The Avatar is replaceable. The world isn’t.

INTRODUCTION

Most animated television series end when their story ends. You watch the finale, the credits roll, and the world that occupied your imagination gradually becomes something you remember.

For Avatar: The Last Airbender, that relationship between story and ending has been different. Eighteen years after its 2008 finale, the franchise has continued through a sequel series, comics, games, live-action adaptations, and a growing slate of new animated projects. At the same time, its fandom has remained active across multiple generations. The original story — a three-season journey following twelve-year-old Aang as he learns to master the four elements and end a hundred-year war — was narratively complete. Yet the intellectual property built around that story was not.

That continuation is the central puzzle of this report.

The question is not simply why Avatar remains popular. Popularity is a symptom, not an explanation. The more useful question for understanding the property as an IP is: why has Avatar proven so elastic — able to generate new stories, formats, characters, and audiences without exhausting the world that made the original series compelling?

The answer, I argue, lies in a distinction built into the franchise from the beginning: The Avatar is a role within the world, not the foundation of it.

Aang is one Avatar. Korra is another. Future Avatars will occupy the same role in entirely different historical moments. The franchise therefore does not depend on one protagonist to carry its identity forward. Instead, the Avatar exists within a much larger political, spiritual, cultural, and especially historical system.

Avatar’s strongest asset isn’t the Avatar itself. It’s the world that exists around them.

That distinction matters because a franchise built around one irreplaceable protagonist has a relatively narrow narrative footprint. Sequels, prequels, and spin-offs must continue to orbit that character or risk feeling disconnected from the original. A franchise built around a world — with its own rules, histories, institutions, conflicts, cultures, and characters capable of carrying stories independently — has a much larger narrative surface area. Avatar can tell stories before Aang, after Aang, alongside Aang, or without an Avatar at all.

This report examines that elasticity through the property’s origins, worldbuilding, character architecture, thematic durability, fandom, expansion history, and remaining opportunities for storytelling.

CHAPTER II

IP Origins

Avatar: The Last Airbender was created by Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and aired on Nickelodeon across three seasons from February 2005 to July 2008. It arrived at a time when American children’s animation rarely attempted the kind of serialized, novelistic storytelling that would become central to Avatar’s identity.

The series also distinguished itself through the specificity of its world. Its visual language and martial-arts-based bending systems drew from a range of Asian and Indigenous cultural influences, while its architecture, clothing, writing systems, landscapes, and spiritual traditions gave each society a recognizable identity.

The result was a fantasy world that felt constructed rather than generic. The Four Nations were not simply different locations for the characters to visit. They represented different political systems, cultural traditions, relationships to nature and understandings of power. That distinction is important to the property’s later expansion. Because the world was given internal systems and histories from the beginning, later creators had something to build upon rather than simply a setting to reproduce.

The franchise’s corporate history has also increasingly reflected this value. In 2021, Nickelodeon announced Avatar Studios, a dedicated division focused on developing new projects within the Avatar universe, with DiMartino and Konietzko involved in its creative direction. The creation of a dedicated studio around a completed franchise is itself significant: the property was being treated not simply as a successful back-catalog title, but as an expandable universe.

CHAPTER III

The World Itself: Infrastructure, Not Backdrop

The most consequential creative decision in Avatar’s original design was giving its setting political and cultural depth far beyond what a single three-season story normally followed. The Four Nations — Fire, Water, Earth, and Air — are not simply four groups distinguished by elemental powers. Each contains its own political structures, cultural traditions, social tensions, and relationships to the other nations.

That means each can function as a story engine independently of the original plot.

The Fire Nation is an industrialized imperial monarchy and the primary aggressor in the Hundred Year War. Yet the series does not reduce its population to a collection of villains. Its citizens have families, schools, cultural traditions, social hierarchies, and competing relationships to the imperial project. That contradiction creates narrative possibilities beyond the original war story: political intrigue, succession, civilian life, resistance, colonialism, and the consequences of empire.

The Water Tribes demonstrate how the same external threat can produce radically different societies. The Southern Water Tribe is shaped by population loss and repeated raids, while the Northern Water Tribe develops a more fortified and isolationist society. The contrast creates stories about survival, community, tradition, gender, displacement, and adaptation.

The Earth Kingdom is geographically and politically fragmented, containing villages, cities, local rulers, and the highly centralized capital of Ba Sing Se. Its decentralized structure allows the franchise to explore a different type of conflict: not simply invasion from outside, but bureaucracy, corruption, inequality, governance, and the relationship between local and centralized power.

The Air Nomads are the most dramatically absent of the four nations. Their destruction before the beginning of the series makes their culture simultaneously a history, a memory and a spiritual tradition. That absence creates an unusual storytelling opportunity: the Air Nomads can be explored through stories set before the genocide, while their disappearance continues to shape stories set afterward.

Layered over this political geography is Avatar’s spiritual cosmology: the Spirit World, animal guides, reincarnation, past Avatars, and the relationship between human societies and spirits.

This gives the universe a second narrative register. A story in the Avatar universe does not have to be political or martial. It can be spiritual, philosophical, historical, personal, or supernatural.

Avatar’s worldbuilding functions as narrative infrastructure rather than set dressing.

A writer working within the universe does not have to invent political stakes, cultural systems, spiritual rules, or historical conflicts from scratch. They already exist — and, crucially, they contain tensions that can generate stories the original series never told.

CHAPTER IV

Avatar Is Only One Piece

The franchise’s title character is, paradoxically, one of its more replaceable elements — not because Aang is poorly written, but because “the Avatar” is designed as a role rather than a fixed identity.

The mythology establishes that Avatars existed before Aang and will exist after him. The cycle therefore builds narrative renewal directly into the premise: a new Avatar can mean a new protagonist, a new nation of origin, a new set of political circumstances, and a new historical era without requiring the underlying world to be rebuilt.

Korra demonstrates this most directly. Her world is more technologically advanced and politically complicated than Aang’s, and the central conflicts shift accordingly. The world has changed, but the fundamental mythology remains recognizable.

That same mechanism creates an unusually large narrative footprint.

Remove Aang, and the world still functions. Remove the Avatar entirely, and much of the world still functions.

The Four Nations still have political histories. The Spirit World still operates according to its own rules. Bending remains a functioning system. Characters have relationships and histories independent of the Avatar. Entire historical periods exist before and after the events audiences already know.

In other words, Avatar contains multiple semi-independent story engines: the world creates settings; history creates unresolved stories; characters create emotional attachment; bending provides a recognizable and expandable magic system; spirituality creates an entirely separate narrative register; politics creates conflict; and mythology provides continuity across generations.

This is what makes the property unusually elastic.

The protagonist can change without the IP losing its identity. The world is the constant.

CHAPTER V

The Character Ecosystem: Why Audiences Stay for More Than the Avatar

If the world provides Avatar with its narrative infrastructure, its characters provide the emotional infrastructure.

Aang is the protagonist of the original series, but the audience’s relationship with Avatar is not organized around him alone. Zuko, Katara, Sokka, Toph, Iroh, Azula, and dozens of secondary characters have developed independent cultural identities within the fandom. Their importance is not simply that audiences like them. Each character provides a different entry point into the world.

Zuko offers a story about shame, identity, family, and redemption. Katara’s story is shaped by grief, responsibility, anger, and community. Sokka provides humor while repeatedly demonstrating that leadership and usefulness do not require bending. Toph introduces a radically different kind of independence. Iroh represents another possibility entirely: a character whose history includes violence and power but whose later life is defined by reflection, mentorship, and restraint.

These characters allow audiences to find themselves in different parts of the same world.

That matters for IP longevity. A property with a large and emotionally differentiated character ecosystem does not need every new story to recreate the original protagonist’s journey. The audience can follow the world because they have learned to care about many different kinds of people within it.

This creates a distinction between recognition and attachment.

A recognizable character can make someone remember an IP. An emotionally meaningful character can make someone return to it.

Avatar has both.

The result is an IP where individual characters can become cultural objects independent of the story that introduced them. Iroh’s dialogue circulates through social media and fan edits. Zuko’s redemption arc remains a reference point in discussions of major character development. Toph’s personality has become shorthand for a particular kind of independence and irreverence.

The characters therefore do not simply populate the world. They become additional entry points into it.

CHAPTER VI

Thematic Elasticity: Why Avatar Continues to Mean Something

Worldbuilding explains how Avatar can continue generating stories. Its themes help explain why audiences continue to find those stories meaningful, and carry them into their own lives.

Aang is confronted with the destruction of his people.

Katara and Sokka grow up without their mother because of the war.

Zuko’s identity is shaped by an authoritarian family and a political system that defines worth through loyalty.

The Earth Kingdom experiences both foreign occupation and internal political manipulation.

The Fire Nation’s imperial project demonstrates how ordinary people can participate in, benefit from, or simply live within an oppressive political system without every individual becoming a conventional villain.

This is part of what allows the series to age with its audience.

A child can experience Avatar primarily as an adventure story.

A teenager can recognize its questions about identity, friendship, and belonging.

An adult can return to it as a story about war, empire, political responsibility, trauma, or reconstruction.

The text remains largely the same; the audience’s relationship to it changes.

That is an important property for an IP. Thematic depth creates the possibility of repeated discovery. An audience does not necessarily outgrow a property when its themes can become more legible as the audience itself matures.

Avatar therefore has two forms of longevity operating simultaneously:

Nostalgic longevity

People return because the property is associated with formative memories and earlier stages of life.

Interpretive longevity

People return because the same text supports new interpretations as their knowledge and experiences change.

The combination is powerful. Nostalgia brings audiences back; thematic depth gives them a reason to stay.

CHAPTER VII

The Fandom: When an IP Becomes a Cultural Language

The strongest evidence that Avatar had moved beyond its original television run is not simply that people continue to watch the show.

It is that people use the property to communicate with one another.

Avatar references have become a part of internet culture: reaction images, quotes, edits, memes, fan art, cosplay, character discourse, theories, quizzes, collectibles, fanfiction, and debates over individual characters or nations.

The fandom does not only consume Avatar. It continually reinterprets and reproduces it. This distinction matters.

A passive audience receives a finished story.

A participatory audience creates additional cultural material around that story.

Avatar’s relatively stable visual language makes this particularly easy. The symbols of the four nations, bending styles, character designs, elemental associations, and recurring imagery are immediately recognizable. A fan does not need to reproduce an entire scene to communicate an Avatar reference. Sometimes a single symbol, quote, costume, or elemental association is enough.

This creates what could be described as a low-friction fandom language.

The IP provides audiences with a shared vocabulary, a jargon of sorts. A person can identify with a nation, reference a character, quote Iroh, use an elemental symbol such as a lotus flower, or create an edit, and immediately communicate something to another fan.

The specific reference matters less than the underlying function: Avatar gives people a set of characters, symbols, personalities, and concepts through which they can express themselves.

This is particularly valuable for a long-running IP because fandom becomes a form of organic distribution. Every meme, edit, cosplay, fan theory, recommendation, or rewatch conversation introduces the property to someone else.

This creates a feedback loop in which participation increases visibility, visibility introduces new audiences, and new audiences renew attachment to the IP:

The franchise does not have to generate all of the cultural activity surrounding itself. Its audience does some of that work organically.

Avatar’s fandom is not concentrated in one place. It exists across Reddit, TikTok, YouTube, Instagram, fanfiction archives, wikis, Discord communities, conventions, gaming spaces, and increasingly mainstream social platforms. Each platform supports a different kind of participation.

This distinction matters for understanding the IP. The “Avatar fandom” is better understood as an ecosystem of overlapping communities than as one homogeneous audience.

The scale is significant.

CHAPTER VIII

Expansion: The World Proving the Thesis

The history of Avatar’s expansion provides a useful test of the argument made throughout this report.

The franchise did not simply produce three seasons and then repeatedly recreate the same story. Instead, its expansion has occurred across different characters, periods, formats, and media.

The original series established the foundational world: the Four Nations, bending, the Avatar cycle, the Spirit World, and the Hundred Year War.

The Legend of Korra demonstrated the most important consequence of the Avatar cycle: the world can change while the mythology remains recognizable. Korra’s world is more technologically advanced and politically complicated than Aang’s. The central conflict shifts accordingly.

The comics expand the universe horizontally and vertically. Some stories continue existing characters and conflicts, while others move backward into the histories of previous Avatars or explore periods that received little attention in the television series. This demonstrates that the franchise can operate at different scales. A story can be personal, regional, national, global, historical, or mythological without leaving the same universe.

Games introduce another form of expansion: participation. Instead of simply watching characters navigate the world, audiences can interact with its mechanics, particularly bending and exploration. The world becomes something audiences can not only observe, but inhabit.

The live-action adaptations demonstrate another property of strong IP: recognizability can survive a change in medium. The underlying mythology, characters, and world remain recognizable even when the medium and execution change.

The creation of Avatar Studios marks another shift: from extending an existing franchise to treating Avatar explicitly as a long-term universe. The significance is not simply that more projects are being produced. The franchise now has an institutional structure designed around continued world development.

CHAPTER IX

Where the IP Can Still Go

If Avatar’s strength comes from the size and flexibility of its world, then its future does not need to depend on continually revisiting the same characters.

The most interesting expansion opportunities may instead exist in the spaces the original story left relatively unexplored.

Other Avatars

The Avatar cycle creates a built-in anthology structure. Every Avatar inherits the same spiritual responsibility but enters a different political and technological world.

Each era can therefore ask a different question: What does being the Avatar mean when the world no longer looks like Aang’s?

The franchise can evolve alongside its audience without abandoning its core mythology.

Ordinary People in the Avatar World

One of the most underused possibilities is removing the Avatar from the center entirely.

What does life look like for a non-bender in Republic City? A Fire Nation citizen after the war? Before the war? A family rebuilding a village? A young earthbender entering political life? A spiritual practitioner who never encounters the Avatar? A soldier trying to return to civilian life?

These stories could make the world feel even larger because they demonstrate that history happens to people who are not chosen heroes.

