“WHAT’S YOUR GREATEST FEAR?” my primary school teacher asks. it is meant to be a simple exercise, probably team-building related. after all, there is nothing like bonding with your peers over something quite daunting. one child says “spiders”, another says “snakes.” a rather annoying boy (who i despised for the sole reason that he constantly chased me in the playground) raises his hand shyly. “i’m scared of the dark,” he admits, flushing at the giggles of my classmates.

“aleeha, you haven’t answered my question yet,” my teacher says kindly, moving towards my desk. one girl snickers. another pokes at her friend. i look at my feet before blurting out: “death, i guess.”

death.

of course, my nonchalant tone combined with the teacher’s already present worries led her to convey these concerns to my parents. “an eight year old shouldn’t be so concerned about death” she says slowly, before leaning in. “did she lose anyone close to her recently? because that may explain things.”

my parents look at each other, equally worried.

a rather ominous preoccupation with the looming prospect of death decided to follow me from that point onwards. it shadowed me, cornered me, lurked in my secret fears. i would dream of it, of the end. i would also dream of a beautiful place where i could talk to my dead relatives. to this day, i am still unsure whether i actually spoke to them and if the beautiful greens of their garments were nothing more than a figment of my imagination. side note: i find that to be a common occurrence these days - unsure whether my memory from over a decade back is reliable or not.

Death and I soon became properly acquainted. The first time I lost someone I truly knew, my first inclination towards it, my pet rabbits. I attended my first funeral and suddenly death was all anyone could talk about, naturally so. In every islamic lecture I attended, there was a recurring reminder that death is not familiar with human concepts of age. It can come at anytime, whether you’re ready for it or not. Islam has taught me many things, and this gruelling yet pivotal reminder is at the forefront of everything I’ve ever learnt.

“Every soul will taste death. And We test you ˹O humanity˺ with good and evil as a trial, then to Us you will ˹all˺ be returned.” [Quran 21:35]

For those of you who’ve read ‘a love letter to my deen’, you are somewhat familiar with my relationship with islam. It is true when they say that your relationship with the deen certainly shapes your relationship with death. When I was distant, I noticed two things: 1. I’d completely ignore the definite end. 2. I’d dread it everyday, it would contort into my worst paranoia, yet I would do little to nothing to prepare myself. Both of which are incredibly loser-like qualities.

When I have a firm belief in the deen and everything it entails, I don’t let the paranoia get to me. I feel relaxed and calm, knowing that in my religion — death is only the beginning. It is an opportunity to do good and meet those you’ve mourned over the years. It is the one thing every depressed person desperately seeks for: a cure. It is a reward for all the hardships and trials of this miserable, cruel world. It is something, yes you slightly fear (for humans always fear what they’re not familiar with), but you also feel excited for. It is something my limited vocabulary and writing skill cannot fully describe.

I briefly mentioned my first inclination towards this ideal of death. It is something many women have experienced: a desire to end the pain and suffering. This wretched society has singled each of us out and thrust its superficial expectations on us from the second we’ve made it out of our mother’s womb. I often say womanhood is like playing a game you know you’ll never win. And if you get close, they’ll cut off a limb or two to push you out further, because what are men if not cheaters?

Therefore, it is a sad and bitter reality that many want out of the game. There comes a point where we can no longer endure the patriarchal burdens we’re forced to carry. I was once victim to that, to be driven insane to the point of expiration. Rotten figs, rotten expectations, rotten core. There were numerous moments when I couldn’t see any way out of the game, that death was the only answer. But then I closed my eyes, had a cup of coffee and knocked some sense into myself.

Death manifests in unusual ways when it comes to womanhood. There is dying in the literal reality-check sense. A day will come when you cease to breathe and that’s awfully scary to contemplate about. Then there is a death to reputation, to social standing, to perception. If a woman so much as oversteps the patriarchally drawn line, all hell will be unleashed. Their public perception withers, their reputation takes the brunt of it and is slaughtered brutally. And then the inevitable comes: the death of status. They are shunned and avoided. Mocked and met with wary eyes. If anything, this is arguably worse than death. Thus, it comes to no surprise how both forms of death often go hand in hand. Cleopatra, Sylvia Plath, Ophelia. Anna Karenina, Marilyn Monroe, Lady Macbeth. The list goes on.

Fearing the inevitable is a fool’s game. There is genuinely no point. It will come and take you and there is simply nothing you can do about this. It is also tragic that we cannot stop the death of our womanhood. However, it is is not as definite. We may resurrect and emerge stronger than we were before. Therefore, we must try. We must do everything within our capacity to resist the patriarchal weapon. We must at least attempt in evading it. Trying is more than enough.

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I must also finish this piece by mentioning that mourning is valid. To love someone is to one day mourn them. Take as much time as you like. It is true when they say the world does not stop when you lose, but it is also true that the person you lost may be the world to you. Sit down and reflect. Reminisce over the good moments — for memory never dies. Our Earth holds so much history and memory in its soil, millennium upon millennium. Century upon century. Multiple ages. It will never truly disappear, even when the Earth is one day destroyed.

While it is pointless to fear the end, there can be a nuanced truth to it. Humans love with every ounce of energy they can muster. It is therefore reasonable to fear the end of a loved one.

— girl, reminscing [from the archives]

first written: 18th May 2025

A pivotal aspect of entering your twenties is the realisation that almost everyone has a ‘someone’ in some form of capacity. For some it’s a twin flame, their partner, the love of their life. Others have a ‘situationship’ (god, do i loathe that word with an unparalleled passion) who is in truth more of a migraine than an asset. Then there are others who do also have a ‘somebody’ — albeit one they tend to engage in casual hookups with. It is therefore unsurprising, particularly within a generation raised with an absurd amount of romantic comedies, that you find many longing for their person. Someone they can giggle with, banter with, shit on a very niche genre of music with, or snog in a fucking rainstorm (cliche, but i mean i do think most people tend to associate the notebook with romance, although debatable).

I too was victim of this — naive, reckless, crazy nineteen year-old alee — desperate to replace the void left in her life by some guy she never even dated. I longed for a connection, not for freakish reasons, but because i desperately wanted to be seen. To be understood. I firmly believe there is no intimacy comparable to being truly seen. Every layer of meticulously curated personality, the masking, to be stripped away and for them to just understand. I think everyone does want to be understood in some capacity.

There are many I know who crave being understood. Not in a pretentious ‘i’m going to psychoanalyse you and get everything fucking wrong’ way. But in a ‘you don’t need to elaborate, I get what you’re trying to describe so let’s not indulge in a miscommunication driven conversation’ way. However, as with most things, it is utterly crucial to ensure you don’t let a desire to be understood drive you towards shitty decision making. I mean — how can someone begin to fathom everything that makes you you, if you don’t even know what that is yourself?

I write this journal with the sincere intention of preventing another hopelessly romantic individual from making the gravest mistake i have seen made many times before. Please don’t abandon your standards, your hopes, your whims, toss them away for a man-thing who you think understands — but simply does not. I am a strong believer in that every woman has been gifted discernment, that feminine intuition is a very real thing. Somewhat a curse, mainly a blessing. Listen to it. Hear it. Don’t let your thoughts push you away from it. That man doesn’t want to see you, even if he says he does. He just wants to fuck.

“I can do casual,” someone tells me. It’s almost as if she’s convincing herself. “I promise you I can do casual.” It’s like she’s pleading, my heart pains for her. But I understand. The intimacy of being understood, there’s nothing truly like it. “You can’t and that’s okay.” “But he sees me. He just gets it.” “No, he doesn’t. But you’re right, sometimes you need to try once to find out. I’ll be there if it gets shitty at the end.”

The intimacy of being understood is a very real thing — but real intimacy is a pain like no other. A touch of that nature is physical intimacy, yes, and physical intimacy will quite literally and figuratively fuck you over. Maybe that’s why I’m celibate, I don’t know. But intimacy is something that is best left for someone who truly fathoms what makes every piece of you yourself. And if they do understand, you’ll just know. I have embedded quite a few cliche sentences in my writing as of late but I’ll add another one — when you know, you know.

