one breath at a time

notes on creativity interrupted by grief

In Arabic, breath and self share the same root. Breath—nafas—the thing that keeps us alive. And self—nafs—the thing we spend a lifetime trying to understand.

One of my happiest memories in Gaza was being invited to join a women’s-only yoga class in the basement of my friend Najla’s seaside home. Her house, nestled in Gaza City, had a small but immaculate garden, and beneath it, a sanctuary: colorful Turkish tiles, a kitchenette for tea and coffee, yoga mats stacked high. A small changing room allowed women to remove their hijabs and loose-fitting garments, slipping into exercise clothes.

It was in that basement where I saw many of my friends’ hair for the first time. Loose curls, bright blonde strands, pin-straight cuts—textures and colors I hadn’t expected. I had known their faces, their voices, their gestures for years. And yet, this was new.

It’s strange how a hijab can obscure something so fundamental. A small piece of fabric, and suddenly, an entire part of someone’s appearance is unknowable. Like the dark side of the moon—you trust it’s there, but you never see it. And then, one day, you do. And it’s just hair. It doesn’t change anything.

Or maybe it does.

How much of our essence is in what we reveal, and how much is in what remains hidden?

We moved in unison in that basement. Nafas, Najla would repeat between yoga postures, cueing our chests to rise and fall. After class, we would gather for tea and chatter, our laughter and secrets contained by the thick, windowless walls of our sacred space.