The Spirit World

The Spirit World represents one of the property’s most distinctive pieces of mythology and one of its largest unexplored narrative spaces.

Unlike the Four Nations, it does not operate according to ordinary human political structures. That creates opportunities for stories that are more surreal, philosophical, mysterious, or mythological.

The Spirit World also provides a way for the franchise to expand tonally without abandoning its existing identity.

Historical Avatar Stories

The franchise’s mythology implies thousands of years of history. That is an enormous archive of potential stories. Previous Avatars offer opportunities to explore different political systems, interpretations of balance, forgotten conflicts, changing technology, relationships between humans and spirits, and the evolution of the Four Nations.

The further the franchise moves from Aang’s era, the less it has to reproduce the original series structurally.

Cultural and Political Stories

The original series establishes societies with internal tensions that are often more interesting than the simple conflict between “good” and “evil.”

What happens to a nation after an empire collapses?

How does a society rebuild after a genocide?

What happens when technological development changes the balance between benders and non-benders?

How do cultures preserve traditions while adapting to modernity?

These questions are not peripheral to Avatar. They are already embedded in the world. The opportunity is to follow them further.

CHAPTER X

The Avatar IP Engine

Taken together, these elements reveal why Avatar has been unusually expandable. The property does not depend on a single source of value. Instead, its different components reinforce one another.

The most important characteristic is that the system is regenerative. A new story does not simply extend the previous story. It can introduce a new character, which creates a new emotional attachment. That character can introduce audiences to another part of the world. That world can generate another story.

The IP expands outward rather than simply moving forward.

That is the fundamental distinction between a completed story and an expandable universe.

CHAPTER XI

Conclusion: The World Is the Product

Avatar’s longevity is easy to explain superficially. It has memorable characters, genius writing, nostalgia, beautiful animation, and a devoted fandom.

But those explanations describe why people like it. They do not fully explain why the property can continue producing new forms of content nearly two decades after its original story ended.

The deeper explanation is structural. Avatar was never only the story of Aang defeating the Fire Lord. It was a world containing nations, histories, political systems, spiritual traditions, technologies, conflicts, characters, and a mythology capable of producing new protagonists.

Aang’s story could end without the world ending with him.

Korra could inherit the title without having to inherit Aang’s story.

New explorations can include different eras, cultures, characters, conflicts and formats without abandoning the fundamental identity of the property.

The Avatar is replaceable. The world isn’t.

That may be the most important lesson of Avatar as an IP: a successful story creates an audience, but a successful world can create an ecosystem.

And ecosystems are what allow intellectual properties to survive their original stories.

Notes on figures

Netflix: 41.1 million views in the live-action series’ first 11 days, as reported by Netflix and covered by Kidscreen (March 6, 2024) — kidscreen.com/?p=209179.

TikTok: 1 billion impressions on #AvatarTheLastAirbender in the series’ first week, as reported by TheWrap (March 2024) — thewrap.com/avatar-the-last-airbender-renewed-netflix-two-more-seasons-ending.

Reddit member counts and AO3 work counts are point-in-time snapshots and change daily. The Netflix, TikTok, Reddit, and AO3 figures measure different things and are not directly comparable.

i don’t remember exactly what i used to do with my dolls.

i just remember having some, and playing with others at friends’ houses.

but mostly, i remember that they were allowed to be different kinds of girls.

there was Barbie, who seemed to have already lived approximately twelve different lives by the time i met her. she was a doctor, a princess, a teacher, an astronaut, a fashion designer. she could be anything.

then there were the Bratz.

the Bratz did not seem particularly interested in being anything for anyone.

they had huge heads, huge shoes, tiny clothes, and an almost alarming amount of confidence. they were fashionable in a way that felt slightly inappropriate for how young their audience was. they wanted things. they went shopping. they had careers. they had crushes. they had their own personalities.

then there was Monster High.

the girls who were literally monsters.

which, in retrospect, might have been the most comforting idea of all.

and somewhere alongside all of them was Winx Club.

Bloom, Stella, Flora, Musa, Tecna, Aisha.

fairies with different powers, different personalities, different aesthetics, different problems — but somehow always together.

if Barbie taught me possibility, Bratz taught me desire, and Monster High taught me that being strange could be an identity, Winx taught me that girlhood could be a collective power.

and i think little girls absorbed all of this much more seriously than adults realized.

barbie: you can be anything

Barbie’s greatest trick was making ambition look pink.

you could be a scientist and still wear heels. you could be president and still have a dream house. you could become an astronaut without having to abandon the fantasy of being beautiful.

there was something genuinely radical about that message for a little girl:

you are not limited to one future.

Barbie could be everything.

but there was also something slightly exhausting about the idea of having to be everything.

she was beautiful. she was successful. she had the clothes, the house, the career, the friends, the boyfriend, the car.

Barbie’s world had an answer for every question about what a girl could become.

and maybe that is why Barbie has remained so culturally powerful. she doesn’t really give you one identity. she gives you an infinite number of identities to try on.

you don’t have to stop being a princess to become a doctor.

you can simply buy the doctor version.

bratz: you can want things

the Bratz girls felt different.

they weren’t aspirational in quite the same way.

they didn’t seem to be saying look at all the things you can accomplish.

they were saying:

look at all the things you can want.

fashion. attention. friendship. romance. money. popularity. fun.

they were unapologetically interested in themselves.

and maybe that’s why they felt a little rebellious.

Barbie could be a CEO, but Bratz made you feel like being hot was already an accomplishment.

there was no apologizing for caring about clothes.

no pretending that wanting to look good made you shallow.

no requirement that femininity had to be justified by productivity.

the Bratz girls were allowed to be girls simply because they wanted to be.

and maybe that’s why their aesthetic has survived so well.

even now, when people rediscover Bratz, they aren’t necessarily rediscovering the dolls themselves.

they’re rediscovering an attitude.

monster high: you can be weird

and then Monster High arrived and basically said:

what if everyone is weird?

not secretly weird.

not weird until you find the right people.

literally weird.

you’re a vampire. you’re a werewolf. you’re a mummy. you’re a ghost. you’re the daughter of Frankenstein’s monster.

and somehow, everyone still goes to school together.

Monster High took the thing that usually makes a girl an outsider and made it her aesthetic.

your difference became your clothes.

your clothes became your personality.

your personality became your community.

and suddenly being the strange girl wasn’t necessarily something you had to overcome.

it was something you could build a life around.

this feels especially funny to me now because the internet eventually became obsessed with exactly this idea.

find your niche.

find your people.

make your weirdness legible.

turn your interests into an identity.

build a community around the things that make you different.

Monster High was doing some version of this before most of us had words for it.

winx: you become powerful with other girls

and then there was Winx.

which is maybe the one i think about most differently now.

because the Winx girls were not just pretty.

they were powerful.

and their power was never completely separate from their femininity.

they wore tiny skirts and had enormous magical abilities.

they cared about boys and fashion and music and parties, but they also fought monsters and saved worlds.

they could be soft and still be dangerous.

they could be beautiful and still be powerful.

and, most importantly, they rarely did it alone.

the Winx girls were constantly becoming stronger together.

Bloom needed Stella.

Musa needed Flora.

Aisha needed Tecna.

they fought, argued, got jealous, made up, supported each other, and eventually returned to the same basic idea:

we are stronger together.

there was something quietly radical about watching a group of girls whose friendship wasn’t just a subplot.

their friendship was the infrastructure.

the magic worked because there was a group.

and maybe that is one of the earliest lessons many of us received about female friendship: that the girls around you aren’t just your audience or your competition.

they can be your power.

maybe that’s why we needed all four

the funny thing is that these worlds weren’t really teaching the same lesson.

Barbie said:

you can become anything.

Bratz said:

you are allowed to want things.

Monster High said:

you don’t have to become normal.

Winx said:

you don’t have to become powerful alone.

and maybe girlhood needed all four.

because becoming a girl isn’t one lesson.

it’s a collection of contradictions.

you learn to be ambitious and attractive.

independent and desirable.

different but socially accepted.

confident but not arrogant.

feminine but not frivolous.

successful but not intimidating.

unique but not alienating.

and somewhere in the middle of all of that, you start building a person.

that’s what i think we were actually doing when we played with dolls and watched cartoons after school.

we were rehearsing.

we were trying out personalities before we had the language to describe them.

we were deciding who was popular and who was weird.

who got the boyfriend.

who got the career.

who was allowed to be mean.

who was allowed to be pretty.

who got to be the main character.

who had the magic.

who had the power.

who had the best outfit.

we were creating tiny societies in bedrooms and living rooms and on carpeted floors.

and then, eventually, we grew up.

the dolls disappeared into closets or boxes or donation bags.

the television shows ended.

the theme songs became songs we could somehow still sing from memory ten years later.

but the worlds didn’t completely disappear.

because i think a little bit of Barbie’s possibility stays with you.

a little bit of Bratz’s audacity.

a little bit of Monster High’s refusal to make weirdness embarrassing.

a little bit of Winx’s belief that your girls can make you stronger.

maybe that’s why we become so attached to fictional worlds in the first place.

we don’t just love characters.

we recognize versions of ourselves in them.

we borrow their clothes, their personalities, their friendships, their ways of moving through the world.

we try them on.

and eventually, somewhere between Barbie’s dream house, the Bratz’s shopping bags, Monster High’s haunted hallways, and Magix’s glittering skies, we start figuring out which parts we’re going to keep.

we didn’t just play with dolls.

we were trying on possible selves.

<3

from my little corner of the internet,

-kati

lately i’ve been thinking about how strange it is to live inside your own head for so long that you start confusing knowing yourself with watching yourself. i think i’ve gotten so used to noticing who i am, why i do things, how i come across, what everything might mean, that sometimes i forget what it feels like to just be a person without having to understand the person i am being.

sometimes i wonder if i learned this earlier than i remember.

i think about being a kid and how easy it was to become completely absorbed in something without wondering what it said about me. i could spend an entire afternoon making up some elaborate story in my head, get obsessed with a book or a cartoon or some completely random little thing, and never stop to think whether it was cool or interesting or consistent with who i was supposed to be.

i didn’t have a personal brand.

i didn’t have an aesthetic.

i didn’t even really have a version of myself i was trying to maintain.

i just liked things.

and maybe that’s what feels so far away now.

i was thinking about this recently while getting ready to go out. my room was a mess, there were clothes all over the floor, music was playing from my laptop, and i was standing in front of my mirror trying on the same few things over and over. nothing was really wrong with any of them. i just kept looking at myself and thinking about what each version of me was saying.

this one looked too dressed up.

that one looked like i was trying too hard.

this one felt more effortless.

this one looked more like me.

and at some point i had this weird realization that i wasn’t even asking which outfit i liked. i was asking which version of myself i wanted other people to see.

i stood there for a second and thought: when did i start doing this?

not just with clothes, either.

maybe that’s why i’ve been thinking so much about performance lately.

not performance in the obvious sense. i’m not pretending to be someone i’m not.

it’s subtler than that.

it’s the feeling of knowing you’re being perceived, even when nobody is actually looking. it’s wondering what your choices say about you. it’s turning your own life into something you can explain.

and the more i notice myself doing it, the more i wonder if that’s actually what i’ve been trying to get away from.

i. somewhere along the way, being a girl became a performance

i don’t remember when i started watching myself.

not literally. i don’t mean mirrors or pictures or anything like that.

i mean that weird feeling of being inside your own life and somehow also standing a few feet outside of it, watching yourself have the experience.

i’ll be getting dressed and already thinking about how the outfit looks. i’ll take a picture and immediately know which version of me i like better. i’ll say something and think about how it sounded after i’ve said it.

sometimes i’ll be having a perfectly normal conversation and suddenly become aware of myself having the conversation.

was i talking too much?

did i seem awkward?

did i seem too interested?

did i seem like i cared?

it’s weird because nobody actually has to tell you to do this.

you just learn.

you learn what looks good. you learn what kind of girl you’re supposed to be.

you’re supposed to be feminine, but not like you’re trying too hard to be feminine. pretty, but effortless. smart, but not intimidating. confident, but not arrogant. interesting, but not difficult. desirable, but never desperate.

eventually you stop experiencing these as rules.

they just become instincts.

i think this is why i’ve always found the idea of the “effortless girl” so funny.

because effortless is usually incredibly curated.

the right hair. the right clothes. the right books. the right music. the right amount of mystery.

even not caring what people think has become something you can perform.

there’s a version of femininity that is basically just being very good at appearing like you’re not performing femininity.

and sometimes i wonder how much of my personality has been shaped by simply knowing i could be perceived.

social media obviously made this worse, but i don’t think it started there. i think girls learn very early how to see themselves from the outside. you learn what kind of girl you’re supposed to be, and then you start asking whether you’re doing it correctly.

i’ve noticed that the moments when i feel most like myself are usually the moments nobody is going to see.

when i’m alone and listening to a song too loudly. when i’m wearing something that makes absolutely no sense with the rest of my wardrobe. when i get obsessed with some completely random thing. when i’m being embarrassing. when i’m not particularly pretty. when i’m not trying to be interesting.

there is something incredibly freeing about doing something without imagining how it looks from the outside.

and maybe that’s what i’ve been craving: not confidence, not a better aesthetic, just the ability to stop watching myself.

because sometimes i don’t want to know what everything says about me.

i don’t want an outfit to communicate anything. i don’t want an interest to become a personality trait. sometimes i just want to like something because i like it.

and the more i think about it, the more i realize that maybe what i actually want is to become harder to define.

not because i want to be mysterious.

because i want room to change.

ii. i want to be a person nobody could have predicted

maybe that’s why i’ve become so attached to the idea of being unpredictable.

not unpredictable in the sense of being chaotic or mysterious. i mean unpredictable in the sense that i don’t want my past to be able to tell the whole story of my future.

because once you get used to seeing yourself from the outside, you start doing something else too: you start trying to make yourself make sense.