Above all, do not blame yourself. We are all gorgeous, divine souls. We stretch our heart for some, and sometimes they deceive you. You are not a weak fool, you are kind and you are good. They are the weak ones, the insecure ones, the deceiving ones, the lustful ones. In the least crudest manner possible — men like that would fuck anything, so fucking a fabulous person over is very much in their capacity. They will pretend to understand, and your gut instinct will know. Please listen to it angel. The intimacy of being understood will be experienced in some manner — it does not have to be romantic. To me, platonic friendships can also understand you. My best friend, for one, understands me better than most.

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The desire to be seen, the need to be understood — it is a very common, real thing. We are multifaceted beings, it is unsurprising that we want all parts scrutinised. We want our inner psychology dissected. We want to be able to express our opinions unspoken. But tread carefully my loves, never let that confuse you into poor decision making. And even if it does, remember that shitty decision making does not define you. We choose what defines us. Don’t let a weak fool have that scale of power over you.

— with love,

aleeha

[girl, reminiscing, 19.04.26, 19:57]

it was early february, i somewhat recall being awoken to the piercing shrieks of my horrendous alarm ringtone. my manager had called me into work slightly later than usual you see, and i felt a strong rush of anxiety. i did not really know at what. well shit, they’re absolutely going to fire me, i thought to myself. they found out about my weekend in rome...

i was already unsettled — already coming to the conclusion that this was going to be an incredibly shit day. the entire past week had been a blur. i had had the same gnawing sensation in my gut, the usual sensation i had been experiencing the past year whenever a grandparent was ill. it thus comes to no surprise that this uncomfortable feeling was mercilessly accompanied with regular nightmares. in fact, there was a nightmare of my grandfather passing away that very night. if only i knew.

sunday, 8th of february. eleven am. i am restless, awakened by my alarm system. this is what i typed in my journal. i couldn’t bring myself to write the entire thing, it would make it real. it just wasn’t real. it just could not be.

i woke up, popped off my hair wrap, propped on my now wonky pair of glasses. i check my texts for the day, also having a quick glimpse of my route. there has been rail maintenance work the entire month, it appears i would have to get dad to drop me off. it was already annoying enough they had called me in two hours late. that would mean two less hours of pay — fuck, they’re absolutely going to fire me.

before i even have the chance to process it was morning, to even get up, my father walks in. he’s speaking words, yet none seem to register. it sounds awfully cliche, but the world does indeed fall silent during moments like this. I’ve revisited this draft many months later, and even now, my mind refuses to retrieve exactly what baba said to me.

all i remember really, is getting up and doing my routine robotically. washing my face, scraping my teeth because maybe if my gums bled out, if i felt pain, maybe then i’d know if i were still confined to that nightmare or if this was real life. it just could not be. it was definitely not. by the time i got out, trudging soullessly to the kitchen, i knew. i made eye contact with my dad as he made me my usual espresso, hoping that i would say something. i started sobbing. i stopped and pulled myself together. i sobbed again. i tied my hair up and cleared my throat, informing my dad i’d wake up my brother. he informed me that they knew. i would later find out that everyone in my household knew, that even my wider family knew. i was blissfully (not really blissful, but you get the gist) unaware, i had fallen asleep earlier after a tedious shift at university. while i was asleep, my family was in mourning. mourning the very thing i had confided in my best friend the day prior. mourning my greatest fear as of late. mourning my darling nana jee.

it so cruelly emerges, the self realisation that life goes on regardless. my first act after finding out, when i was still paralysed in shock, was to text my manager and inform her i was not coming in today. i’ve had a history of being an erratic and emotionally unstable person, and although that has long ceased, i had always envisioned loss to be something that drove me to the edge.

but when it actually happens, it’s like nothing one can describe. you feel like someone has snatched a good chunk off of your soul, the pain feels like you’re floating. and when you cry, you disassociate. you don’t know how to act because you know there are others who feel it too. you awkwardly conjure up ways of comfort. for others, and then yourself. you put on a brave mask for those also mourning and nonchalantly divert the topic when it comes up in casual conversation.

i do think the ‘sorry for your loss’ texts are the worst. they’re a polite ritual people must indulge in, but that is not to say they don’t mean it. people are well intentioned, i feel strong gratitude, but they still don’t understand. so in all truth, it begins to feel worse.

my grandfather (may Allah SWT be pleased with him) was the most beautiful of souls. he was kind, he was brave, he was the epitome of every quality i aspire for, rolled into one person.

at fourteen, i recall arguing with my mother and racing into the neighbouring forest of my islamabad home. it was a place full of strange men, sewage, and insects most probably carrying infectious disease. the fight was over something so stupid, so trivial, we laugh about it now. my grandfather immediately ran after me and persuaded me to come home.

at fifteen, i would climb onto the roof of my driveway when my parents weren’t home, enjoying the stunning panoramic views of the city i call my second home. you could see the faint outline of the centaurus shopping mall and the beautiful margalla hills towering behind it. it was a reckless move which entailed jumping over my terrace walls, but it was worth it, particularly as i found the scenery a source of inspiration behind my artwork. my grandfather disapproved, but agreed to keep my secret, under the condition i let him accompany me. he would pick out the paint shades, unscrewing the acrylic stained bottle caps. i would paint.

at eighteen, i would visit my family during my school holidays, my mother and siblings still living in pakistan. my grandfather would greet me with a pat on the head. when guests would visit my grandparents for tea, he would introduce me as a وکیل1, occasionally as a future judge. “she’ll make us all proud,” he’d grin, nudging me playfully. “a force to be reckoned with, my granddaughter.”

at twenty-one, around january of this year, i had come back from my salon appointment and was preparing to visit my grandparents on my father’s side. i had just gotten a full head of bronze highlights, something that had always been on my twenties bucket list but i had been too reluctant to pursue. my grandfather greeted me as i entered the door, complimenting my hair. “i’m stressed,” i confided in him in urdu. i told him of how far i’d fallen behind. of my impending law assignments and exams. i was also juggling a break-up from two days prior. i remember breaking down, and my grandfather patting me on the head again. his signature move. i told him i may need to isolate myself at dada jee’s, they had a basement i could study in without distractions. he smiled sadly at me, asking me to visit him before i left. i assured him i would. i didn’t. i wanted to, but the others had paid a final visit while i was studying at my grandma’s, utterly unaware.

and that is something i have to live with. i would be lying if i said that didn’t affect me. it still does, but to a lesser extent. sometimes it will be brought up by others. my last conversation with my nana jee, a conversation that held a promise to be continued. i foolishly let myself think that there would indeed be another time. it hadn’t crossed my mind that there would not be, that this would be the final exchange with him — not even when he’d casually say he felt the angel of death’s looming presence awaiting him during family dinners. i don’t consider myself a superstitious person. but i do think it’s something to contemplate, the way he just knew his time was coming. it’s something i find myself reflecting on frequently.

i loved my grandfather, and i know, of course i do — he’s my grandfather. but to me, he embodied every characteristic i wish to embody myself. he was selfless, he was kind, and he was so good. he knew exactly what to say, you always felt his presence. sometimes he was the quietest person in the room, other days he was the loudest. he would tell me stories, snippets from his life. to some, he was siddique — the police officer who patrolled 1990’s Sharjah. to others, he was the man who enjoyed going on walks and retrieving snacks for his grandchildren. to me, he was my nana jee. the man who secretly brought me samosas from the street vendor as a toddler. the man who would unscrew paint bottles and urge me to be less cautious and reckless. the man who would tell everyone of his granddaughter who was going to become a lawyer.

if there’s anything i want you to take from this journal piece, it is this. when you lose someone — a partner, a friend, a loved one, the most cherished of family — it is so absurdly easy to lose yourself. to drive yourself to the brink of insanity. to stop eating and drinking because, really, if they cannot, then what is the point?

instead, as incredibly cliche as it sounds, stay strong. do everything that they wanted you to do. in honouring their dreams and ambitions, there is so much comfort. it was so easy to blame myself for not saying goodbye, our last conversation being a broken promise, but i do not let myself. i know nana jee would not have blamed me, so why on earth should i? people will talk, but every person has a different and unique bond that nobody other than yourself can fully comprehend.

i find religion and spirituality to also be something that offers comfort during these times. as a muslim, i do not let myself lose my sense of self in grieving. If God SWT wills, I will see him again. rather than drown in mourning and self pity, i can try to do everything in my power to ensure i am able to reunite with him in paradise. for muslims, this life is not our final destination. it’s more of a brief detour. so really, was there even a final goodbye if i do not believe in worldly conceptions of finality?

