear in the test. Sitting next to me was a blond boy who closely resembled the pop singer Justin Bieber. He was reading a book in English. I noticed his curiosity as I tried to read the page facing me, so he greeted me in English with an accent that didn't sound native.

Him: Hello,

Me: Hello,

Him: Are you interested in the book's topic? Would you like to read it?

Me: (nervously) Sorry if I bothered you. Is it in English?

Him: Yes, it contains exercises with their solutions related to projectile motion.

Me: (surprised) Are you with us in the Olympiad?

Him: Yes, I represent France. My name is Philip.

Me: I'm Alia, representing the United Arab Emirates for physics as well.

Him: That's great. You can browse through the book while I fetch my bag from the room.

Me: Thank you. I'll take a quick look.

Philip returned after some time with an Asian girl. By then, I had finished reviewing several exercises with new concepts. I handed him the book back, and he introduced me to the new friend of science, Hieu-Ha, a Vietnamese student who had come here for the same reason as us. She told me that she had set up a WhatsApp group for physics students in Seoul and asked if I wanted to join. I gave her my mobile number, and she added me to the group.

It was time to board the bus that would take us to the National Research and Technology Center. I began gathering my papers and tools, placing them in my bag. Philip came forward and introduced me to physics students from all over the world. He moved merrily among the seats, distributing French macarons to everyone.

The tests on this day were the practical part, relying on experiments. We were divided into groups to perform them. The tests took several hours, with light meals and breaks alternating between each group's members.

This was the first time I had conducted a practical physics experiment. The physics teacher did not allow us to touch the devices or get close to make direct readings. She was concerned about the devices being affected by air currents or loud sounds, which might influence the accuracy of the readings. I think she was right.

What amazes me most about physics is its precision. The more precise we are in our investigations and experiments, the more accurate and magnificent the results become.

The four days allocated for the tests passed quickly, and the day of the final results announcement arrived. I had been anxious since last night, but I tried to ignore it. I managed to sleep for only two hours; last night was filled with strange dreams. I couldn't help but feel worried. To alleviate my anxiety, I chatted with my physics friends. There was Philip, so I decided to practice French with him.

Philip: Bonjour,

Me: Bonjour,

Philip: No (pronounced "Bonjog") with a short "r" sound. He insisted on my pronunciation of the "r" just like the Parisians.

The time had come for us to board the bus that would take us. My heart raced, and its beats almost matched the bus's speed.

Upon arrival, we found some delegations had already arrived at the hall. Seats with nameplates for each country were set up. I took my seat, next to the supervisor, and my fellow student who had taken the math tests.

The ceremony began with a speech by the head of the International Examination Committee, followed by the Korean supervisors. Afterward, the announcement of results began, alternating with waves of applause. I couldn't understand much of it, as I was only interested in the physics result. My brain was visualizing all possible scenarios simultaneously. I could see myself on the stage, receiving the first-place certificate. At the same time, I saw myself humiliated between my schoolmates, with them teasing me for my return after failing to achieve any success.

I had given my all. I would have done more if I could. I had committed every possible moment to university-level syllabi and memorized them. Could I outperform the Vietnamese girl or the French boy who kept practicing exercises from the last year of their undergraduate degree? Then, I heard: "Physics, United Kingdom - First Place, United Arab Emirates - Second Place." What? Did they say the United Arab Emirates? Not the United States? No, I didn't hear the word "American." I heard "Arab." Was this me? Did they mean I represented the United Arab Emirates for the physics subject? I won second place among all the candidates from around the world? I was overwhelmed by the shocking astonishment, almost drowning in it, until my supervisor and my fellow student embraced me, pushing me towards the stage to receive the certificate. As confident as I was in my efforts and my hope for what I would achieve, I wasn't sure of the result. The words froze in my mouth, and a tear rolled down, like a sea blocking my path to the stage. When the supervisor felt my legs trembling, she took me to the stage, holding my hand and whispering in my ear, "Well done, Alia, you did it." Only then did I confirm that I had indeed represented the country and achieved this rank. I briefly felt regret for not winning the first place, but it quickly dissipated, replaced by intense joy and confidence. I almost felt like a crowned queen on a throne of gold.

Chapter Ten - Harvard Letter

On the sixth day, it was the final sightseeing tour in the capital. We entered one of the massive shopping centers, determined to buy items representing the local identity and the local industry. Most of the shops were selling locally made clothes, accessories, cosmetics, decorations, souvenir items, furniture, and wooden artifacts. They produced everything they needed, from food and clothing to furniture, children's toys, electrical appliances, computers, and smartphones.

I was intrigued when I noticed a dimly lit store filled with light bulbs. Several European tourists were lined up at the entrance, which piqued my curiosity. I asked one of them:

Me: Hello, what does this store sell?

Tourist: Hello, they make custom paper scrolls, and you can have anything written on them as per your request.

Me: Well, what's so special about it?

Tourist: These are handmade papers made from rice plant fibers, and the writing ink is extracted from a sea hare.

Me: Really! That's fascinating.

I thought my mother would love these scrolls, especially those with handwritten Quranic verses. I waited in line, listening to an explanation from one of the store workers who was taking orders outside the shop. It's an ancient belief in the blessing of these papers since they are made from rice fibers, which God had blessed them with, and it was the main source of food for Koreans for thousands of years. The sea hare ink held a sacred status because it was believed to be a sign of good luck, used as a taste for fish during fishing.