when i was younger, i had a very specific idea of what my life would look like. i don’t even remember consciously deciding on it. it was just there somewhere in the background.

you grow up collecting little pieces of yourself and eventually assume they’re going to form a coherent person.

if you like writing, you’ll probably become a writer. if you’re interested in politics, you’ll probably work in politics. if you’re good at school, you’ll go to a good school, and then you’ll get a good job, and then you’ll become some recognizable version of the person you were already becoming.

there is something comforting about that.

there is also something that makes me want to run away from it.

because i’ve never really been one person for very long.

i’ll become completely obsessed with something and then, six months later, wonder how i ever cared so much. i’ll discover some random subject and suddenly want to know everything about it. i’ll think i have finally figured out what i want to do and then realize there is another part of my brain that wants to go somewhere completely different.

sometimes i look at my own life and think, none of this goes together.

and then i think maybe that’s the point.

we put so much pressure on ourselves to make our lives make sense, especially now, when everything can be turned into a personal brand. your interests become your niche. your education becomes your career trajectory. your personality becomes your aesthetic.

we are constantly being asked to provide evidence that we have always been becoming the person we are.

but what if we haven’t?

what if i genuinely don’t know who i’m going to be?

i actually think that might be one of the most exciting things about being alive.

there are things i care about now that the thirteen-year-old version of me would find completely random. there are things i was once convinced would define me that i barely think about anymore. there are places i thought i’d stay forever that i eventually wanted to leave.

and i don’t think that’s a failure of consistency.

i think it’s proof that people are allowed to change.

maybe knowing yourself doesn’t mean being able to predict yourself.

maybe it means leaving enough room to surprise yourself.

i want to be a person nobody could have predicted.

i want to move somewhere i never imagined living. i want to become interested in things that don’t fit neatly together. i want to meet people who introduce me to versions of myself i didn’t know existed. i want to have an embarrassing obsession. i want to discover that something i thought i wanted isn’t actually what i wanted at all.

i want plot twists.

there is a version of me somewhere in the future who has made choices i currently cannot imagine making. i don’t know what she does, where she lives, or who she knows.

and honestly, i hope she surprises me.

but there is a strange contradiction here.

because if i’m constantly trying to understand who i am, even my unpredictability can become another identity.

i can turn “i’m complicated” into a personality.

i can turn “i’m always changing” into a story about myself.

i can become so interested in explaining who i am that i forget that explanations aren’t the same thing as change.

iii. i am not a better person because i understand myself

this is probably the part i don’t like admitting.

i know myself pretty well.

i know why certain things bother me. i know what makes me defensive. i know the patterns i fall into when i’m stressed or scared or overwhelmed.

and for a long time i thought that understanding those things was basically the same as changing them.

if i knew why i was doing something, surely i was already halfway to doing better.

but you can understand yourself and still behave badly.

you can know exactly why you hurt someone’s feelings and still have hurt their feelings. you can know that you’re projecting and still project. you can know that you’re avoiding something and still avoid it.

you can have a perfectly reasonable explanation for your behavior and still be responsible for it.

i think the internet has made this especially funny because we now have a vocabulary for basically everything.

attachment styles. trauma responses. boundaries. inner children. emotional unavailability. projection. people-pleasing.

sometimes i feel like i can explain a relationship before i’ve even experienced it.

and there is something useful about having language for yourself. i’m not against that.

but sometimes understanding can become its own form of avoidance.

it’s very easy to say, “i do this because…”

and much harder to say, “i do this, and i need to stop.”

the explanation feels productive.

the change usually isn’t.

i’ve caught myself doing this. i’ll understand something about myself and feel almost relieved, like discovering the reason automatically means i’ve solved the problem.

but knowing where something came from doesn’t automatically tell you what to do with it.

sometimes it means apologizing without giving a five-minute speech about why you behaved that way. sometimes it means letting someone be angry with you. sometimes it means realizing that your intentions don’t erase the effect you had.

sometimes it means admitting that being hurt explains why you acted a certain way but doesn’t necessarily make the way you acted fair.

i think that’s one of the harder parts of growing up.

you can have compassion for yourself without making yourself innocent.

you can understand why you became who you are and still decide that some parts of you need to change.

you can say, yes, this happened to me.

and also, i don’t want to keep passing it on.

that’s a much less glamorous form of self-awareness.

there’s no perfect vocabulary for it.

no personality test.

no beautiful realization.

just behavior.

what you do when nobody is watching. how you treat someone when you’re angry. whether you apologize. whether you actually change after apologizing.

maybe self-awareness isn’t the destination.

maybe it’s just the beginning.

and once you realize that, the past starts to look a little different too.

iv. i don’t want to heal. i want to remember.

because if i’m not supposed to spend my whole life explaining myself, maybe i’m also not supposed to spend it constantly reinventing myself.

we talk about healing like the ultimate goal is to eventually become untouched by what happened to us.

everything is something we’re supposed to heal from now.

childhood. friendships. relationships. old versions of ourselves. places we’ve lived. things our parents said. things people didn’t say.

and i understand why.

there are things i’ve had to work through and things i am still working through.

i don’t think healing is fake or unnecessary.

but sometimes the language around it makes me uncomfortable because it can make it sound like the goal is to eventually become someone who has no emotional relationship with their past.

as if one day you’ll wake up and everything that happened will have been converted into wisdom.

i don’t know if i want that.

there are things that happened to me that i don’t want to turn into beautiful lessons.

sometimes something was just painful.

sometimes i was genuinely sad.

sometimes i lost something i really wanted.

sometimes i made choices i wouldn’t make now.

sometimes a person mattered to me for a very long time and then suddenly didn’t.

i don’t need all of that to have been “for a reason.”

sometimes i think we put too much pressure on ourselves to make suffering meaningful.

if something hurt us, we want it to have made us stronger.

if something ended, we want to say it taught us something.

if someone left, we want to believe they made space for someone better.

and maybe sometimes that’s true.

but sometimes you just miss someone.

sometimes you remember a place and feel something in your chest.

sometimes you hear a song from three years ago and suddenly you’re back in a room you haven’t thought about in forever.

i don’t think that means you haven’t healed.

i think it means you have a memory.

there’s a difference between remembering something and wanting it back.

i can remember who i was without wanting to become her again.

i can remember loving someone without wanting them in my life.

i can remember being happy somewhere without believing i should return.

i can remember something hurting without needing to reopen the wound.

i think about old versions of myself more than i probably admit. not because i want to rescue them. sometimes i just miss knowing what it felt like to be them.

there are things i used to care about so intensely that they feel almost foreign to me now. there are songs that immediately transport me somewhere. there are little details from certain periods of my life that i don’t want to forget, even if i would never choose to live those years again.

and i don’t think that’s regression.

i think it’s tenderness.

i don’t want to become so good at moving on that i have to pretend none of it mattered.

i want to remember the people who made me happy. i want to remember the people who hurt me, too, without giving them any power over my present.

i want to remember the girl i was when she didn’t know what was coming.

i don’t want to correct her.

i don’t want to tell her what i know now.

i don’t even want to tell her that everything will be okay.

i just want to remember her.

because she was me.

and maybe that’s what i’ve been trying to figure out this whole time.

how to become someone new without constantly rejecting everyone i’ve already been.

how to change without treating my past like something embarrassing.

how to be perceived without performing.

how to become unpredictable without becoming unrecognizable to myself.

maybe growing up isn’t about finally figuring out who you are.

maybe it’s learning that you don’t have to.

i don’t want my life to read like a perfectly constructed argument.

i want it to feel like a life.

messy and strange and occasionally embarrassing.

full of things that don’t belong together.

full of versions of me that i haven’t met yet.

i think i spent a long time trying to become someone i could explain.

now i think i’d rather become someone i can keep discovering.

i think about this a lot.

especially when i’m sitting in front of a blank page and absolutely nothing is coming out.

i could just ask ai.

that’s what everyone tells me.

most people would agree that it would give me something good. maybe even better than what i would write after spending an hour overthinking one paragraph.

but that’s the weird part.

i don’t agree.

i don’t believe ai can replace my style of writing.

but regardless, it still can do it for me, and so many others.

ai can write in general, even if i have the hot take that it’s not necessarily good content.

so why do i still want to write?

i don’t really have a good answer.

sometimes i think it’s because writing is one of those things i’ve always done without really knowing why- it came easy to me. it’s how i make sense of things. i’ll have a thought in my head that feels completely clear, and then the second i try to explain it in words, it isn’t clear. at all.

so i write.

and somewhere between the ongoing sentences and the unnecessary praragraphs or dramatic grammar, i figure out what i actually meant.

like yeah i’ll use periods instead of em dashes because i like to think it’s my own niche.

i think that’s the part i would miss if i stopped writing.

not the finished essay. not the likes or the subscribers or someone telling me tey liked something i wrote.

just the process of getting there.

because sometimes i don’t think until i write it down.

and i don’t think that’s something ai can really do for me.

it can help me find the words. it can make something clearer. it can give me ten different ways to say the same thing.

but it’s not my voice

and it doesn’t have the thought first.

i do.

and maybe that’s the difference.

or maybe i’m just trying to convince myself that what i’m doing still matters.

because there is something slightly depressing about spending an entire evening trying to write something when you know you could have had a finished version in thirty seconds.

but then again, maybe writing was never supposed to be about efficiency.

i don’t read things because they were written efficiently.

i read them because something about them makes me feel less alone. because someone noticed something i hadn’t noticed. because they put a feeling into words that i couldn’t.

and i think that’s why i still want to write.

because i want to know what i would say.

even if it takes longer.

even if the first version is terrible.

even if i delete half of it tomorrow.

there’s something about finding your own sentence that you can’t really replace.

and maybe that’s enough of a reason to keep doing it.

ai can write.

but i still want to.

i think i’ll keep wondering why.

<3

from my little corner of the internet,

kati :)

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i’ve been thinking about ouran high school host club again.

which is funny, because when i first watched the show, i knew it was (almost) impossible believing that tamaki suoh was a realistic type of man most girls could someday encounter in the wild.

he is not.

none of them are.

and yet, somehow, ouran still holds up.

actually, i think it holds up better now that i’ve rewatched it a few times.

because the first time i watched it, i thought the joke was that these ridiculously beautiful boys were pretending to be romantic interests for girls at school.

which is funny.

but watching it again, i realized something.

the host club is basically an idol group.

and the entire show is about girls buying into a fantasy.

which sounds obvious when you say it like that, but i don’t think i fully understood how funny that was the first time around.

the host club boys aren’t just six attractive guys sitting around waiting for girls to fall in love with them.

they each have a brand.

tamaki is the princely type.

kyoya is the cool, intelligent one.

honey is cute.

mori is quiet and protective.

the hitachiin twins are the mischievous, slightly dangerous fantasy.

they know exactly what they’re selling.

and the girls know exactly what they’re buying.

that’s what makes the host club so funny.

it isn’t really pretending to be a normal romantic situation.

everyone knows it’s a performance.

the girls come in, choose their preferred type, drink tea, get flirted with, and leave feeling like they just experienced something.

the boys aren’t necessarily selling themselves.

they’re selling a version of themselves that the girls already know how to desire.

and then there’s haruhi.

who, of course, wants absolutely none of this.

she’s probably the only person in the entire school who looks at the host club and thinks, why are you all doing this?

and i think that’s part of why she works so well as the main character.

she doesn’t immediately participate in the fantasy.

she sees the boys as annoying people.

which is kind of revolutionary in a story where everyone else is busy turning them into archetypes.

and the more i think about it, the more i think ouran is making fun of something much bigger than teenage girls having crushes.

it’s making fun of the machinery of fandom.

because the girls don’t really know these boys.

they know the performances.

they know the archetypes.

they know the version of tamaki who says exactly what a girl who likes the “prince” type wants to hear.

and that feels weirdly familiar.

especially now.

because we’ve gotten very good at turning people into characters.

idols.

actors.

influencers.

streamers.

even people we know mostly through our phones.

we learn someone’s personality through carefully selected clips and interviews and photos and livestreams, and eventually we start feeling like we know them.

we build a relationship with a version of someone we’ve never actually met.

and i’m not saying this as some kind of criticism of fangirls.

if anything, i think ouran understands fangirls better than people give it credit for.

the girls aren’t stupid.

they’re imaginative.

they know what they like.

they have favorite types.

they recognize the performance.

and they are perfectly happy to participate in it.

that’s actually what makes the host club work.

the fantasy doesn’t have to be real to be enjoyable.

you can know that tamaki is putting on an act and still enjoy watching him be tamaki.

you can know that the twins are playing a role and still scream about the twins.

there’s something kind of sweet about that.

and maybe that’s why fandom can be so powerful, especially for girls.

you get to practice wanting things.

you get to have intense feelings in a space where nobody is actually asking you to act on them.

you get to decide what kind of person you find attractive.

you get to obsess over someone who exists safely inside a screen.

you get to make edits and playlists and theories and inside jokes with other people who understand exactly why this one fictional boy is superior to every other fictional boy.

and then eventually you grow up.

or you think you do.

until you find yourself watching an idol fancam at 1 a.m. and realizing that maybe you never actually left the host club.

the technology just got better.

that might be the funniest part about rewatching ouran now.

the world outside of the anime has become much more like ouran.

we have parasocial relationships that are built into the business model.

we have fan calls where you can spend a few minutes talking directly to an idol.

we have livestreams.

we have personalized messages.

we have algorithms that learn exactly which version of a person you want to see.

we have entire online communities built around people who don’t know we exist.

and the fantasy is still essentially the same:

look at me.

choose me.

make me feel like i’m special.

the host club just made the transaction more obvious.

you literally paid them to flirt with you.

which, when you think about it, is almost refreshing.

at least kyoya is honest about the business model.

and maybe that’s why i don’t think ouran is actually making fun of girls for falling for the fantasy.

i think it’s making fun of the idea that the fantasy has to pretend it isn’t a fantasy.

because there’s nothing inherently wrong with wanting to be swept up in something.

sometimes i think we make fun of fangirls because it’s easier than admitting how much of modern culture is built around the same impulse.

we all want to feel chosen.

we all want someone beautiful or talented or interesting to look directly at us and make us feel, for a second, like we matter.

the host club just turned that feeling into a business.

and haruhi is the person who keeps asking what happens when the performance stops.

because eventually, that’s what matters.

not the prince.

not the cool guy.

not the cute one.

not the fantasy.

the person underneath it.

maybe that’s why ouran never really gets old.

because the joke was never that girls like pretty boys.

the joke was that we can build an entire world around the fantasy of being wanted by one.

and somehow, twenty years later, we’re living in an even more elaborate version of it.