“Only people who are capable of loving strongly can also suffer great sorrow, but this same necessity of loving serves to counteract their grief and heals them.”
― Leo Tolstoy

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— with love,

aleeha

[girl, reminscing, 16.04.26, 18:00]

If I said I hadn’t stressed thinking of how exactly to write this piece, I would most definitely be lying. In fact, lying is more of an understatement. It’s almost four pm, I’m sweating in this dreadful UK heat and I want nothing but to lie in my broken bed — daydream. Gosh, do I love daydreaming.

But daydreaming can also be a pain in the arse, especially when today’s the anniversary of something you try to erase every morning. When brushing your teeth. Scrubbing what your mind says is the lingering touch in the blistering shower. Switch it warmer to distract. Maybe if it burns you won’t, well, think. Daydreaming makes those thoughts loud — at least for me, it’s a constant psychological tug of war. As a matter of fact, it’s happening right now. Fuck.

I would now like to highlight. Emphasise in bold letters. This is not some motivational personal essay like the ones you are acquainted to. Neither is this a pity party, especially given that’s the one thing I dread happening (please don’t leave “sorry that happened to you” comments because I’ll actually scream). I don’t think this is anything really, except a way to make peace with it happening this day a year ago. Then move on. In all honesty, I’ve already moved on. Skin cells regenerate, I guess?

In case you haven’t caught on to what I’m pointing at beyond layers and layers of ramble, on the 30th of June 2024 I was assaulted. There is much more ‘nuanced’ layer to the story but it happened. There are plenty of people, ex-friends if you will, who say it didn’t. And to make things hilarious (I actually burst out laughing at the absurdity of this rumour spreading at university when I heard it), they say I cheated. Cheated on something that wasn’t even a boyfriend because — I don’t date. It’s haram (forbidden in Islam). I’ve made different mistakes yes, but islamically your past is not your past and I will leave it there. There was no cheating, getting touched in places you feel like fucking throwing up at when you think of it is not cheating.

The gist of this post is not a trauma recount, I’m not delving into what happened so if you’re here for that — sorry to break it to you! you can leave now! The truth is I eventually moved on from that one day. Day by day, week by week and month by month. My parents respected that I didn’t want to tell the police because I felt that the court procedure and fees would stretch the trauma far too long. I’d never be able to forget it. What I failed to grasp was that there is not only the court of law in these situations, but the court of public opinion.

It’s quite laughable really. I could have kept it private but I was so confused, so in shock, I called up some of my friends crying. I didn’t know what to do. Kind of fucking hilarious that a few were not real friends. They pitied me (which I did not and never will want). They consoled me (as friends should). They told me that they believed me, that yes — I was totally valid and that I would eventually get justice. Like a sobbing fool, I believed them. They didn’t actually believe me. They said they did, but when we fell out, they went around and spewed a cheating rumour. That I was a liar. I like keeping a low profile now, I’m not the same chatty attention-seeker I was when I was fifteen (even if I was, it wouldn’t be a problem). But when I meet a new person on campus, it goes something like this:

Me: [with a grin] Hi, I’m Aleeha. Can I just say that I absolutely love your outfit!

Them: Oh my gosh, thank you! Wait did you say Aleeha?

Me: [wary] Yeah…

Them: I’ve heard your name somewhere…

Me: [Inaudible] Well, shit.

Around age fifteen, I watched Easy A. I absolutely effing loved it. Emma stone shines…or whatever lamely conjured up one liner I type on my letterboxd. I then fell into a whirlwind of smear campaigns and read The Scarlet Letter. The first thing I thought of once I heard of the rumours circulating was how the protagonist was shamed into wearing a scarlet ‘A’ on her clothes. ‘A’ for adulterer. It was something similar for me — my reputation tarnished — except it wasn’t a literal misogynistic pin, it was more of an invisible brand on the forehead. A number of people I spoke to knew of me. Believed I was a liar. It messed with my head a bit, I wouldn’t come onto campus. One of the old group showed up at my doorstep and harassed an elderly relative. In hindsight, I think that was something that showed how obsessive the other side, the one spewing absurd lies, was towards me.

Reeling from the aftermath of what had happened even months later, I grew disorientated. Once I got over it (and I did, I’m actually currently snickering at how utterly idiotic the real ‘liars’ were), I decided I’d do everything in my power to advocate on social media for other women. Other women who had been branded by society as liars. Manipulative. Or evil. Women like Amber Heard. Blake Lively. Meghan Markle. Hailey Bieber. Huda, on this season of Love Island USA. Having experienced that feeling, a scarlet ‘A’ screwed to your forehead and a group of people who think you’re a vile person, I know how much it fucking sucks.

Reputation is indeed the bane of womanhood. You so much as breathe, let alone ‘speak up’, you get cornered. And you know what the most twisted thing is? It’s mostly other women. They throw themselves at the gross and disgusting man who could not care less about them. ‘He can’t have touched her, he’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve to be called a liar!’ one user says. ‘She has that evil look in her eyes, she wants the clout,’ says another forty-something from essex. We already know that men infiltrate the comments, something as lowly as this is expected of them, but women? I could despise a girl, but I’d believe her. God forbid something happened to one of the cruel people who spread the rumour, I’d still defend them. Believe them. It’s not even a ‘girl’s girl’ thing, it’s a being-a-human thing. You’re not a human if you fall for a smear campaign. You’re a gullible pig.

I often see another myth. A narrative that is perpetuated so much, it is incredulous. I call this the ‘innocent victim’ narrative — the idea that a victim must be completely perfect, free from prejudice. They must not make mistakes, they are the kind of woman who is inherently saint-like. They are then, and only then, somewhat believable. And that too, is up for debate.

Blake Lively is a good example of this — she has a heavily concerning past. Racism. Questionable comments. Things I won’t attempt to refute because they’re completely valid. People of colour are 100% allowed to hold her accountable for them. They are allowed to dislike her, to criticise her and not engage in this conversation. She should respond. I am not against that, in fact I wholeheartedly support it. But when they take this as proof that they should support an alleged1 harasser, it becomes a problem.

A woman can be both things — a person who is not good and still a victim. The court of law, so far, stands with her. As a law student who has a special interest in these cases, I read what I could find of the lawsuit and believe her. I will never fall for a smear campaign. And I will most definitely not engage in something that once actively harmed me.

I don’t say I’m a victim anymore, because even if I did experience it I just hate the pity that arrives with the label. I’m not victim-Aleeha, nor am I liar-Aleeha. Absolutely not cheater-Aleeha. I’m just…Aleeha? A twenty-something screw up who absolutely loves reading historical novels and rambles her friends into oblivion. The same girl who giggles relentlessly and does everything in her power to make people around her comfortable. A girl who once lowered her boundaries and made room in her heart for everyone (look how that turned out). I will not stretch my heart for most, it is a privilege to have my friendship, to receive my platonic love. I am Aleeha and I am not a liar. I don’t deserve this ‘A’ pin. In fact, I trashed it several months ago. Set it alight in the most dramatic marvel-film manner as possible.

I am Aleeha and I will spend the rest of my life doing everything — career, pro-bono, general life, empowering those around me — everything I can possibly can to advocate for women like me. Women who were sexually assaulted and then ruthlessly stripped of their dignity and reputation. Until my last effing breath.

To conclude in the words of my favourite novelist, Khalid Hosseini.