When it was my turn, I chose a medium-sized white sheet of paper and asked the calligrapher to write my parents' names (Rashed and Fatima) in Korean. Then I waited for it to dry and chose a cherry wood frame for it.

Upon returning to the hotel, the receptionist handed us an envelope with my name written in English. I took the envelope, and my supervisor, as we prepared for dinner and packing for our return to the UAE the next day.

My name was on the envelope, and it was in English! What could this envelope be? Would they give me a monetary award for securing second place? But the envelope looked very flat! Oh, it might be a certificate, not cash. I'll use the amount for a trip to Vietnam or France next summer if it's a monetary award. But what if the amount is not sufficient? Oh no, the envelope is too flat, and the reward might be just a few hundred dollars.

Oh, what makes me so confident that it's a monetary award? What if it's a letter of apology for their mistake in grading and informs me that I'm not the second-place winner? No, no, it's a nightmare. Should I ask my supervisor to open the envelope for me? Oh my God, what's this?

Is bad luck following me all the way here? Doesn't the day of the school radio suffice?

My supervisor shouted, "Alia, what's wrong? Come upstairs with us. The elevator will break down if you keep blocking the door."

We descended for lunch, and I felt a bit reassured since I didn't notice any annoyance or distress on my supervisor's face. But curiosity was stronger.

Me: Professor, did you open the envelope?

Supervisor: No, it had a note on it: "Addressed to the Students' Affairs at the Ministry of Education."

Me: But my name was on it, right?

Supervisor: Yes, but I won't be able to open it. I have to deliver it to the mentioned department.

Me: Why do they put my name on the envelope, then?

Supervisor: Don't worry; it might be an administrative instruction as a preliminary step to receive the official winning certificate and the award for the second place.

Her answer added some assurance, but I continued with my questions: Who is the sender?

Supervisor: Oh, I didn't notice, Alia.

Me: Please, Professor, inform me when we reach the room.

I started serving myself from the buffet. What's this? Vegetarian sushi? We were used to trying international foods in the UAE. We passed by the Asian kitchen, specifically Japanese and Thai, but I didn't know sushi could be vegetarian without seafood. We sat at the table, and I began tasting the sushi and the deliciously spicy soy sauce. I took photos and posted them on my Snapchat account, writing: "The most delicious sushi in celebration of the second place worldwide." I started receiving congratulatory messages from my friends and family, and my phone rang incessantly. But I postponed all the calls except for my father's. I wanted to talk to him once I returned home and had some rest.

On the final day, our plane took off for Dubai. I was engrossed in watching movies and felt a profound sense of relief, as if I had completed all my life's tasks.

Oh God, I forgot the envelope! How could I forget about it! I went to the supervisor to ask her about it, and I found her asleep. What a stroke of luck! I returned disappointed to my seat and started attempting to sleep, and then I drifted into slumber with the soothing music.

As soon as the plane landed, I opened my phone, and the messages started pouring in one by one. Afterward, there was a call from my father, inquiring about me and letting me know that my brother was at the airport to pick me up.

I hesitated to answer a call from Faisal. I stared at the screen for a while, torn between answering or sticking to my promise of treating him the way he treated me. I waited until the ringing stopped and put my phone on silent mode. I felt a sense of pride and victory over myself. Months had passed, and he hadn't thought of contacting me, apologizing, or finding a suitable reason for cutting off the relationship.

My brother, Mohammed, welcomed me with a hug, reinforcing my sense of security, and I was still under the influence of the surprise regarding Faisal. He carried my bag and sat me next to him in the car.

I took my phone and received a message from Faisal on WhatsApp:

*Hello Alia,*

*Congratulations on your achievement! You proved your excellent choice when you joined the science department. I apologize for my prolonged absence without explanation. You might have forgotten about me or deleted my number. (Faisal)*

This message stirred something inside me and brought back some of what his absence had violated. I decided to reply to him briefly the next day.

In the evening, the school principal called my mother to congratulate her and check on me. She informed her that I would be given a two-day holiday to adjust my sleep schedule and get some rest after the travels and exams.

For the first time, I wished the holiday would pass quickly. I still didn't know the source of the envelope, and I hadn't confirmed its contents. I wished the supervisor had told me the sender's information to put an end to this nagging obsession.

The next day, I was surprised to find a grand celebration when I arrived at school. They had made a huge fabric banner with my name and the school's name, and it read, "Second Place in the International Physics Olympiad." They hung it on the front wall of the school. During the morning assembly, the school radio dedicated a segment to celebrating this achievement and honoring me, along with my physics teacher who had coached me.

The students showered me with admiration and pride as they surrounded me from all sides, staring at me with admiration and awe in some of their eyes. The principal shook my hand under the school flag and handed me an envelope, the same one I received from the supervisor at the hotel. I took out an English letter from it and invited the English teacher to read it. The letter stated:

"We, representing Harvard University in the United States of America, extend our congratulations on this victory. We usually attend the final qualifying rounds of the Olympiad to support promising talents like you and nurture them. We are pleased to offer you a scholarship at the university to study Physics and Solar Energy after your twelfth-grade graduation, in accordance with the university's terms and conditions. A copy for the student, a copy for the Ministry of Education."

And another dream began.