<3

from my corner of the internet,

kati :)

buy me a coffee if you'd like!

i fear my spotify wrapped is going to be deeply embarrassing this year.

not because of anything particularly scandalous. no secret country music phase. no sudden obsession with someone i would never admit to listening to.

it’s worse.

it’s anime openings.

like theme songs.

i listen to anime theme songs with the kind of commitment that usually requires a legal contract.

the way people listen to white noise to sleep, i listen to anime theme songs.

if i like a song, i will listen to it until it becomes a part of my nervous system.

sometimes i’ll listen to the same song so many times that i stop hearing the actual words.

i just hear the feeling.

which is probably why i keep coming back to them.

there is something slightly ridiculous about how much anime openings affect me. give me 90 seconds of japanese vocals, an electric guitar, some dramatic percussion, and a sequence of fictional teenagers running toward their destiny, and suddenly i’m ready to change my entire life.

i could have been having a completely normal day.

then the opening of naruto starts.

suddenly i am the protagonist.

thr grocery store is a montage.

the walk home is significant.

my problems have narrative importance.

i’m staring out the car window like someone is about to reveal my tragic backstory.

and honestly, maybe this is therapeutic.

not therapeutic in the way that a doctor would prescribe it to me. more like the way certain songs become emotional shortcuts.

sometimes i don’t actually want to think about why i’m sad.

i don’t want to articulate it or make it productive or turn it into a lesson.

sometimes i just want to hear a song that understands the feeling before i do.

i think that’s what music does at its best. it gives you somewhere to put a feeling.

and anime openings are especially good at this because they are already so emotionally excessive.

they’re about becoming someone.

leaving home.

missing someone.

wanting something you’re not sure you can have.

finding people who make you feel less alone.

starting over.

believing that there is still something ahead of you.

all in about a minute and thirty seconds.

and maybe that’s why i replay them.

because there’s something comforting about knowing what comes next.

life doesn’t really work like that.

you don’t know what the next month is going to feel like. you don’t know which people will still be around. you don’t know which version of yourself you’re slowly becoming. there’s no opening sequence telling you that the difficult part is going to make sense later.

but in a song, you know.

you know when the drums come in.

you know when the chorus hits.

you know exactly when that one part is going to make you feel something.

there’s comfort in repetition.

especially when everything else feels like it’s changing.

i also think anime theme songs make me nostalgic in a very specific way.

sometimes they make me nostalgic for things that haven’t even happened.

which sounds impossible, but i know exactly what i mean.

a song can make me feel like i’m remembering a summer i haven’t had yet.

or missing a version of myself that i’m not even sure existed.

maybe that’s part of why i romanticize everything.

i like when ordinary life feels slightly fictional.

i like pretending that there is a soundtrack.

that this walk means something.

that this particular afternoon will eventually become one of those tiny memories i’ll think about years from now and wish i could step back into.

maybe that’s what an anime opening gives me.

not an escape from my life, exactly.

just a different way of seeing it.

for a few minutes, everything feels like it’s moving toward something.

and i like that.

i like being reminded that my life is still unfinished.

there are people i haven’t met.

places i haven’t been.

versions of myself i haven’t become.

whole seasons i can’t imagine yet.

and maybe when i put the same song on for the fiftieth time, that’s what i’m listening for.

not necessarily the lyrics.

not even the music.

just the feeling that something is about to begin.

so yes, anime theme songs are probably going to ruin my spotify wrapped.

i already know i’m going to look at my top songs and think, oh god.

but honestly, i don’t really mind.

if spotify wants to expose me, so be it.

some songs are just songs.

some songs become memories.

some songs become attached to people, places, phases of your life.

and some songs make you walk around your own city like you’re in the opening sequence of an anime that hasn’t been written yet.

i think i like those ones best.

<3

from my little corner of the internet,

kati :)

buy me a coffee if you'd like :P

soundtrack: “i’ll believe in anything- wolf parade”

i have a tendency to romanticize my life.

i dont mean this in the way the internet means it. i’m not waking up at 5 am to make a matcha latte in a sunlit kitchen after pilates and pretending that answering emails is a form of self-care.

i mean something much less intentional.

i make stories out of things.

i give certain periods of my life names. i associate entire years with specific songs. i remember apartments by who i was when i lived there rather than what they actually looked like. i’ll walk down a street i’ve walked down a hundred times and suddenly feel sentimental about it because i know there will eventually be a last time i walk down it.

sometimes i think i’m experiencing my life and remembering it at the same time.

this can be beautiful.

it can also be exhausting.

because there is a strange way in which nostalgia can begin before anything has even ended.

i’ve caught myself looking around during perfectly ordinary moments and thinking, i’m going to miss this.

which sounds romantic until you realize what it means.

you’re sitting there, supposedly living your life, while some part of your brain is already standing several years in the future, looking back at you.

sometimes i wonder if i’m actually present at all.

i think i’ve always had a tendency to turn ordinary things into symbols.

a city is never just a city.

it’s the person i was there.

a particular cafe isn’t just a cafe. it’s the quarter when i was used to sit there and study.

a song isn’t just a song. it’s a person, a car ride, a special viewpoint, an age, a feeling.

even clothes can become archives.

i’ll find an old photo and suddenly remember not just what i was wearing but what i thought was going to happen next.

this is probably why i keep so many little things.

pictures that aren’t particularly good.

screenshots.

receipts.

notes. oh my notes app is just proof of the lore of my life.

random photographs of buildings.

a message i knew, even when i saved it, that i would eventually forget the context for.

none of these things are objectively important.

but they become important because i decided they were.

and that makes me wonder how much of a life is actually made up of events, and how much is made up of the meaning we assign to them afterward.

there is something almost ridiculous about the human need to turn life into a story.

we divide our lives into eras.

we say things like before college and after college.

before i met her.

when i lived there.

the year everything changed.

we don’t experience our lives with chapter headings.

we add them later.

memory is not a perfect archive. it edits. it rearranges. it exaggerates some things and quietly deletes others.

a place becomes more beautiful because we miss it.

a person becomes more significant because they are gone.

a difficult period can become meaningful simply because we survived it.

sometimes i wonder whether this is dishonest.

if i’m remembering something differently than it actually happened, am i remembering my life or rewriting it?

and maybe the answer is both.

because there is no version of remembering that isn’t an interpretation.

we don’t just remember what happened.

we remember what it meant to us.

this is where i’ve started thinking differently about romanticizing.

i used to think of it as a kind of escapism.

and sometimes it probably is.

there are moments when i’d rather turn something into a beautiful story than admit that it was confusing or disappointing or just..ordinary.

there are people i’ve probably made more interesting in my memory than they ever were in real life.

there are places i miss that, if i’m being honest, weren’t actually that great.

nostalgia has a way of putting a soft filter over things.

but i don’t think that makes it entirely false.

maybe meaning has always required some degree of interpretation.

we take a collection of completely ordinary events and decide that they mattered.

we decide that one conversation was important.

that one summer changed us.

that a particular friendship belonged to a certain chapter.

that a place meant something.

there isn’t necessarily evidence for any of this beyond that fact that it feels true.

and maybe that’s enough.

the danger, though, is turning your entire life into material or you future self.

i know i’ve done this.

i’ve thought about how i’ll remember something while i’m still inside it.

i’ve taken pictures because i wanted to remember the moment instead of actually looking at it.

i’ve imagined the story i’d tell about a period of my life before i had even finished living it.

there is something slightly absurd about watching yourself become a memory in real time.

and sometimes i think romanticizing life can become another form of performance.

instead of asking, am i happy?

you start asking, is this a good story?

instead of experiencing something, you start aestheticizing it.

main character coded.

instead of being lonely, you’re having your mysterious solitary-girl era.

instead of being confused, you’re in your character development arc.

instead of admitting that something hurt, you turn it into a beautiful paragraph.

but i don’t think the answer is to stop finding meaning in things, because that kind of beats the point.

maybe the distinction is between romanticizing your life and actually living inside the story you’ve created for it.

one makes the present disappear.

the other makes you pay attention to it.

because if i know that i’m going to miss something someday, that doesn’t mean i need to leave the present and visit the future.

maybe it means i should look around.

actually look.

at the terrible lighting.

at the half-finished coffee.

at the people sitting across from me.

at whatever song is playing.

at the completely unremarkable afternoon that might eventually become one of those strangely precious memories i can’t explain.

i don’t want to spend my life trying to make everything meaningful.

i just want to notice when something already is.

i think this is why i’ve always been drawn to stories.

not because i need my life to be dramatic.

if anything, i think stories teach us that most of a life isn’t dramatic at all.

there are long stretches of nothing happening.

there are repetitive mornings and boring afternoons and conversations you won’t remember.

and then, somehow, years later, you remember one specific tuesday.

you don’t know why.

but you do.

maybe that’s what meaning is.

not making every moment extraordinary.

just allowing some ordinary moments to become significant.

i don’t think i’ll ever stop romanticizing things.

i’ll probably continue taking too many pictures.

i’ll continue associating entire periods of my life with songs.

i’ll continue giving places personalities and turning random afternoons into tiny pieces of mythology.

i just don’t want to confuse remembering a moment with living it.

because the point of nostalgia isn’t to convince yourself that the past was perfect.

it’s to remind yourself that you were there.

that you loved something.

that you noticed something.

that, for a little while, this ordinary thing was your life.

and maybe that’s why i romanticize everything.

and maybe i’m apparently incapable of being normal about life being temporary.

but maybe that’s okay.

maybe a little mythology is part of the deal.

maybe we need stories to carry the things we can’t keep.

and if i’m going to remember my life anyway,

i think i want to remember it beautifully.

<3

from my little corner,

kati :)

buy me a coffeeee :P (if u want)

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i don’t know how to feel things halfway.

i’ve tried.

i’ve tried being normal about things.

i’ve tried hearing a song and just listening to the song instead of suddenly remembering a person, a situation, a version of myself i haven’t thought about in years.

i’ve tried leaving places without making them mean something.

i’ve tried not rereading messages.

i’ve tried not noticing when someone’s tone changes by half a degree.

i’ve tried not wondering what someone meant when they said something slightly differently than they usually do.

i’ve tried not caring.

i’m actually not very good at it.

there are so many things i wish i could experience at a more reasonable volume.

a goodbye, for example.

why does leaving somewhere have to feel like losing an entire universe?

why can i walk past a place i’ve been a hundred times and suddenly feel this strange little ache because i know that one day i’ll walk past it for the last time and won’t know that it’s the last time?

why do certain years of my life feel like places i can still visit?

sometimes i think my brain refuses to let things simply happen.

everything becomes a memory while i’m still living it.

i’ll be sitting somewhere, completely fine, and suddenly have this weird awareness that one day i’m going to miss this.

and then i’m already missing it.

it’s ridiculous.

i can be happy and nostalgic at the exact same time.

i can be having a good day and somehow feel the sadness of knowing that this particular good day will never happen again.

maybe that’s part of what it means to feel too much.

you’re not only experiencing things.

you’re experiencing their eventual disappearance.

and it’s not just big things.

that’s the embarrassing part.

sometimes it’s something completely stupid.

a particular light coming through my window.

someone laughing in the other room.

a song playing while i’m getting ready.

the sparkle in someone’s eyes.

a conversation that probably meant nothing to the other person.

a random tuesday that i know, even while i’m living it, i’ll eventually wish i could have back.

i collect these things without meaning to.

little emotional receipts.

proof that i was there.

i think i’ve spent a lot of time wondering if this makes me too sensitive.

too attached.

too sentimental.

too intense.

too much.

because there seems to be a socially acceptable amount of caring.

you’re supposed to love people without needing them too much.

miss people without making it obvious.

be passionate without becoming obsessive.

be empathetic without letting anything actually hurt.

and if something hurts too much, you’re supposed to have a healthy little conversation with yourself and move on.

sometimes i wish i could.

sometimes i genuinely wish i could care less.

i think about how much easier it would be.

to not analyze every little shift.

to not feel responsible for everyone’s feelings.

to not get attached to places.

to not have certain songs permanently associated with certain people.

to not think about things for weeks after everyone else has forgotten them.

to not feel like every ending is a tiny death.

but then i think about the other side of it.

if i turned the volume down, what else would disappear?

would i still get completely obsessed with a new idea?

would i still lose hours reading about something that nobody asked me to research?

would i still get that strange feeling when a sentence in a book describes something i’ve never been able to explain?

would i still get excited about meeting someone who makes me think differently?

would i still notice the tiny beautiful things?

would i still care enough to make things?

would i still be me?

that’s the part i don’t know how to answer.

because maybe feeling too much isn’t one thing.

sometimes it is beautiful.

sometimes it is exhausting.

sometimes it is intuition.

sometimes it is overthinking.

sometimes it is empathy.

sometimes it is making someone else’s pain your responsibility.

sometimes it is love.

sometimes it is just anxiety wearing a little vintage coat and pretending to be profound.

i’m learning that not every feeling deserves to be followed.

but i don’t think that means every feeling needs to be silenced either.

maybe the goal isn’t becoming less sensitive.

maybe it’s becoming more discerning.

learning what to hold.

what to release.

what belongs to me.

what doesn’t.

who deserves the softest parts of me.

and when to stop giving them away.

i don’t think i’ll ever be particularly good at feeling things halfway.

maybe i don’t actually want to be.