“Learn this now and learn it well, my daughter: Like a compass needle that points north, a man's accusing finger always finds a woman. Always.”

— Khalid Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns.

I’m changing my name soon. Not my actual name, but the title of my blog. The Fig Tree is beautiful but it’s someone who I once was. When I started this blog, I was driven by the pain I felt after the events I describe in this post. The fig tree was not only inspired by how much I want to do and achieve (because that ambition remains), but by a gesture they do in the mediterranean (or at least according to google, correct me if I’m being an orientalist twat). The fig sign is a way of insulting someone or denying their request. For me, it meant I was telling everyone who doubted me, who criticised me despite not knowing me at all, to essentially screw off. It made sense then, but I’m over it. This post is a goodbye to that chapter. A farewell.

There’s a hint somewhere in this post of my new title. I will actually scream in joy if someone notices. I love you all so so much. Mwah!

And thank you for the love you’ve shown me on A love letter to my deen. I appreciate it endlessly, alhamdulillah 💌

With love,

Alee xx — the fig tree, signs off?

I lost my favourite lipliner the other day. It was an immensely sexy colour — not too brown, not too pink. It smudged effortlessly on my lips. It concealed my double lip line with ease. It made me feel like the very carelessly gorgeous and confident women I see on my for you page everyday. It made me feel like I was more than the cellulite, flabby skin and round hips. It made me feel like the overly idealised aleeha i have in my head.

I do this a lot, you see. My parents have criticised it. My teachers have chastised me. I crave perfection so badly, so desperately — I’d scrape my knees on the floor begging for it. It is almost embarrassing.

I lose stuff a lot lately. Numerous chargers. My jewelled dress pin. That one dupatta. I lose stuff and it drives me fucking crazy. I throw a tantrum. A neighbour peers over his intricately manicured hedge curiously. It’s that neighbour girl throwing a rage fit again.

I can’t stand it. I absolutely despise it. I like everything being the way it should. My lipliners and dupattas stored away where they’re supposed to be. There’s a churning feeling in my gut once I sense their absence. It feels like the one difficultly maintained structure I have going on in my life has also withered.

Looking back, I cannot recall a moment where something I’ve tirelessly waited for hasn’t gone to shit. Every time I’m excited, actually eager — it blows up in my face. The smithereens taunt me and I fall back into the sexy loop of depression.

Tests. Films. Family. Possible him. The prospect of what if .

It never goes as I want it to go. As one film quote I don’t care to find goes: “Expect disappointment and you’ll never be disappointed.”

It’s become a sacred ritual of sorts. Screw your eyes shut. Inhale. It’ll probably fuck up. Exhale. A pitiful smile, for I pity myself.

Then it sometimes goes okay. Not the surge of serotonin I expect, but okay. Alright. Average.

And I smile a bit — until the leering voice in my head observes: “It’s not perfect though.”

It’s not perfect. FUCK THIS. My brain contorts into a wild animal rattling away in its cage, my thoughts are in overdrive. I cannot breathe nor see clearly. My vision is hazy. I want to tear my hair out.

It’s not perfect. It’s not perfect. It’s not perfect.

There is no psychological diagnosis that perfectly encapsulates my desperation for perfectionism. My quivering limbs and evident self disgust.

Perhaps one day, when my bones are decaying and my skin is wrinkled, perhaps then I will learn to live with it. It is my greatest affliction and strongest solace. There are times when it comes useful — whether when identifying the extra comma in my writing or the smeared wing of my liner.

I lost my favourite lipliner the other day. It was a kiko product I gifted myself for eid. It may seem dramatic to you, but every time I look at the empty compartment in my purse, I feel physically and mentally sick. It should be there, inside my purse, positioned perfectly with my kohl pencil. But it’s not.

Instead, there is nothing. No lipliner. Not even kohl. I can only stick to my pessimism, and maybe it’ll materialise before my eyes. All good things come to an end, I suppose.

this is more than a post about my missing lip liner, this is a post about perfectionism, being overstimulated and multiple things i cannot quite describe that may align with you if you’re a fellow neurodivergent. they may even resonate if you’re not. either way, i hope you find some comfort in this and enjoy!!

im super busy with internships rn but i promise i have stuff in the works! <333

with love,

— the fig tree

THE THOUGHT STRUCK ME WHILE WATCHING TONIGHT’S EPISODE OF THE OC. Summer, a main protagonist of the 2000's dreamy californian drama, expresses her frustration at not being able to figure out who she is. Following (spoiler alert) her best friend’s death and her subsequent grief, she has been grappling with two personalities — the edgy activist at college and the popular hyper-feminine prom queen back in Orange County. As her boyfriend raises an important point of college being an opportunity to either find yourself or re-invent, I feel my stomach drop slightly. I pause the episode and chug some green tea. There is a monumental question eating away at my brain: Was university truly a time of self-discovery? Do I know who I am? Have I changed?

The idea that college / university is a time for self-discovery is something you’ll often see in the media. Endless thought pieces on discovering yourself, encouraging self-improvement podcasts — hell, even in every coming-of-age film or television drama ever. I not only rebuke this idea but I also do think it’s absolute dog shit.

Understanding your true self isn’t limited by any time period in your adult or teenage life, and it is most definitely not something that magically clicks in your head when the clock strikes midnight and suddenly you’re 20. You don’t just wake up on your birthday and go, “Oh gosh, I know who the fuck I am and I’m going to live by this for the rest of my miserable days.” You just don’t.

Finding yourself is a journey, a process that may take five years or fifty. It requires stability, as well as an acceptance of yourself and others in the truest form.

Equally — one’s concept of their ‘self’ is bound to fluctuate. When you finally snatch what you consider to be your real sense of self, you realise that it’s no longer the same. In fact, it’s completely transformed into something you never really expected. And then, almost immediately, it’s changed again.

The point I’m trying to make under layers of awkward imagery and philosophical musings — simply don’t bother to ‘find yourself’. Embrace yourself as you are one day and embrace the person you are the next day. You enjoy your law degree? Cool. Oh, so turns out collaging is more your thing. Good for you!

The truth is, this idea of ‘finding yourself’ is society’s essentially confusing way of finding inner peace. The best form of peace arises when you accept yourself as you are. Humans are naturally multifaceted. Beautiful yet equally screwed up creatures. They like so many things and want to be so many things.

Have they found themselves? In a way, yes. Most people randomly come across something they enjoy and stick to it until they die. Certainly, they enjoy multiple things and are multifaceted individuals. At the same time, they don’t believe this peculiar societal construct that they’re defined by solely one thing for the rest of their lives. They’re happy and joyful. Miserable and anxious. Brimmed with love and equally filled with contempt. They don’t perceive themselves as one archetype, rather — they recognise their individuality. They haven’t found themselves as belonging to a single personality group. They are infinitely dimensional beings. They have found themselves, but they understand that their concept of ‘self’ is constantly evolving.

We are made from the universe, and like it, are meant to evolve. To grow. To fluctuate. To stretch between polar opposites. We can be the same kind of person. Or we can change what kind of person we are. We can be one specific kind of person. Or we can walk the earth like a living and breathing oxymoron.

Ultimately — yes, at some point you will ‘find yourself’. You might be lying on a porch or sitting in the lecture hall, wistfully thinking of a life beyond college. Maybe you’re smoking in an alleyway or talking to a friend. Wherever it happens, the self realisation will be swift and immediate. It cannot be encapsulated accurately in words. But when you find yourself, don’t stick to that sole sense of self. Understand and recognise you will grow. Humans are multifaceted. They don’t stay in one place. We are meant to be uncomfortable and constantly evolve. Are we not moulded from a universe that constantly evolves? Embrace change and move with it. It doesn’t matter if you learn this at twenty or seventy, it matters that you have truly learnt it.

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.”

— Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (1963)

this has been in the drafts since mid april but it took a costa strawberry lemonade and a playlist to force myself to finish it! i have long finished the OC and oh gosh, drop whatever you’re doing and watch it! <33

for those of you who don’t know, the show is the literal blueprint for gossip girl and other 2000s teen dramas that followed. it was THE show at the time! the producers behind it are the same as gossip girl and gossip girl was modelled after it…like the characters are complete replicas. ANYWAYS, watch it!

