Maheen Syed

Although words can never truly do justice to the soul-stirring experience of performing Umrah, my heart kept searching for the right language to embrace memories that were far greater than any vocabulary I possess. That is why it took me almost one hundred days to write about this journey—not because I had forgotten a single moment, but because my heart needed time to translate what my soul had witnessed. Some journeys are measured in miles, some in memories, and a few are measured in miracles. My Umrah was never merely a trip from one country to another; it was the longest voyage my heart had ever undertaken and the shortest distance between a trembling soul and its Creator. Since childhood, the world has reached me through blurred outlines, softened colours, and incomplete pictures. Faces have often been recognized by voices, footsteps have painted clearer portraits than appearances, and kindness has always shone brighter than light itself. My eyes may struggle to capture details, bu...

While my fellow artists stood beside their paintings gracefully unveiling the hidden stories behind every brushstroke, every shade, and every carefully chosen medium, I stood beside a handful of bookmarks carrying fragments of my heart. The paintings around me were framed on gallery walls, yet my words were hanging in an invisible courtroom, waiting for a verdict. They were admired, picked up, and sold—but the moment someone whispered that they were not truly mine, only borrowed from AI, every bookmark suddenly felt as though it carried a silent question mark instead of my signature. In that instant, the applause faded into the background, and the brightest exhibition lights could not illuminate the darkness that settled within me. I had travelled a long, exhausting road from rejection to acceptance, believing that at last my voice had found its own canvas, only to watch my creativity be painted over with doubt. For a fortnight, every sunrise reopened the same unfinished sketch in my ...