i just want to stop being embarrassed by the fact that things matter to me.

i want to let a song ruin my afternoon.

i want to miss people.

i want to get excited about something embarrassingly specific.

i want to care about things that don’t make sense on paper.

i want to be moved by beautiful things without immediately asking what they’re useful for.

i want to stop treating tenderness like something i need to grow out of.

maybe i don’t feel too much.

maybe i’ve just spent too much time around people who learned how to feel less.

and maybe there are worse things than being a little too easily moved by being alive.

until the next thought,

kati

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creds to the lovely human who made this and posted on pinterest!

i think about the internet a lot for someone who is increasingly tired of being on it.

not in the “social media is bad for us” way. i don’t particularly care to write another essay about how our phones are destroying our attention span- we are far past that fact. like we know. everyone knows. and then we open instagram and tiktok and end of doomscrolling anyway!

i mean something slightly more embarrassing.

i miss when the internet was weird.

also when it was special. like not so accessible.

i miss when people made things online that had absolutely no reason to exist.

of the reason was just so stupid that it was funny. or not stupid but just had not real benefit to society except pure joy.

a website because someone liked a band. a glittery page with someone’s favorite quotes on it. a blog that hadn’t figured out its niche. a badly made fan video. a little game you played for twenty minutes and never thought about again. or the game site you knew how to type in the search bar as a kid without even looking at the keyboard. someone spending an entire weekend deigning a myspace layout that would become completely irrelevant within six months.

there was something beautiful about it.

the internet used to feel less like a place you went to become someone and more like a place you went to find what someone was interested in, and get influenced.

and somewhere along the way, we started asking every interest what it could become. how we can benefit from it. profit from it.

can you monetize it?

can you build an audience around it?

can you turn it into a personal brand?

can you put it on your resume?

can you make a startup out of it?

can you AT LEAST make a linkedin post that a few people might like but you’ll get 10x more impressions on?

i am not immune to this. obviously.

i have spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to figure our how all my seemingly unrelated interests fit together into one coherent person. politics. history. technology. writing. media. aesthetics. research. data. whatever strange thing i happen to be obsessed with that week.

at some point i started wondering if i actually had too many interests, or if i had just gotten very good at turning curiosity into a productivity problem.

and maybe this isn’t just an internet problem.

maybe its an entire way of understanding ourselves.

what happens to a person when every interest has to become useful?

what happens when reading a book has to make you smarter, learning a language has to advance your career, taking a photo has to become content, writing has to become a personal brand (guilty), and a random obsession has to eventually reveal itself as a “skill”?

when did we become so afraid of doing things that don’t lead anywhere?

i think there is something particularly strange about growing up in a culture where we are constantly being told to “find your passion,” while simultaneously being taught to evaluate every passion according to its market value.

we are supposed to explore ourselves, but efficiently.

we are supposed to be curious, but strategically.

we are supposed to have hobbies, but preferably ones that demonstrate something important or of value.

even boredom has become something we’re supposed to optimize away.

and the internet mad this especially easy.

everything is measurable here. views. likes. followers. clicks. engagement. subscribers. connections. reach.

you can watch an idea turn into a number in real time.

eventually, you start doing it to yourself.

you don’t just wonder whether you like something.

you wonder whether you’re good at it.

whether you’re interesting enough at it.

whether anyone else will care.

whether it could become something.

and i think that’s why i miss the stupid little things.

the useless website.

the playlist made for one person.

the random blog post that was a diary entry written at 2am

the tiny game someone made because they were bored and thought it would be funny.

the little digital object that exists for no other reason other than someone wanted it to exist.

i recently started making some of these things myself.

not beacuse i had a business idea. not because i was building a portfolio. not because i thought they would “perform”

i started separating my personal brand and the joy of creativity for the sake of creativity.

just because i wanted to see if i could.

and there was something almost whimsically embarrassing about how good it felt.

to make something and not immediately ask what it could do for me.

maybe that is what i’ve been missing.

not the old internet exactly.

the version of myself that existed on it.

the little girl who could be completely obsessed with something for three days without wondering whether it belonged in a five year plan.

maybe we don’t actually need another productivity system.

maybe we need more useless things.

things that don’t optimize us, educate us, monetize us, brand us, or even improve us.

things that are just…there.

because perhaps the point of curiosity was never to turn every interest into something useful.

perhaps the point was to become a more interesting person.

and maybe, in a world that keeps asking us what everything is for, there is something quietly radical about making something that has no answer.

make something nobody asked for.

write something that doesn’t belong on linkedin.

build a website with no business model.

or build a website solely for the benefit of others in some way.

learn something you have absolutely no intention of putting on your resume.

make something funny.

make something beautiful.

make something completely unnecessary.

and, for once, don’t ask yourself what it’s going to become.

let it be something you just wanted to make.

:0 :) :3 :P

until the next strange thought,

kati

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there is something strangely comforting about discovering that two people, separated by language, religion, geography, and centuries, may have looked at existence and asked almost the exact same question.

not necessarily who is God?

something even more fundamental:

how does something invisible become real?

how does an idea become matter?

how does knowledge become action?

how does the unseen become something we can actually experience?

i started thinking about this while reading about liu zhi, one of the most significant muslim thinkers of late imperial china. his tianfang zingli (nature and principle in islam, 1704) did something that still feels surprisingly radical: it explained islamic metaphysics using the language and conceptual categories of neo-confucian thought. scholars sachiko murata, william chittick, and tu weiming describe his project as one that allowed chinese muslim thinkers to move between two intellectual worlds rather than simply choosing one over the other.

and i don’t mean that he simply translated arabic words in to chinese- that would have been far too easy.

he was translating worldviews.

there is a difference.

translation forces us to imagine that somewhere, there is a perfect equivalent. God becomes another word for God. soul becomes another word for soul. heaven becomes another word for heaven.

but what happens when the intellectual world you are translating into organizes reality far differently from your own?

liu zhi had to confront exactly that problem.

the problem with translating God

in liu xhi’s cosmology, we encounter what is translated as the ‘real’, alongside a vocabulary of substance, function, activity, principle, knowledge, power, and manifestation.

the language sounds confucian.

the metaphysical universe behind it is also deeply indebted to islamic philosophy and sufism. scholars have traced particularly important connections between liu zhi and medieval sufi thought, including ideas associated with ibn ‘arabi and his tradition.

that is what makes liu zhi so interesting to me.

he isn’t merely asking:

which tradition is correct?

his writing raises a much stranger possibility:

can the architecture of one worldview become intelligible through the language of another?

and once i started thinking about that, something shifted. this stopped feeling like a historical curiosity but rather like a question about how human beings understand one another at all.

the invisible has to become visible somehow

neo-confucian philosophy gives us two concepts that are useful here: li (理) and qi (氣).

very roughly, li refers to principle or pattern —> the intelligible structure of things. while qi refers to the vital/material force through which things become differentiated and embodied.

my original notes were fascinated by the relationship between the two: the abstract structure of reality and its concrete manifestation.

and it is tempting to look at this and start drawing straight lines between traditions.

li is basically this islamic concept.

qi is basically that one.

but that would actually make liu zhi less interesting.

because liu zhi did not simply identify neo-confucian li with God. scholarship on his thought points out that he distinguishes the absolute divine reality from what neo-confucian thinkers called li

the overlap is more subtle.

it is the shared human problem underneath the vocabulary:

how do we explain the relationship between what cannot be seen and the world that can?

between essence and existence.

between principle and manifestation.

between the source of something and the thing itself.

different civilizations developed different vocabularies for answering those questions.

maybe metaphysics begins with the fact that humans keep asking them anyway.

former heaven, latter heaven

this becomes even more beautiful in liu zhi's distinction between former heaven and latter heaven.

in his cosmological diagrams, former heaven describes the invisible principles involved in the coming-to-be of the visible universe. latter heaven concerns the manifested cosmos and the movement of return toward the real. murata describes these through the islamic language of an arc of descent and arc of ascent.

the diagram that originally caught my attention moves through different stages from real substance toward manifestation.

and, somewhere in my notes, cosmology accidentally became a metaphor for ordinary life.

because isn't that movement everywhere?

an architect imagines a building before there is a building.

a political movement exists as an idea before somebody organizes around it.

you know you love someone before love becomes the phone call, the meal, the drive home, the act of care.

you believe yourself to be compassionate before another person's suffering asks something inconvenient from you.

we carry entire invisible worlds inside ourselves.

and, eventually, reality asks us to manifest them.

there is always some distance between what exists in principle and what becomes real through action.

perhaps we all live somewhere between a former heaven and a latter heaven.

between the person we understand ourselves to be —>

and the person our actions actually bring into existence.

maybe difference isn't the opposite of similarity

I think we sometimes approach religion as though traditions are sealed rooms.

islam is in one.

confucianism is in another.

and of course all the other organized faiths.

each occupying its own intellectual territory.

then, interfaith dialogue becomes an exercise in occasionally opening the doors and pointing out the furniture we have in common.

look! you believe in compassion.

we believe in compassion too..

which is nice.

but liu zhi suggests something much more intellectually interesting.

what if ideas can travel?

what if a concept can enter another philosophical system and become slightly different without losing itself completely?

what if understanding another tradition doesn't require discovering that it secretly agrees with yours?

liu zhi's work is particularly interesting because scholarship describes it not as the abandonment of islam for confucianism, but as an attempt to articulate islamic teachings through categories intelligible within the chinese intellectual environment.

that distinction matters.

because, perhaps translation shouldn't erase difference.

perhaps good translation lets difference become legible.

and maybe this isn't really about religion

the older i get, the less convinced i am that understanding someone requires sharing their vocabulary.

we become attached to words because words organize our worlds.

God.

nature.

justice.

freedom.

love.

truth.

we hear someone use a different word, or understand ours differently, and assume they must therefore inhabit a completely different reality.

and sometimes they do.

but sometimes two people are standing on opposite sides of something enormous, describing what it looks like from where they happen to be standing.

that does not mean every religion is secretly identical.

and it doesn't mean every philosophical disagreement disappears if we zoom out far enough.

and it certainly doesn't mean that li is just another word for an islamic concept, or that islamic cosmology and neo-confucian metaphysics can be collapsed into one system.

their differences are precisely what make the comparison interesting.

liu zhi makes me wonder whether intellectual curiosity begins when we resist two equally tempting impulses:

the desire to make everything the same, and the desire to make everything irreconcilably different.

there is a space somewhere between those two.

a space where an idea can cross a boundary without pretending the boundary never existed.

where islam can remain islam.

confucianism can remain confucianism.

and yet, for a moment, each can give us another language for looking at reality.

maybe that is what i find so interesting about liu zhi.

he wasn't simply translating a religion.

he was testing whether one universe of meaning could become intelligible inside another.

and hundreds of years later, i think we're still trying to figure out whether people can do the same.

reading / sources

The main text behind this essay is Liu Zhi's Tianfang xingli (Nature and Principle in Islam), originally published in 1704. The most important English scholarly edition is Sachiko Murata, William C. Chittick, and Tu Weiming, The Sage Learning of Liu Zhi: Islamic Thought in Confucian Terms (Harvard University Asia Center, 2009). It includes a translation of Liu Zhi's text, extensive commentary, his cosmological diagrams, and substantial discussion of the Islamic, Sufi, and Chinese intellectual traditions informing his thought.

For the Former Heaven/Latter Heaven and arc of descent/ascent, Sachiko Murata's essay “Liu Chih's Islamic Neoconfucianism” is especially useful because she walks through the cosmological diagrams and explains how Liu maps invisible principles, manifestation, and return.

For the broader intellectual context, James D. Frankel's Rectifying God's Name: Liu Zhi's Confucian Translation of Monotheism and Islamic Law examines how Liu used Chinese philosophical concepts to articulate Islamic ideas while negotiating the limits of translation between the traditions.

Zvi Ben-Dor Benite's work on the Han Kitab tradition and scholarship on Liu Zhi's eclectic sources are also useful for understanding the larger world of Chinese Muslim scholarship in which this synthesis developed; scholarship specifically traces Liu's engagement with Sufi thought alongside Neo-Confucian, Daoist, and Buddhist concepts.

I stand before you with a heavy heart, driven by the urgency to discuss a matter of utmost importance – decolonization, specifically in the context of Palestine. Decolonization is not a mere theory or concept, nor is it something confined to academic discussions and essays. It is a living reality, and the lack of discourse on Palestine exemplifies how it has been reduced to a metaphor for anything but substantial change and mass resistance.

The act of eliminating a group of people based on their existence is a crime against humanity. Whether it’s the erasure of a group’s identity or the destruction of a community, genocide goes against the very essence of diversity in our world. Understanding the deep-seated differences between the colonized and colonizer is hampered by the continuous dehumanization and self-doubt forced upon the colonized.

Throughout history, racism has been wielded as a tool of oppression and control, perpetuating systemic inequalities that continue to affect marginalized communities. The theme of white superiority, rooted in historical economic and social advantages, has resulted in the marginalization and exploitation of indigenous communities. It is crucial that we address and dismantle these power dynamics to create a more equitable society. History and mass media have been shaped by those in power.

It is essential to critically examine the narratives passed down to us to gain a deeper understanding of the impact of colonialism on individuals and societies. Under Article 13, the right of return for displaced civilians is a universal law. Yet, despite being displaced, Palestinians have been denied this right, leaving them defenseless and paralyzed. The power imbalance between the colonizer and the colonized is stark.

Franz Fanon famously argues that the only way to break this cycle is through a revolution that dismantles the colonial system and allows for the rehumanization of the colonized.

Decolonization is, and will always be, a violent process, as it allows the colonized to reassert their liberation from the colonial power. Algeria’s occupation by France for 132 years resulted in a long and brutal struggle for independence. 1.5 million Algerians were martyrs in the war for independence, and has an estimate of over 10 million deaths of algerians under French occuptation. The colonizers’ rape of Algeria, just like Palestine, was not just physical but also cultural, as they sought to erase all traces of the colonized identity. The resilience and determination of those fighting for their freedom against cultural and physical erasure are a testament to the power of individual agency in the face of systemic oppression. This struggle was marked by violence and bloodshed, as well as by the resilience and determination of those fighting for their freedom.