I have a few exciting things in the drafts, the sun is out and summer has started. my summer resolution is to post absolutely everything on this app.

also, not super sure if i’ve mentioned this but ‘the fig tree’ is my working title. i have some ideas for a new title that more accurately reflects my writing.

thank you for 200! i love all of you 💌

— alee xoxo

p.s. follow my instagram (@aleehaqureshiii) and my tiktok (@wheretfdidmyairpodsgo) to get a bts of my work and if you wanna reach out with anything! :))

insta! 💌

tiktok! 💌 (i’ve archived most things to restart my account)

I would give anything for another shot,

another opportunity, another chance.

Perhaps if I had actually paused and thought,

they wouldn’t have chosen that particular stance.




I assumed if I tweaked some bits of me

and presented myself — perhaps professionally?

They’d look at me in admiration, maybe even glee.

“She’s proper and well intelligent, as you can see!”





Instead, even my blood is rancid and rotten.

Companionship is diseased, all is not forgotten. 

The remnants of judgement and disdain are still there,

although I do pretend that I don’t quite frankly care.





The desire to be perceived as admirable and honest

is something that she wrote about once.

In her battered journal was a thing that she’d promised

but it was so dreadfully hard to ignore the conniving dunce.




I can only reflect and move on,

there are fragments of who I once was that are left to mourn.

I don’t know who I am anymore — let alone who I can please,

it used to gnaw on my soul, like an unwavering illness akin to disease.




I am twenty now, no longer gullible and painfully naive.

I suppose you can hold any view, whatever you wish to believe. 

Some may say I have underwent a psychological metamorphosis

and a reverse one at that.




 I am no longer a proud and pirouetting butterfly,

but rather I am a pupa and I cherish the isolation.





There is no need to rectify,

even if they politely smile and spread the lie. 




Maybe once I would’ve fought for another chance,

Possibly disassociated, forcefully fall under trance.

I do think my prefrontal cortex has finally evolved,

there are elements of trauma that cease to exist, although unresolved. 





I am patient yet have equally reached my limit.

I am understanding and well-spoken — although there is the

 occasional desire to remit. Time shall tell.




I now offer a poorly constructed conclusion

to ease both your comfort and confusion.

Maybe it is not you who should be quarrelling for another shot,

rather it is the people who are so unfortunately shortsighted 

and rigid and arrogant in their ways — they are the ones who 

have irrefutably and unquestionably lost.







It is the gravest punishment to not be able to tear off 

one’s blindfold. It is an another thing entirely to be traitorous

and a man who imposes their insecurity on others.







And I promise you — it is more than okay to be “too much”

(as long as you don’t taunt others)

“You're not the same as you were before," he said. You were much more... muchier... you've lost your muchness.” [Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland]

I haven’t written a poem in three years, which is quite ironic for somebody who once strived to publish her poetry book (‘fly me to venus’). I am well aware this isn’t something akin to Kafka but it’s intentionally messy and scattered to depict the human experience (as further conveyed by the plethora of themes). This is my writing style…

On another note, I cannot wait to post from May 15th onwards (after my law school finals). I was honestly procrastinating and kind of eh so this piece was essentially a vent. I have written some articles on death, philosophy and fashion and honestly can’t wait to post them!

It’s a rite of passage for every teenage girl, a mandatory experience, what some may refer to as a ‘canon event.’ There will come a time when you feel an unexplainable emptiness, an emptiness that chews on you relentlessly. It’s rage and distraught and loneliness and nothing all at once. For child-me, this meant breaking plates to feel something (quite dramatic I am aware). For teen-me, this was screaming in the shower. For adult-me, it’s an insatiable craving for an outlet (whether that be binge eating or a quick smoke).

This rather irritating feeling has been the bane of my existence since age eleven. It’s also been the looming factor behind my anger issues. “Don’t talk to us like that,” my father would say during my meltdowns. This would only make me angrier, an anger that was unexplainable and looking back, unjustified.

Sometimes this bitterness would manifest in friendships. “Why does everyone hate me?” would be at the tip of my tongue. Of course, I must point out that I wasn’t always the problem. Often, it would be the cruel treatment of ‘friends’ that would quite literally drive me insane. This feeling, however, was unstable. One day I’d be giggling with my girls about the attractive boy in the year above. Another day I’d be closed off - I’d spent the night reflecting on how poorly they treated me one time. While it was an understandable thing to be upset about, the reasoning wasn’t. I wanted an excuse to self sabotage, to push people (albeit ‘fake’ people) away. I believed that the pain that would follow would finally make me feel. Maybe then the uncomfortable emptiness in my chest would cease to exist.

Fast forward to the pandemic, I woke up feeling rather depressed again. I mean, are we surprised? Then, a guy I was interested in proceeded to violently insult me for a good five minutes. I finally felt something. This only affirmed my immensely mistaken belief that pain was the cure to that undefinable feeling. Soon enough, I took this out in other ways I don’t feel particularly comfortable to talk about. But the stubborn bitch came back, gnawing at my mind and soul at an unprecedented rate.

At seventeen, I discovered a cure.

Distraction.

1. I tend to watch a film or read a book. Ideally a painfully unfunny comedy (think SNL sketch Bill Hader humour) or a period romance full of yearning. For instance, today’s cure was Pride & Prejudice [2005].

2. I remind myself how ugly cigarettes will make me. I am too pretty to be eternally damned with yellow teeth and musty breath!

3. If you’re muslim, listen up — Recite the Quran. Just do it. It helps more than anything. If you’re not, read a book. A book that makes you reflect on the pain of fictional characters, rather than yours.

4. Get your arse to the gym. It boosts your serotonin. I find that expressing my feelings into the gym is probably the only healthy ‘outlet’.

5. Touch grass. Quite literally. I don’t feel like going university and attending class. Sometimes I don’t. But I certainly almost always regret it.

This feeling is often likened to emptiness. I disagree — it is so much more. It is every emotion all at once, and nothing at all. I firmly apologise if my lack of emotion (a result of this undefinable feeling) is radiating through my writing. But you can witness it for yourself. There is so much feeling and emotion and expression. And there is none at all. May you all surpass this feeling and tell it to screw off. Maybe one day it’ll finally leave me alone.

— yours truly,

the fig tree

[ mediocre writing for mediocre souls ]

• find me on letterboxd — https://letterboxd.com/aleehaa/

• find me on goodreads — https://www.goodreads.com/aleehaqureshi

Growing up in the mid 2010’s, I often immersed myself in coming of age movies and multi-season television shows featuring the ‘found family’ trope. I enviously watched the adventures of Harry, Ron and Hermione, contemplating if I’d ever find a bond as unwavering as that. I wistfully observed the dynamic between Blair and Serena, a ‘frenemy-ship’ I’d later grow up to find toxic (but that is a post for another time).

In my early teens, I became obsessed with one show in particular. Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD. The loyalty between the team - it was something I began to crave deeply. This inherent need to have a ‘found family’, unwavering loyalty and mutual understanding type of friendship has been my greatest kryptonite in my teenage years.

One particularly irritating habit was my instinct to view every friendship with rose tinted glasses. I felt comfort in big friendship groups, where we all had inside jokes and hung out regularly. If I had a quid for every girl I considered my ‘best friend’ at the age of fourteen, I’d be a direct threat to elon musk. And God forbid someone voiced their concerns about one of my many friendships, I’d completely disregard it. There was no challenging my beliefs, for I had achieved something my eleven year old self had spent years fantasising about. I believed that I had the kind of ride or die friendship I had always looked for. The kind of bond between Jemma and Daisy, Harry and Ron, Elena and Bonnie. I was convinced that my friendship group, the very friendship group that relentlessly mocked me under the guise of ‘banter’, was my own high school found family. And how wrong I was proven to be.