In the context of Palestine, it is important to remember that silence is not an option. To stay silent is to side with the oppressor, as is calling for a two-state solution or condemning both sides. This is not a two-sided fight. It is a stark contrast between the colonizer and the colonized, manifesting as an ongoing apartheid and ethnic cleansing. The staggering number of bombs dropped on Gaza and the unimaginable loss of innocent lives should make us question humanity. Israel has mercilessly bombed a hospital murdering over 500 innocent souls and babies, media outlets have relentlessly pushed a lie spun up by the zionist regime alleging 40 babies had been beheaded, in an attempt to provoke the emotions of those consuming it. A six-year old in Chicago was stabbed 26 times. Let me repeat that. A Palestinian child in Chicago was stabbed 26 times because of the spreading of fake news. Its Palestinians, Arabs and Muslims alike, paying the price right now for the spreading of Zionist propaganda and the blood is in the hands of those spreading it.

Decolonization, by its very nature, is a process that is seldom peaceful. It’s essential to understand that decolonization is not a mere administrative or logistical transition; it represents the dismantling of deeply entrenched systems of power, oppression, and control that have been in place in the case of Palestine, 85 years. If Israel deserves a moment of silence, Palestine deserves the world to never utter a sound again.

The liberation of Palestine may seem like an arduous journey, but history offers a beacon of hope through the example of Algeria. Just as Algeria persevered through a long and challenging war for independence, so too can Palestine. Algeria’s unwavering commitment to their cause and the eventual triumph against formidable odds demonstrate that when a people’s determination for self-determination and freedom remains steadfast, even the most formidable of oppressors can be defeated. The Algerian experience serves as a testament to the resilience of nations aspiring to break free from colonial shackles and assert their sovereignty. With hope, determination, and global support, resilience will ultimately pave the way to freedom and justice for all

you might know the amazigh people by another name: berber.

the amazigh- or imazighen, in the plural- are the descendants of the pre-arab inhabitants of north africa.

and they’re not just located in one country.

amazigh communities exist across morocco, algeria, tunisia, libya, egypt, mali, niger, and mauritania.

and apparently, we don’t even have an accurate count of how many amazigh people there are today because there haven’t been enough thorough surveys.

which is… interesting.

especially when you consider that we’ve managed to get relatively accurate population counts for many indigenous groups around the world.

but i won’t get into that.

pause.

for now.

the two largest amazigh populations are in algeria and morocco, where large portions of the population are descended from amazigh people, even though not everyone identifies as amazigh today.

and this is where we get into a really interesting question:

are north africans arab or african?

and honestly, the answer is… complicated.

so, who are the amazigh?

the word “arab” has taken on a particular meaning in north africa because of centuries of arabization, colonialism, and later pan-arabism.

and because arabic is the dominant language across much of north africa, people who speak arabic may identify as arab- even when their ancestry is largely indigenous to north africa.

there’s also been centuries of intermarriage and migration between arab and amazigh populations.

so when we talk about north african identity, we’re talking about something that is much more complicated than a simple arab-versus-amazigh divide.

but let’s back up.

because amazigh history goes back way before the arab conquest.

from around 2000 bce, amazigh languages had spread westward from the nile valley across the northern sahara and into the maghreb.

then, beginning in the seventh century ce, arab armies conquered much of north africa.

and here’s an interesting part of that history:

amazigh warriors were recruited by arab forces and eventually participated in the conquest of spain in 711 ce.

so the history isn’t simply arabs versus amazigh.

amazigh people were also deeply involved in the expansion of islamic civilization across north africa and into europe.

amazigh merchants and nomads also helped establish and maintain trans-saharan trade networks involving gold, enslaved people, and other goods, connecting north africa with the regions south of the sahara.

and these accomplishments were later documented by one of the most famous historians of the medieval islamic world:

ibn khaldun.

but by his time, amazigh communities were increasingly facing arabization.

and this happened in a couple of different ways.

arabization

first, there was the growing dominance of written arabic.

as arabic became the dominant written language, amazigh languages were increasingly pushed into the realm of spoken or “folk” languages.

that meant that amazigh languages were no longer being written and preserved in the same way.

and over time, this contributed to linguistic erosion and the loss of some amazigh cultural identities.

then there was another major change.

beginning around the eleventh century, arab nomadic groups migrated into north africa.

and as these groups moved across the region, many amazigh communities were pushed away from the plains and toward mountainous areas.

so you had both linguistic and demographic changes happening at the same time.

more and more people were becoming arabic speakers.

and as language changes, identity can change with it.

by the sixteenth century, this process continued as amazigh dynasties became less dominant, while north african states were increasingly ruled by arab dynasties claiming descent from the prophet muhammad, as well as by ottoman turks.

so over centuries, amazigh identity became increasingly marginalized.

amazigh identity today

but that brings us to the modern era.

because amazigh communities have increasingly demanded recognition of their culture and history- both as the original inhabitants of north africa and as distinct communities within modern north african states.

and there have been some major successes.

in algeria, tamazight- one of the major amazigh languages- has been taught and studied in schools and universities.

since 2002, it has been recognized as a national language, and in 2016, it was constitutionally recognized as an official language.

but recognition hasn’t necessarily meant political equality.

in kabylie, for example, there has been significant political unrest surrounding amazigh identity, language, and cultural recognition.

and morocco has taken some steps as well.

the country established the royal institute of amazigh culture, introduced tamazight into education, and in 2011 recognized tamazight as an official language alongside arabic.

so there’s been this ongoing tension between recognizing amazigh identity and maintaining a unified national identity.

and interestingly, amazigh culture has also become a major part of the tourism industry.

the architecture.

the crafts.

the clothing.

the jewelry.

the landscapes.

all of these things have been incorporated into the image of morocco and north africa that gets marketed to tourists around the world.

and that brings me to one particular amazigh community that i wanted to talk about:

the kabyle people.

the kabyle

the kabyle are an amazigh people from northeastern algeria, particularly the mountainous region of kabylie.

and despite migration and the economic disruption caused by french colonial rule, kabyle communities have maintained a strong sense of amazigh identity within an increasingly arabized algerian state.

while i was researching this, i came across a short article from harvard that i really wanted to share.

it talked about the role of kabyle women in traditional artistic production.

historically, women were the creators of many of the objects used in everyday life.

they made pottery.

they wove textiles.

they decorated household objects.

and what i found particularly interesting is that these weren’t just practical objects.

women used shared geometric symbols and visual motifs, while also incorporating the particular design traditions of their own tribe or village.

so even something as simple as a pot or a piece of fabric could contain an entire visual language.

and the article describes these objects as demonstrating a really developed aesthetic tradition.

but then, during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, things started to change.

imported household goods and manufactured fabrics meant women no longer necessarily needed to produce these objects for their own families.

at the same time, european visitors began purchasing amazigh art and bringing it back to europe as decoration.

and, unsurprisingly, the market began influencing what artisans produced.

women started creating objects that appealed to foreign buyers.

so something that had originally been made for everyday use could suddenly become a commodity.

and today, amazigh women across north africa continue to make some objects for domestic use, while other forms of amazigh art have become part of a global marketplace.

and actually, this was one of the things i found most interesting while researching the kabyle.

because when i started searching for information about the kabyle people, so much of what came up was art.

jewelry.

pottery.

textiles.

decorative objects.

and a lot of it was being sold online.

which made me think about this whole question of what happens when cultural traditions become commodities.

because on one hand, the global market can help preserve and spread amazigh artistic traditions.

people are making these things.

people are buying them.

people are learning about amazigh culture through them.

but at the same time, there’s something worth thinking about when cultural objects that once carried social, familial, or spiritual meanings become things that are primarily sold as aesthetic decorations.

and i think that’s a really interesting tension.

because when we talk about preserving culture, we often imagine preservation as something static.

like putting something in a museum and saying:

“there. we saved it.”

but culture doesn’t really work like that.

it changes.

it gets commercialized.

it gets politicized.

it gets reclaimed.

it gets forgotten.

and sometimes, it comes back.

and i think the story of the amazigh- and particularly the kabyle- is a really interesting example of that.

because despite centuries of arabization, colonialism, and political marginalization, amazigh identity never completely disappeared.

it adapted.

and now, people are actively reclaiming it.

and i think that’s where i’m going to leave it for today.

because there’s obviously a lot more to say about amazigh identity, kabylie, algeria, and the politics of arabization.

but i think this gives us a pretty good starting point for understanding why amazigh identity is still such an important part of north african politics and culture.

more specifically: the difference between rational truth and factual truth.

this is heavily based on the work of Hannah Arendt, as well as some really interesting articles by Samantha Rose Hill, Jeffrey Champlin, and Jenny Macness.

but i gotta add myself to that list too, because i worked hard on this. hahaha.

so let’s start with rational truth.

rational truth

rational truth is essentially truth that is “produced by the mind.”

think mathematics, philosophy, physics, or scientific principles.

these truths aren’t completely invulnerable. we can challenge them, misunderstand them, suppress them, whatever. but they have a certain durability because they don’t depend on political consensus.

and this is where it gets kind of interesting.

you can discover a mathematical truth in your own mind, but that doesn’t mean you created it.

like, I didn’t invent the fact that two plus two equals four just because i figured it out.

the truth exists independently of me.

you get the point… i hope.

now, factual truth is different.

factual truth

factual truths are things that happened in the world- particularly historical events and circumstances that become politically significant.

they don’t exist inside our minds in the same way rational truths do. they exist out there, in the world.

and you might think that makes them more objective and therefore more secure.

but Arendt argues that the opposite can actually be true.

factual truth is incredibly fragile.

take climate change.

there are factual observations we can make about our climate: atmospheric carbon dioxide levels, rising temperatures, the increasing frequency and severity of extreme heat events, and so on.

but the political meaning we attach to those facts is constantly contested.

and this is where things get messy.

because suddenly, instead of talking about the facts themselves, people start throwing ideological labels around.

“this is pro-capitalist.”

“this is anti-socialist.”

“this is a democracy issue.”

and honestly, that’s usually when I check out.

because Arendt is interested in something much more fundamental:

what happens when political power starts interfering with our ability to agree on what actually happened?

factual truth is fragile because human affairs are constantly changing.

facts are, in a sense, the outcome of us living together.

and when political power chips away at those facts through lies, propaganda, censorship, or manipulation, it doesn’t just distort our understanding of history.

it damages the shared world we live in.

why facts matter

and we actually need factual truth.

think about something as simple as doctors trying to stop the spread of covid 19.

we need to be able to trust certain facts about the world.

we also need to be able to take some things for granted so that we can function together.

because if we constantly have to question everything..if we can’t trust our own perceptions, our memories, or the people around us- we lose something Arendt calls common sense.

and she doesn’t mean common sense in the “obviously, don’t touch a hot stove” kind of way.

she means something closer to our shared ability to understand reality.

it’s almost like a sixth sense.

it’s what allows us to inhabit the same world as other people.

and when that disappears, it becomes much harder to coexist.

truth vs. politics

and this brings me to one of Arendt’s most interesting arguments:

truth isn’t really political.

if anything, truth can be anti-political, because throughout history, truth-tellers have often found themselves standing against political power.

Socrates was sentenced to death.

Thoreau was thrown in jail.

Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated.

and yet we still expect truth to somehow save us.

that’s the irony.

Arendt points out that truth and politics have basically never been on good terms.

and i think people laugh when i say that because, on some level, we already know it’s true.

we know politicians lie.

we know governments manipulate information.

we know history gets rewritten.

but we still desperately want truth to win.

and i think that desperation is important.

it’s almost a plea for recognition.

a desperate attempt to say:

“can we please just agree on what happened?”

and maybe that’s why Arendt’s discussion of truth feels so relevant to democracy.

because when we can no longer agree on reality itself, democracy becomes incredibly difficult to sustain.

the rragility of facts

so, coming back to Arendt.

she emphasizes just how fragile factual truth really is.

and history gives us plenty of examples.

take the Soviet Union.

the government could literally remove references to Leon Trotsky from historical texts and photographs, essentially attempting to erase him from the official historical record.

and that sounds terrifying- because facts can actually disappear from public memory.

but here’s the strange thing:

facts can also resist.

they don’t resist in the same way that a physical object resists being destroyed.

but they can push back.

a totalitarian regime can manipulate the historical record, but it can never be completely certain that it has reached the roots of reality itself.

someone remembers.

someone writes something down.

someone finds an old photograph.

someone tells their children what actually happened.

and suddenly, the thing that was supposedly erased comes back.

there is no “the truth”

and this is actually why Arendt makes such an important distinction between different kinds of truth.

she talks about all kinds of truth: historical truth, philosophical truth, psychological truth, mathematical truth, hidden truth, absolute truth, half-truth, and, of course, factual truth.

and i think the larger point is that there isn’t necessarily one singular thing called “the truth.”

there are truths in relation to particular things.

the adjective matters.

because when we say historical truth versus mathematical truth versus factual truth, we’re talking about different ways that truth exists in the world.

and that distinction matters politically.

because in the modern era, factual truth is constantly under attack.

lying erodes the common fabric of society.

but, importantly, this isn’t entirely new.

Arendt argues that truth and politics have always had a complicated relationship.

since the beginning of political theory, truthfulness has rarely been treated as a political virtue.

and lying?

well, lying has often been considered a necessary, justifiable, and even reliable political tool.

and that becomes especially dangerous when we’re talking about totalitarianism, a form of dictatorship that seeks to control not just political institutions, but people’s understanding of reality itself.

the leader claims to have all the answers.

the people are gradually deprived of the ability to know what their own interests even are.

and once you control what people believe happened, you can start controlling what they believe is possible.

In this episode of blooming lotus, I explore Algeria’s political party system, from the FLN’s origins as an anti-colonial liberation movement to the rise of Islamic and opposition parties. The episode examines how Algeria’s history of independence, military influence, and political power has shaped its democracy- and why the concept of le pouvoir, or “the power,” is so central to understanding Algerian politics.

The episode also looks at the 2019 Hirak protests, which challenged Algeria’s political establishment and demonstrated the growing power of grassroots movements. Ultimately, the question is whether Algeria can move beyond the political structures inherited from its past and build a more inclusive and responsive democratic system.

اللَّهُمَّ لَا تَجْعَلْ عِلْمَنَا حُجَّةً عَلَيْنَا، بَلْ اجْعَلْهُ نُورًا فِي قُلُوبِنَا

“O Allah, do not make our knowledge a proof against us; rather, make it a light in our hearts.”

(this post’s trigger warnings <3)

• not everything unfamiliar is bidʿah btw

• ijtihād. proceed with caution (omg i know who does she think she is..)

• al-ghazālī left everything behind because certainty mattered more than prestige!

• ibn ʿarabī reminds us that seeing God everywhere is not the same as becoming God. (this is an important one)

• history is more complicated than your “that’s haram” comment.

anyways…

i find that there is a profound irony in how quickly people dismiss an idea simply because it feels unfamiliar or unconventional, especially in the name of islam. so much of what is rejected today is rejected not because it has been thoughtfully examined, but because it falls outside the boundaries of what people have grown accustomed to. familiarity is often mistaken for truth, and inherited norms are mistaken for the faith itself.

yet islam did not emerge by affirming the conventions of its time. it transformed them. It challenged inherited beliefs, disrupted social hierarchies, and called people to question what they had always accepted without reflection. the quran repeatedly asks its readers to reflect, reason, observe, and use their intellect rather than simply imitate what they inherited.

over time however, every living tradition risks becoming identified more with its accumulated customs than with the spirit that first animated it. rules and conventions have their place, but when they become the sole measure by which every new idea is judged, we risk confusing what is merely familiar with what is genuinely true. sometimes what appears unconventional is not a departure from the tradition at all, but an invitation to rediscover its original depth.

history reminds us of this again and again.

imam al-ghazālī, now regarded as one of the greatest scholars in islamic history, often seen as the “proof of islam”, experienced such an intense intellectual and spiritual crisis that he walked away from one of the most prestigious academic positions of his time. in deliverance from error (al-munqidh min al-dalāl), he describes losing his ability to speak and teach, questioning the foundations of knowledge itself, and abandoning status in pursuit of certainty. to many around him, such a decision must have seemed irrational. even scandalous. today that very journey is celebrated as one of the defining moments in islamic intellectual history.

then there is ibn ʿarabī, whose writings on divine unity have been praised as profound and condemned as heretical in equal measure. his discussions of waḥdat al-wujūd (“the unity of being”) and the ‘perfect human’ have often been reduced to the accusation that he believed “he and God are one.” (astaghfirallah) but ibn ʿarabī’s point is subtler: the perfected knower perceives all existence as utterly dependent upon and reflective of the divine reality..not that the Creator and creation become identical or one. whether one agrees with his metaphysics or not, dismissing centuries of scholarship with “he was insane” or “he was a heretic” or even as far as “he was a kafir” says more about our discomfort with complexity than it does about his thought.

perhaps the lesson isn’t that every unconventional idea is true. it isnt. rather, it’s that unfamiliarity is not an argument, and discomfort is not evidence. islamic intellectual history has always contained disagreement, debate, philosophy, mysticism, jurisprudence, theology, and renewal. the tradition was never built by people who were afraid to think. it was built by people who took truth seriously enough to pursue it wherever it led.

perhaps the real question isn’t whether an idea feels unconventional.

maybe it’s whether we’ve confused what we’ve inherited with what islam actually teaches.

sources!

• Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqidh min al-Ḍalāl (Deliverance from Error)

• William C. Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge: Ibn al-‘Arabī’s Metaphysics of Imagination

• William C. Chittick, The Self-Disclosure of God

• Claude Addas, Quest for the Red Sulphur: The Life of Ibn ’Arabi

The readings from Tilimsani’s The Divine Names and Chittick’s “The Five Divine Presences” both delve into the multifaceted understanding of divine manifestation within Islamic mysticism. While Tilimsani emphasizes the use of divine names as attributes within a hierarchical spiritual practice, Chittick offers a nuanced ontological and experiential account of the divine presences that encompass transcendent, immanent aspects of God. Both texts serve as windows into the complex interplay between mystical practice, and experimental knowledge.

The Akbari tradition of Islamic mysticism, originating with Ibn al-Arabi and systematized by his disciples, produced two complementary yet distinct approaches to understanding divine manifestation: the therapeutic invocation of the divine names and the ontological mapping of the divine presences. Al-Tilimsani, the closest friend and foremost disciple of Al-Qunawai, composed a commentary on the divine names that treats them as medicinal remedies for the soul, emphasizing their occult properties and talismanic efficacy when invoked under qualified supervision. William Chittick, in his study of the Five Divine Presences as developed from al-Qunawi through al-Qaysari, articulates a layered ontological scheme in which the presences are entrifications of Nonentified Being, levels of reality that the mystic encounters and ultimately reunites within the Perfect Man. While Tilimsani approaches the divine through the lens of ritual practice and spiritual medicine, Chittick traces how the Akbari tradition conceives of divine presence as a graduated ontological structure accessible through conscious realization.

How do each of these authors conceptualize the nature of divine presence, are divine names ontological realities, or are they primarily experienced through mystical states? Tilimsani’s approach treats divine names as “medications” and “remedies,” holding that invocation can reveal occult powers, healing the soul much like a mystical medicine. He emphasizes the efficacy of names as tools for healing and opening spiritual awareness, aligning with a view of divine names as possessing occult, almost energetic properties. Tilimsani’s treatment of the divine names is grounded in what the introduction calls an “ontological turn” within the Akbari tradition, where names are understood not as expressions of God’s will but rather as “ontological relationships between God and creation”

This is a critical point: Tilimsani does not simply treat names as talismanic tools devoid of ontological weight. Rather, he inherits from Ibn al-Arabi and al-Qunawai a framework in which the divine names are the relational bridges through which the single divine reality discloses itself to creatures according to their preparedness (istidad). A name like al-Darr, or the harmer, is not God’s will to punish but the manifestation of a relationship that obtains between God’s self-disclosure and the servant’s degree of readiness to receive it. This echoes lager Sufi visions that divine names contain hidden, potent realities and meanings that can be evoked through disciplined practice. 

Yet, for Tilimsani, the ontological grounding does not displace the operational character of the names. The reality of the names is simultaneously ontological, as they are real relationships with the Real, and operational as they produce real effects in the soul. 

Chittick’s exposition of the Five Divine Presences operates at a more explicitly metaphysical level. Drawing primarily from al-Qunawai, he explains that “Presence” (hadrah) is synonymous with “level” (martabah), and that the presences are precisely the modes or entifications (ta’ayyunat) of Nondelimited Being. The Essence itself- Nonentified Being- is not a Presence, since it transcends all delimitation. The presences are thus the graduated self-manifestations of the Real. These ontological dimensions where the divine presences are levels of Reality directly encountered and experienced in mystical states-each representing a different aspect of God’s self-revelation. This raises the question of whether the divine names function more as occult energies accessible through invocations, whereas Chittick’s presences depict levels of divine Reality itself? How do these paradigms manifest one’s understanding of divine closeness? Tilimsani’s framework highlights the engagement in specific names as remedies for spiritual conditions, and Chittick’s account emphasizes that the presences are levels of reality to be realized through direct unveiling (kashf). The presences are five worlds “within which God becomes manifest,” and that “the lower is an image and locus of manifestation for the higher” captures the vertical, ontological character of this paradigm.The individual does not so much use the presences as ascend through them. 

This leads to the idea of how practical invocation relates to mystical realization. Tilimsani’s detailed prescriptions, involving names suitable for different spiritual states highlighting a practice-based understanding where specific names serve as spiritual connections. For him, the divine names are powerful tools for knowledge, healing, opening glimpses of divine realities, and even working miracles, provided they are invoked under proper guidance. Chittick emphasizes that divine presence is attained through unveiling and the purification of the heart. But where Tilimsani’s method prescribes specific names for specific junctures on a graduated path and is emphasized to embody the meanings of these names, Chittick’s framework describes an inner journey through levels of being that are always present.

The two approaches have differing implications towards understanding divine knowledge, which is a question that naturally arises since divine knowledge is the heart of this topic. Tilimsani’s approach of divine knowledge yields a conception of divine knowledge that is both esoteric and practical. Knowledge here is efficacious: to know a name is to be able to use it, and to use it correctly is to be enlightened. Understanding the divine names are keys to hidden aspects of God. Chittick’s ontological scheme on the other hand, views divine presence as a mode of being, accessible through inward and conscious practice. The highest knowledge is not the correct invocation of a name but the direct unveiling of the divine consciousness within the heart. These differing perspectives raise questions about the nature of divine knowledge, as well as the aim of mystical practice whether it’s healing and protection in Tilimsani’s system versus union and understanding of divine realities in Chittick’s explanation. As much as they are different, they do complement each other. Tilimsani;s medicinal model presupposes the ontological architecture that Chittick articulates. The names are efficacious because they are real relationships with the Real, not merely psychological tools. Conversely, the ontological levels Chittick describes are not abstract philosophical categories, they are the very terrain the mystics traverses through practices like those Tilimsani prescribes.

Tilimsani and Chittick explore the same Akbari theory from different angles: one from the standpoint of embodying and the graduated invocation of the divine names, the other from the standpoint of ontological structure, the levels of being and divine manifestation. Their convergence suggests that divine knowledge in ISlamic mysticism is simultaneously operational and ontological.This comparison invites further inquiry: does invoking divine names merely evoke divine energies, or does it facilitate a deeper realizational encounter with divine reality? And how can one balance ritual efficacy with experimental insight in their spiritual practice? 

Citations

ʻAfīf al-Dīn al-Tilimsānī, The Divine Names: A Mystical Theology of the Names of God in the Qurʾan, ed. and trans. Yousef Casewit (New York: New York University Press, 2023), [page number].

William C. Chittick, “The Five Divine Presences: From al-Qūnawī to al-Qaysarī,” The Muslim World 72, no. 2 (1982): [page number].

Within Sufi theology and mysticism, the concepts of divine love and divine names serve as foundational frameworks for understanding the relationship between the human and the divine. Rumi’s poetic articulation of divine love, as explored in his works, complements Tilimsani’s systematic treatment of the divine names ‘Al-Asma’ al-Husna, prompting an engaging dialogue about how divine attributes and love really shapes spiritual journeys. I intend to explore three interconnected themes across Rumi and Tilimsani’s perspective on love: the nature of divine love as an experiential reality, the role of divine names as expressions of divine reality, and the implications of embodying divine attributes as a spiritual practice of love.

Rumi portrays Love (ishq) not merely as an attribute but as the very essence of divine engagement. He describes Love as an ocean, a limitless force that “burns away everything except the Beloved,” emphasizing its experiential, ineffable nature. (Chittick, 194) Love, for Rumi, transcends intellectual comprehension and demands direct, heartfelt participation: “Love cannot be contained within our speaking or listening; Love is an ocean whose depths cannot be plumbed.” (Chittick, 194)  He also describes God through love- “God Himself is Love, as it’s one of His attributes- yet his essence is beyond all attributes, including Love .(Chittick, 196). Love dominates and determines the Sufi’s inward and psychological states. Love pertains to the experimental dimensions of Sufism, not the theoretical, as it must be experienced to be understood. This depiction raises the question: how does experiential love serve as a bridge toward divine knowledge? We first must understand that creation itself is an act of divine love, love is the energizing force behind all creation, therefore love must be the force behind the journey to divine knowledge. Rumi’s emphasis on fana, or the dying of the ego, “die in Love to live in Love,” suggests that divine love functions as a transformative power that dissolves separateness, allowing the soul to unite with the divine on a level beyond discursive understanding. That true love for God requires the negation of the self- an annihilation in the Beloved. The seeker’s journey involves spiritual discipline- neglecting everything else to focus solely on the divine. “When the heart was annihilated within Him, he remained; then it understood the object of His words: “I myself am the seeker and the Sought”” (Chittick, 210) Ultimately, in order to reach that divine union, one must look within themselves to understand what obstacles are preventing the path towards spiritual guidance. 

Tilimsani’s approach offers a complementary perspective. Tilimsani reflected upon the divine names in a different manner, “Authors who write within the Akbarī tradition tend not to engage with the divine names from an Asharī voluntarist perspective. That is, they do not tend to reflect on the names in relation to God’s will. Rather, they conceive of the names as ontological relationships between God and creation.” (Caswit) By examining divine names as attributes of God, he suggests that these names are not just levels but manifestations of divine realities accessible through internal spiritual work. “ -[is an] intimate connection a human being can have to the name of God through embodying its properties and living according to its dictates.” (Casewit) The experiential dimension of love, therefore, may be viewed as an inward reflection of divine attributes, a process by which the seeker internalizes divine qualities. Tilimsani’s view on the vast names can be divided into different categories, each in which are specific based on which suits one’s situation and spiritual level the best. “(1) universal names that are suitable for all believers and wayfarers, (2) names for beginner wayfarers, (3) names for intermediate wayfarers, (4) names for advanced way-farers, and (5) names that are only invoked in rare cases.” (Casewit) This shows the thought put into Tilimsani’s understanding of spiritual development, as the divine names are tailored to the needs and capacities of seekers at different stages of their journey. Rather than viewing spiritual growth as a singular experience, Tilimsani presents it as a gradual process of embodying divine attributes through disciplined practice and contemplation. In this way, the divine names serve as a function similar to Rumi’s concept of love: Both scholars point to love and divine attributes as dynamic processes that facilitate the soul’s nearness to God- one through mystical union, the other through internal recognition and embodying of divine attributes. 