During family gatherings, I often find myself being asked one question more-so than others. Being the eldest cousin on my father’s side, I have had the privilege of seeing my cousins grow up. At their age, I had always wanted an older sister, a mentor who knew about the cool fashion stuff and boys and friendship advice. I intend on being that for them and that is why they come to me with friendship problems and secondary school drama. “If she’s my bestie,” one cousin asks fretfully. “Why is she treating me this way? Why does she pretend I don’t exist in front of the other girls? Is it me? Am I the problem?”

Am I the problem?

This is a question that had once been etched in my diary entries, scribbled on passed around post-its, typed on wikihow, commented on mildly sketchy digital forums. I could never understand, why would they never reciprocate the same energy I gave them? Why did they make unkind jokes around others, but wiped my tears when the classroom was empty?

I laugh about it now, but there was one girl I had supposedly befriended in year seven. She would practically sell herself for popularity, there was no limit she wouldn’t go surpass. Nor would she recognise loyalty even if it bit her in the arse. Taking pity on her, I let her play games on my phone during form time. She’d repay me by secretly setting alarms to humiliate me in front of our peers. I was nothing but a 4 foot wide-eyed source of entertainment, a means of popularity to her. I would let her buy lunch with the money my mum had given me, and she would assure me that she’d pay me back. It’s been over a decade K, give me my money back! Even when she recorded me changing to play in front of my entire geography class (she wanted to humiliate me in front of my crush, something that tremendously backfired on her), I forgave her.

I was too forgiving, too excited by the prospect of having a real friend I could joke and giggle about crushes with. It is awkward to say that it took me almost the entirety of my teenage years to move past my excessive forgiveness phase. I was a girl so terrified of not being able to experience the very cinematic portrayal of friendships rotting my brain, that I would compromise my own dignity for it.

2021 was no better. I forgave my friendship group again. And again. I made some progress after I refused to speak to them during my GCSEs (following a particularly traumatic incident I will not speak about lest I trigger someone), but I offered them a final chance in the summer. It perplexes me, how some individuals are so capable of screwing up even the smallest of things, purely due to their stubbornness. They are so deranged, so lost in their self imposed rationality, that they cannot seem to understand that they are in the wrong. People like this, they’ll never grow out of it. A controversial opinion I express to my cousins who come to me for advice. By the time they do make slight progress, you’ll be flourishing and thriving miles ahead. The distance on the map has grown too much. Let it continue to grow. It is a good thing.

Probably my final straw was the friendship group I formed in the first year of university, a group I allowed to see inside my sphere of many weaknesses. I was desperate for a fresh start and overly emphasised my bubbly personality, so much so that people would come to think of me stupid. In all honesty, it was just a silly mind game that transformed into what others deemed me to be. A mere label. Upon rewatching Pretty Little Liars, I found solace in Hanna. The way others undermined her intellect due to her outspoken and bubbly nature, it was something I fundamentally relate to.

Fresher: What course do you do? (the awkward and much dreaded question.)

Me: Law and International Relations.

Fresher: Sorry?

[I repeat myself tiredly.]

Fresher: Oh. I got a different vibe.

Some jokingly referred to me as the ‘weak link’ of the group. Others completely ignored my presence until I later lost considerable weight. But the notion of a friendship group where we all hung out, some dated - it was an idea that felt endearing to me. I once again found myself getting caught in the loop of ignoring red flags. Justifying toxic and insecure behaviour. However, I was fortunate this time. The veil placed on my eyes began to lift. I now understood how toxic certain members of this group were for me. I recognised that the girl I had once admired for her confrontational nature was nothing but a raging insecure narcissist. I had a best friend that was genuine in her actions, that understood my needs and I understood hers. We both were equally ‘giving’ back to each other. She was and is still essentially my sister, reminding me of how I was falling into my recurring trap and must leave before I was too far gone.

Things were also complex at this time, that is just how life is. I was interested in one of my male friends and had even informed baba. Afraid that I’d lose out on a potential match, I stuck to the group. The resentment I felt towards them soon changed course and began to gnaw on my mind. During this period, I bought the cutest pink diary I could find and resumed my old habit of jotting down every thought that consumed me. It brought me a sense of innate calm, scribbling down my thoughts on each friendship and the signs I had seen yet chosen to ignore. I have decided to share them with you, inspired by my latest narcissist of a friend as a good example of what not to be.

1. ‘Friends’ who make jabs at you in front of others, desperate to publicly humiliate you. They are so deeply insecure that they feel comfort in challenging you in this way. “But I was only joking!” F*ck them.

2. The secret to a real friendship is avoiding vulnerability, unless you’re absolutely certain. Yet that is still a risk to take. It may pay off, but often it doesn’t. Instead invest in a journal to express your feelings and keep it locked away from prying eyes.

3. A smaller circle of genuine friends is better than a group of fake ones. Quality does matter more than quantity. While it is true that there are downsides to not having a friend group, there is nothing in the world that is worth compromising your inner peace for. Nothing.

4. Avoid girls who completely switch up in front of guys. Quite frankly, I will never understand this. There is not a man alive I’d pick over my close friends. I don’t particularly enjoy clubbing, but a good example I’ve observed are girls who will pretend to care for you and suddenly disappear. Now you’re left to fend for yourself. It is basic decency to watch over and protect your friends, those who fail at this don’t deserve the courtesy of being acknowledged.

5. ‘Friends’ who excessively shit talk. I promise you angel, they are also shit talking you to others. I’m sorry, but if your only personality is talking smack about people in their absence, it just SCREAMS insecure. I don’t want friends who project those insecurities on me. There’s more than enough space under the spotlight for both of us!

6. Set clear boundaries. It is never politeness to compromise your own self worth for the sake of others. There is nothing awkward about affirming what you look for in a friendship. Just state it matter-of-factly: “I’m not cool with you making jokes about me in front of others. It’s just shitty.” And if they don’t like this, then you better avoid them.

7. This is quite contentious, but neutral friends. It is true that it is a matter of circumstance. But in most cases, a friend to all is a friend to none. Personally, I want loyal friends who have my back publicly in an argument, but are able to educate me if I’m wrong in private. I don’t want enablers either. Side note, if people are comfortable backbiting about me in your presence, are you really the ‘great friend’ you claim to be?

8. Social media. We live in an age governed by curated feeds and the idea of being perceived. There are many problematic sentiments to be observed here, but the fact that we make use of social media to stay up-to-date and keep in touch is irrefutable. Therefore, it does honestly matter. For instance, purposefully ignoring my posts and not commenting does convey a hater vibe. Every individual is different, I’ve expressed that a birthday story wish does matter to me and that’s just how I am. At the crux of friendship is the idea of ‘giving back’. Your friend might have different reasonable expectations of you that they should mention, and if you care about them, you’d respect them. Simple as.

9. Another controversial take: prioritise female friendships over male ones. While it is true that you can get lucky with a decent guy friend (I cannot say I’m reasonable and then generalise), I have observed that guys view friendships quite differently. Since we both want different things, with immature guys (which seems to be a common phenomenon) it’s likely that you’ll clash. This purely comes down to the difference in emotional intellect. Studies prove that girls possess more emotional (and general) intelligence. When we care, we care with every figment of our being. As cliche and painfully corny as it sounds, yes, I would take an entire round of bullets for my closest friends. Guys don’t tend to understand us in the same way girls do. Then, there are the typical idiots who only befriend those they deem attractive. The second they change their mind, they metamorphose into the most cruel of creatures. There had once been a guy who would’ve done pretty much anything I asked of him (albeit for selfish reasons). Then his perception of me ceased and he became the source of my 2024 trauma (I just think he’s a toad now). Not every man will be as despicable, but there is truth in the fact that they don’t understand us as deeply as other women do. We are one of the same, sharing the same divine experience of womanhood. It may come in different forms, but the idea is inherently the same. Prioritise your female friendships, they will be the most rewarding of all.

I have been aching to write this advice piece on friendships for so long and so so SO badly. I was on my usual long commute and charli started playing on my playlist and let’s be so for real, we all have that one “friend” we think of when we hear Girl, so confusing. This essentially inspired me to write this piece!

I love u guys!! and I truly cannot wait until the 100 subscriber special <3 it’ll be something raw and so personal for me but I look forward to hearing your thoughts hehe. Side note: if you have any topic in particular you’d recommend me to tackle, I would appreciate hearing from you in the comments! :)

lots of love xx

alee :)

It’s a recurring thing, a sentiment I often express to my friends. I am a firm believer in a new canvas, a fresh start every January the 1st. “I’m going to finally get my license” I assured my mother while spreading buttercream on the celebratory cake. Fireworks screech outside the balcony of our Islamabad home. She scoffs.

Ambition is at the very crux of who I am as a person; there is so much I want to achieve (prime minister by 50, for instance) but so little time. Each year, I pour a cream drenched mug of hot chocolate and start frantically saving every pin to my personalised vision board. I tell the whole world that this is the year I finally lose weight. Instead, it fluctuates. I find myself constantly taking note of the lack of ambitions coming true. “I just know Rand,” I told my best friend wistfully last December. “This is the year I’ll find my soulmate.” Instead I babysat a man-child for five months and was convinced he’d be my naseeb1. Side note: God SWT saved me there.

Upon entering my twenties, a decade I controversially love, I found myself becoming increasingly careless and uninterested. I am detached with goals I had once obsessed over. I no longer know what career path I should pursue. I am extremely repulsed with most men my age, especially those at my university (they are all the same, i truly do not care). Most of all, I am satisfied with allowing things to play out as they are supposed to. If something happens, it happens. And if it doesn’t, there is always a reason.

This year, I have carefully curated my vision board as per tradition. Some things never change. I am hopeful that things will pan out in my favour. Perhaps even excited.

The idea I seek to emphasise here is that sometimes, detachment is the best way forward. If you don’t overly obsess over certain goals and avoid assuming absolutely everything is a freaking sign, chances are you’ll actually achieve every resolution. Things don’t always play out in grayscale, rather they tend to manifest in technicolour. There are so many ways in which your dreams can emerge. Most of the time, they occur when you least expect them.

Before 2025, here’s what you’ll do:

1. Obtain the drink of your choice. Scalding cocoa with a generous dollop of fresh cream is always the best during the winter season.

2. Curate your own vision board for 2025. Time to make a Pinterest account, or maybe you’d prefer physically gluing images onto canvas.

3. Assure yourself that you’ll get everything you want if it is good for you. Shut your eyes now…

4. Master the art of detachment. You’ve done everything you need to do and now forget. It’ll happen on its own.

While the start of the calendar marks a fresh start and a new beginning, change is always possible before. Allow ambitions on your board to manifest at their own pace, it doesn’t concern you. But begin change earlier, whether through integrating small habits (i.e. gua sha daily before you sleep) into your routine or forcing your arse onto the Stairmaster at 6am. A single day on the Gregorian calendar should never dictate your lifestyle.

I am hopeful for 2025. Perhaps this is the year I achieve my desired body type. Or maybe I’ll have a glistening marquise cut ring. There could be pain and trauma and heartbreak, but they happened for a reason. I must learn to grow. 2025 is another year of navigating my twenties while ignoring the temptation to masseter botox. I’ll make friends and lose a few. I can already see me strutting with my VS tote at the airport, excited to celebrate my twenty first in the city of love. Nevertheless, I detach. I will let things play out as they must.

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A sweet and short post dwelling on the impending new year and the art of detachment. You’ll see me soon, I promise.

— yours truly,

the fig tree :)

They say that it’s a mandatory life stage, a period of religious and philosophical discovery every man and woman must undergo. There will come a time when you’re sixty something, freshly retired and dabbling in religious texts. Or perhaps you’ve just begun university and are full of questions. Most argue that religion is something almost everyone explores; it is inherent to human nature to have a curiosity for the unseen and any possible explanations that arise.

Have they not travelled throughout the land so their hearts may reason, and their ears may listen? Indeed, it is not the eyes that are blind, but it is the hearts in the chests that grow blind. (Quran 22:46)

The interesting thing lies in the fact that Islam isn’t merely a religion, it’s a دين (deen)1. Islam is in many ways, a way of living. The Quran and Hadith provide us with knowledge beneficial for all realms of life and human existence - moral, social, political, legal and so forth. Islam is timeless, easily applied to the modern day and flawlessly integrated into the legal systems of many countries (a topic for another post)2.

It is exactly 6pm on the 18th of December, I type this on the train from Makkah to Madinah. Miles and miles of desert stretches desperately outwards, lone men tending to camels. It is around Maghrib time, dunes blending seamlessly into the horizon. There is a surreal charm to it all, a perfect landscape as I type this piece I have craved to write for so long. How beautiful it is, whether you believe in God or not, the earth has been created with even the smallest of details. The crinkle of my silk abaya; the subtle arrangement of desert cacti. Everything has been designed with a purpose. You have a purpose for existence, as do I.

This is a sentiment often expressed by my dear grandfather, an intelligent and heavily educated man. Having taught at prestigious institutions in both Pakistan and the Emirates, he has spent a considerable period of his life studying the political and social sciences, alongside religion and philosophy. At the age of six, he would sit me next to him and point out this level of detail to me. While passing a tray of figs and mango, my dada would muse about the deen. When someone refutes God’s existence, dada said, ask them about the Earth. Ask them that, if that were the case, why is every object and being designed with such intricate purpose?

I do believe these nostalgic talks with my grandfather truly allowed me to open my mind. In many ways, they were my first experience with the notion of religion. Having been born a Muslim, a privilege I am endlessly grateful for, I certainly knew Islam. As soon as I could speak, my mum would teach me the sweet words of Ayat Ul Kursi. At seven, I would follow my relatives in prayer. At eleven, I chose to wear the hijab and abaya, and would attend islamic school weekly. Islam was a friend I knew well, and a friend that would slowly become the epicentre of my life over a decade later.

However, although I write this as a love letter in its most raw and beautiful form, it is also an autobiography of my unique relationship with my deen. As of this moment, I have completed my Umrah3 for the second consecutive year4. Staying in the holy city of Makkah has offered me time to reflect, tears falling from my eyes as I gape in disbelief at the Kaaba. I have come so far, it is truly unreal, the very flesh of my foot has touched the marble floors of Masjid Ul Haram (the fact that I’m not purely emphasising this for dramatic effect, this is EXACTLY how I feel, I could genuinely write an entire dissertation).

It is this very indescribable feeling that drives me to write of my experience with religion. I do not care whether you are a Muslim, a believer in God (SWT), or simply curious about religion as a concept. I type this in the hopes that there is something within this for you to relate to; be that the feeling of awe as you observe the dynamics of nature, or a deeper sense that there is some form of a higher being.

We visit the twelfth year of my life, a year of both trauma and joy. It is sometime in the middle of June (2017), July and my teenage years are quite imminent. I have just completed my incredibly tiresome ten-minute walk from school, fizzy sweets tossed onto the table for my younger siblings. Baba is working from home and frowning, everything seems perfectly normal. My biggest concern is recording today’s musical.ly, after all Selena asked me to duet her, who am I to say no? My mum chastises me for spilling juice on my school abaya.

“Have you seen the news?” My dad asks my mum, who sets her plate and sits down. She too frowns. I hear of more terror attacks; it is all every other kid talks about at school. My stomach churns.

“They’ve made a list,” my mum says quietly, worry on her face. “For every attack on a Muslim, there is a reward.”

How I wish I was able to return to the naivety of my childhood! When my biggest concern was my crush not reciprocating, rather than my hijab being torn off. I was still a child, in all truth. But suddenly, with the virtual spread of a list created by bitter incels, my life took a darker trajectory. With every run to reach school on time, I’d spend most of the journey stopping to check my surroundings, paranoia of an acid attack gnawing away at my mind. I’d dream of it at times, a faceless figure thriving in my suffering, all because of my personal choice to conceal. Soon it became too much, I felt that my open mindedness and attachment towards my religion was a curse. I’d never stop thinking, why Muslims? Why does it matter? Are we not allowed to make our own choices in this dreadfully short life? I did not and will not ever understand how humans can lack such intellect and be so painfully narrow minded. The choice of an individual to pursue a certain religion, believe in a certain (albeit harmless) idea and belong to a certain race. It is a beautiful thing; diversity is what shapes our world. It is what truly drives it. It would baffle me then and baffles me to this very moment; why are some humans so hateful?