Tilimsani’s systematic enumeration of divine names, such as Al-Ghaffar (The Forgiving), and Al-Rahim (The Ever-Merciful), Al-Karim (The Generous) and Al-Wadud (The Loving) highlights their roles as embodiments of divine attributes that manifest various aspects of God’s essential nature. These names are just a few examples of the types of attributes of divine names that serve as spiritual channels, enabling human beings to contemplate, embody, and reflect giving qualities within themselves as a means of spiritual growth and union with the divine. Rumi also uses divine names poetically, portraying Love as “the Ocean of Life” that "makes the earth into a mine of meanings.” (Chittick, 214) This metaphor symbolizes the boundless and all-encompassing nature of divine love, depicting it as an infinite and rich source from which all existence describes meaning. It emphasizes the divine name Al-Khalq (The Creator), illustrating Love’s role as the vast, nurturing, and generative force of the divine essence that gives rise and sustains the universe. 

The intriguing question is: how do these divine names act as bridges between the divine and human realms? Tilimsani would argue that mediating on divine names, the seeker actively engages with divine attributes, gradually realizing their manifested presence within the self. Rumi’s poetic voice, meanwhile, invites the lover to internalize these attributes such as mercy and compassion, as qualities to embody through beautifying the ideas in his work. Both perspectives underscore that divine names are not static labels but dynamic, living realities that guide the soul’s journey inward and upward. They serve as microcosms of divine perfection, each offering differing access points to divine proximity. 

A key question arising from both texts is: how can human beings embody divine attributes such as love, mercy or even patience? Rumi advocates a complete negation of the ego, “the root of love is in nonexistence” in order to be receptive to divine qualities. (Chittick, 194) Tilimsani emphasizes that divine names, when understood and internalized, transform the human consciousness. He implies that divine attributes are avenues through which the seeker can mirror the divine, not merely intellectually, but experientially. 

This comparison invites us to ask: does embodying divine names imply a form of becoming, or is it a relational process of reflection? Rumi’s perspective suggests that full embodiment involves annihilation of the self in Love, allowing divine qualities to shine through the human vessel. Tilimsani pushes that through internalizing divine attributes- by contemplating and internalizing divine attributes, the seeker moves closer to realizing the divine realities already present within creation. Ultimately, the synthesis of their perspectives reveals that divine ove and divine names are mutually reinforcing paths to spiritual realization. For Rumi, love is the transformative force that dissolves separation between the lover and the Beloved, while for Tilimsani, the divine names provide the metaphysical framework through which that transformation occurs. Together, they present a vision of the spiritual path in which love awakens the soul and together with the divine names, guides through the journey toward deeper knowledge and connection to God.

Bibliography

Chittick, William C. The Sufi Path of Love: The Spiritual Teachings of Rumi. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1983.

al-Tilimsānī, ʿAfīf al-Dīn. The Divine Names: A Mystical Theology of the Names of God in the Qurʾan. Edited and translated by Yousef Casewit. New York: New York University Press, 2023.

In “Inception and Ibn ‘Arabi,” Ogunnaike draws parallels between Christopher Nolan’s film Inception and Ibn ‘Arabi’s cosmology, in particular, the metaphor of death and awakening as central to metaphysical transformation. There are many connections between the two, many of which relate to the concept of alternate, or divine realities within oneself. Ogunnaike highlights that “fana,” or self-annihilation, in Ibn ‘Arabi’s metaphysics, signifies not just an existential end, but a profound spiritual death, otherwise known as an ego death, that allows oneself to encounter reality in a deeper sense, beyond illusory distinctions. Ogunnaike notes that “the dream of our lives presents us with feelings, images, events, which can be interpreted to understand their origin and significance,” aligning with the Sufi belief that “the various imaginal forms that compromise our ordinary reality are not groundless fantasies, but are like dreams which can be interpreted.” (Ogunnaike, 9) This mirrors the film’s depiction of characters navigating through multiple dream layers, confronting their attachments and projections, which can be seen as a symbolic process of “fana.” This journey involves a death of self, an internal dissolution that ultimately leads to a higher state of consciousness, or in Ibn ‘Arabi’s view, a level of self intertwined with divine unity.

In terms of Ibn ‘Arabi’s concept of  “wahdat al-wujud,” or the Unity of Existence, Ogunnaike’s interpretation resonates with the highest level, all distinctions dissolve into the One Reality. Ogunnaike states that “the image of the Real is reflected and reduplicated through the different levels of mirror just like the images of Cobb and Ariadne between mirrors.” (Ogunnaike, 29) This symbolism of mirrors is central in Ibn ‘Arabi’s thought, where reality is often described as a series of divine mirrors, each reflecting the other and ultimately reflecting divine essence itself. This concept can also be seen in Richard Todd’s “The Perfect Human,” where one is to ascend into a true reflectivity of the divine names, for that is what makes a human perfect. “For Ibn ‘Arabi, the perfect human, who has been created in God’s image, is both the vital spirit of the cosmos and the mirror in whom God sees His own names and attributes made manifest.” (Todd) This can also be seen in how Sufi’s see the Quran. It is read like a mirror, where every verse is like a reflection- a layered transmission. 

The heart is also a very important symbol when it comes to Ibn ‘Arabis’s philosophy of the divine connection. It is said that the heart is what transcends the divine and creation, where the heart is like a mirror and when it is covered by ego and desires, it reflects nothing but confusion. But when it is polished through awareness, sincerity, and remembrance, it begins to reflect the light of the divine. Concepts such as “tawil” and “zahir” remediate this issue of the ego, where “tawil” is a core method used as inner interpretation and the outer wording “zahir” is like a veil and only through inner awakening can you see the truth behind the letters.

The multiplicity of worlds and images in Inception illustrates that the universe is a vast system of divine mirrors, where appearances reveal glimpses and the divine reality. Ogunnaike further states that “the universe is an imaginal world- a divine theater of images designed for spiritual awakening,” (Ogunnaike, 9) aligning with Ibn ‘Arabi’s view that alam al-khayal, is distinguished from ordinary imagination as a real and divine faculty that provides sensory and metaphysical experiences that constitute a bridge between the material and spiritual realities. Reality itself is understood as imagination within imagination, a paradoxical phenomenon where existence is both truly present yet inherently unreal. This duality reflects the layered structure of dreams in Inception, where each level of the dream structure corresponds to a deeper domain of the alam al-khayal, revealing the universe functioning as a vast divine mirror, an endless series of reflections that encompasses both manifest appearances through the subconscious and hidden realities that one may not even known exists within them. 

The theme with mirrors also points to the Sufi teachings regarding the idea of knowledge of the divine. Ogunnaike notes that “the end and goal of human knowledge, beyond which there is nothing, is the ‘mirror’ of the divine self-discolsure,” which Ibn ‘Arabi describes as “the form in the mirror” being ultimately invisible and unreachable in its true nature.” (Ogunnaike, 34) This aligns with the film’s depiction of characters seeing only their projections, not the “real” person outside the dream, reminding that one “only exists as reflections in the mirror of his consciousness.” (Ogunnaike, 34)

In sum, Ogunnaike demonstrates that Inception functions as a cinematic mirror reflecting multiple mystical paths including those  of “fana,” “tawil,” “zahir,” “wahdat al-mujud” and “khayal,” where the journey inwards through layers of illusion (mirrors) ultimately leads to self- awareness and unity with the divine. Ibn ‘Arabi says, “when you see a form in a mirror, you do not see the mirror itself,” and “the forms in the mirror are a manifestation of the divine face.” (Ogunnaike, 34) Recognizing this, the film implores us to see beyond our reflections and illusions of separate reality and in order to reveal the profound truth of the divine mirror from within, Ibn ‘Arabi teaches us to embrace and mirror the attributes of the divine. 

Works Cited

Ogunnaike, Oludamini. “Inception and Ibn 'Arabi.” Journal of Religion & Film, vol. 17, no. 2.

Todd, Ricahrd. “The Perfect Human.”

Being equated with one's race marks the beginning of inferiority among the marginalized. Racism establishes a deconstructed view of the colonized, allowing white superiority to gain social advantages, so one does not naturally feel inferior. Race then internalizes power, maintaining either group's inferiority and hierarchical complexes. For Algeria, colonization by France led to a long and brutal struggle for independence, with the Algerian people fighting against the oppressive forces of their colonizers. “An Open City, its ramparts destroyed, its battlements and carthworks demolished; its ignominy casts a shadow over the immediate future.” This struggle was marked by violence and bloodshed, as well as by the resilience and determination of those fighting for their freedom. The bodies of Algerian women were weaponized by French colonists as part of a political battleground between French and Algerian men. French authorities have repeatedly physically and psychologically abused and tortured Algerians during this time and in order to demoralize Algerian men, French soldiers raped Algerian women; eventually, Algerian women and their bodies became political symbols. “This enabled the colonial administration to define a precise political doctrine: “If we want to destroy the structure of Algerian society, its capacity for resistance, we must first of all conquer the women; we must go and find them behind the veil where they hide themselves and in the houses where the men keep them out of sight.”Women fought alongside men in the Algerian revolution, and their contributions to Algeria's eventual independence were just as significant. Women participated actively in the revolution, and their mere existence served as a potent protest against the colonizers who had long oppressed them. "The political history of Algerian women since the nineteenth century is one of ideological confrontations between men, between French and Algerian theologians and politicians, government and opposition leaders. These confrontations were the products of a complex interplay of economic, political, and cultural factors."

  Religion became a key tool used by the French as a means of control because of aspects of religion related to their status as women nourished their tenacity during this time. "Religion became the single most important element in the French administration’s efforts most important element in the French administration’s efforts to control the Algerian people between 1830 and 1962.” The importance of religion cannot be overstated, as it was the primary tool used to subjugate the Algerian people for over a century. However, these women refused to be silenced or oppressed, and instead used their faith as a source of strength and resistance. Their unwavering commitment to their values and beliefs is a testament to the power of individual agency in the face of systemic oppression. "The unstated assumption is that religion is at once the cause of and the solution to gender inequality. Somehow, if religion is done away with, equality between men and women will ensue." Islam provided these women with a foundation to lean on as well as a sense of purpose and identity, and was used as resistance against the oppression that they were faced with. "Islam emerged as the most salient aspect of the Algerian woman's identity. A dialectical relationship was thus established between the colonizers and the colonized. The French chose Islam as the Algerians’ common denominator and as a grounds on which to fight them. Likewise, Algerians responded by making Islam the bastion of their resistance to colonialism” This quote highlights the complex relationship between colonizers and the colonized in Algeria. The French used Islam as a tool to control and suppress the Algerian people, while the Algerians turned to Islam as a means of resistance against colonialism. This dynamic reveals the power dynamics at play in colonialism, where religion can be used both as a means of control and as a source of empowerment for those being oppressed. It also sheds light on the ways in which gender and politics intersect in Algeria, as religious beliefs often shape societal norms and expectations around gender roles.

 In Algeria as well, reform movements were a common means of combating inequality. In order to fight colonialism and oppression, reformers like the Young Algerians worked to modernize and westernize Algeria. They were very active in advocating for women's rights and held the view that obtaining equality and justice for all Algerians during the revolution depended on education and political participation. "The Young Algerians were eager to improve women’s social status. For example, they advocated women’s rights to education, which would enable them to play a role in public life.” In addition to advancing women's rights, they supported women's participation in the nationalist movement, which helped them advance political reform and independence from colonial rule. The participation of Algerian women had a significant impact on the country's political climate.  

During the Algerian Revolution, the traditional Haik, a veil and body covering, became a representation of defiance toward the French. Weapons and significant papers were moved around by using the veil. In order to fight against the French, women were able to use a potent symbol of their society that had been subjected to prejudice. The Hayek quickly acquired a reputation for being more than just the traditional attire for Algerian women. According to the movie "The Battle of Algiers," the hayek was transformed by Algerian women into a symbol of strength from what the French saw as a sign of weakness. The Hayek is now recognized as being a significant component of the Algerian revolution, where it stands for freedom and the tenacity of the women who fought in the conflict. "Every rejected veil disclosed to the eyes of the colonialists horizons until then forbidden, and revealed to them, piece by piece, the flesh of Algeria laid bare. The occupier’s aggressiveness, and hence his hopes, multiplied ten-fold each time a new face as uncovered. Every new Algerian woman unveiled announced to the occupier an Algeria society whose systems of defense were in the process of dislocation, open and breached. Every veil that fell, every body that became liberated from the traditional embrace of the haik, every face that offered itself to the bold and impatient glance of the occupier, was a negative expression of the facet that Algeria was beginning to deny herself and was accepting the rape of the colonier.” 

The occupation of Algeria by the colonizer brought about a radical change in the traditional way of life. The haik, which was once a symbol of Algerian culture and identity, was now seen as a hindrance to progress. The occupier's gaze was bold and impatient, seeking to impose its will on the people. Every face that offered itself to this gaze became a negative expression of Algeria's struggle for independence. The colonizers' rape of Algeria was not just physical but also cultural, as they sought to erase all traces of Algerian identity. Islam preserved their identity and served as the Algerian people's unifying factor. It was through Islam that they were able to resist the colonizers' attempts at assimilation and maintain their cultural heritage. Despite all of this, Algerian women refused to be denied and continued to fight for their freedom. "The Algerian woman, an intermediary between obscure forces and the group, appeared in this perspective to assume a primordial importance/ Behind the visible, manifest patriarchy, the more significant existence of a basic matriarchy was affirmed.”

Citations

Djebar, Assia, and Dorothy S. Blair. Fantasia: An Algerian Cavalcade. Portsmout NH: Heinemann, 1993.

Fanon, Frantz, Haakon Chevalier, and Adolfo Gilly. A dying colonialism. New York: Grove Press, 2022.

Lazreg, Marnia. “Gender and Politics in Algeria: Unraveling the Religious Paradigm.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 15, no. 4 (1990): 755–80. https://doi.org/10.1086/494627.