I am not proud to admit this, but these feelings contorted into something akin to self-hatred. Younger me, who had once prided herself on her open mindedness, began to question everything. I would like to reiterate that I did not begin to exhibit or experience hatred towards others, it was more so directed towards myself. Self-conscious and ever a people pleaser, I made the decision to integrate more out of fear. I correct myself; it was not purely fear, but a deeper sense of cowardice brewing within.

A month later, I moved to Pakistan. I also made the decision to remove my hijab. Although I was far from becoming a perfect Muslim, the one link keeping me within reach of my deen was my appearance. That had changed. A sensible individual would think moving to a Muslim majority country would bring me closer to Islam, instead it did the opposite. This self-hatred remained for years, as the gap between my deen and I wedged further. I vividly recall thinking about this during a tiresome Geography lesson. I was France, my religion was Britain. My self-doubt, insecurity and identity crisis had metamorphosed into the English Channel. However, it was drifting apart at an unprecedented rate.

Like most people, I find it immensely addicting, scrolling mindlessly through my TikTok ‘for you’ page. Often, I come across posts from my beautiful homeland, Pakistan. British Pakistanis muse about their well spent summer, wistfully describing the luxuries of living in South Asia. Certainly, these experiences are a privilege enjoyed by a small minority. Sadly, not everyone can afford regular late-night trips to Monal, or beautiful manor houses. I have also observed how many have expressed how close they feel to Islam, staying in a Muslim country. Occasionally, a post appears, offering a look into the more nightlife aspect of Islamabad. People living in the West are in dismay, floods of criticism emerging in the comment sections.

“Ye kiya wannabe-western cheezay hai” (Why are they such western wannabes?) says one comment, another mocks “pov what the cousins actually get up to back home.”

Having spent my early teens in Islamabad, I have been a victim of both sides of the narrative. As a child, I would visit and adore the connection I experienced. There was something so surreal about Faisal Mosque, praying salah with my wider family and rooftop dinners in Ramadan. I hadn’t been regular with my salah back home, something that is unjustifiable, but I would change my habits whenever I visited back home. But when I actually began to live and attend school there, something swiftly changed. I soon forgot how to recite and became obsessed with attracting the attention of the opposite gender and other worldly things, like high school popularity.

Soon enough, my prayers were scarce. Only when I needed something, I’d become religious. Or if I felt completely alone, though there is nothing wrong with the latter. I was known as glamorous and outspoken5, rarely someone that would be acknowledged as a Muslimah. I knew that my drift from religion was apparent when a girl I had (mistakenly) befriended visited my house, shocked at the fact that I was praying salah. During non-uniform days, I would dress in traditional Pakistani attire, standing out like a sore thumb amidst crop tops and skinny jeans. I am not a girl who judges, especially given that I am still on my modesty journey, but my classmates obsessing and wearing the same outfits as my old friends in the UK was something I had not come to expect. Pakistan was changing in my eyes, along with it transformed my relationship with my deen. I was no longer the bright eyed and innocent girl living in East London, instead the homeland I held such intense adoration and reminiscence for had rendered me someone lost in the worldly desires of this dunya.

The year 2019, my most beloved year (to much irony). I often reminisce to my younger cousins, expressing how this was the year I peaked. Once a girl still juggling the downsides of pre puberty, I was now a rather pretty fifteen-year-old girl. Strangers commented on my bubbly attitude, my friends giggled about how “fun” I was. I’d thrive in my peer’s attention, using it as a source of confidence. Teachers would complain about how I’d disrupt lessons with my silly comments and irritating jokes. I’d spend most of first period in the girl’s bathroom, topping up my lip combo consisting of a matte kylie lipstick and the too faced lip injection. Although I wouldn’t deem myself popular (many people resented me for my hyperactive personality and un-seriousness), I knew most people and most people knew me. From afar, an old friend mentioned that my life had seemed mostly perfect. I was thin with clear skin and perfectly straightened hair. My nails were always done, and I was invited to parties. I was the pretty albeit somewhat annoying British girl, known for my questionable dating history.

It is true that often with the life of a person many people admire, there is always envy. Envy ends up ruining things, or things were already ruined in the first place. It is also, in my experience, true when they say a loud and ‘unserious’ person uses their personality in the hopes of concealing insecurity. Perhaps if I am loud and bubbly and attractive, they won’t see the insecurity and lack of self-confidence I still possessed from thirteen. More so, my social life was going well, I had a close-knit family and friends and parties and boys and (occasionally) good grades. My teachers would find me annoying but praised me upon the rare, good behaviour. Most had a soft spot for my ‘class clown’ antics. Nevertheless, something unpleasant remained, confined behind the steel gates of my Islamabad home. My relationship with my deen was barely breathing, almost entirely lifeless. I am ashamed to admit it and only do so in the hopes of inspiring change in others who feel the same; but I would only pray if I needed something. I suffered with severe depression and suicidal tendencies for years on end, often I’d cry myself to sleep daily, wishing I was perfect in the eyes of those I had yet to please. The remnants of my teenage trauma remain, glaringly obvious tear marks that serve well when applying eyeliner. They are daily reminders of my past, a past where I didn’t have the debris of my supposedly beautiful cruise ship keeping me afloat. I knew of the risks of suicide and what was written in the Quran, yet this did not stop me from considering it.

“The first matter that the slave will be brought to account for on the Day of Judgment is the prayer. If it is sound, then the rest of his deeds will be sound. And if it is incomplete, then the rest of his deeds will be incomplete.” (Sahih Al Tabarani)

My beloved mother6 would still attempt to fill the gaping hole I had in my life following the absence of my faith. I would not say Islam itself was absent, it is always there, warmly awaiting my return. It has always been to me my truest friend, never judging and ever welcoming. My mother would encourage me to attend Islamic events and dawah sessions, the devilish entity that was my teenage angst and depression would squirm in discomfort as I took a few pivotal steps towards the straight path.

Around 2021, I felt things that were new to me and felt alienated by other members of the deen, although never the religion. Islam by itself is very flexible, and this was something that pushed me to find it again. I cannot express enough how merely being born Muslim isn’t enough, it is crucial that every person finds it and desperately searches for it, craving a bond so close to their Almighty Creator (SWT). I will mention that my feelings were merely confusion at my ever-conflicting identity, but there are people out there who truly regard it as being them and that’s okay. I firmly believe there is something beautiful in being certain of yourself, but the relationship between you and God SWT is much sweeter. Islam teaches us not to judge but warmly embrace everyone, believers, and non-believers, and it is for this reason it poses such a threat to people who pretend to accept but truly do not. I will not excuse my internal misguidance under the argument of being a teenager and hence a child, I was seventeen and able enough. But in some ways, I do not regret how I found Islam for it truly was the most beautiful journey and this post is both an account of my relationship and simultaneous love letter.

Back to the seventeenth year of my life, I was naïve and at the verge of collapse, I experienced heartbreak and self-sabotage. The pandemic had rendered me void of the one thing I had for a long time, my ‘good looks.’ Binge eating and hormonal struggles caused me to gain weight, my friends of four years almost entirely left me, I had my reputation destroyed. This isn’t a sob story, and I am much better now Alhamdulillah. However, I do look back in exasperation at how, despite my pain, I was still so stubborn and unwilling to revert to my deen. Allah SWT awoke me each morning for fajr, I slept through, a satanic voice instilling a sense of bitter resentment within me. I was a loser in the plainest form, expressing my pain by blaming my deen for not helping me, even though it was I who could not help myself. Out of spite, I would purposefully reject any opportunity to redeem myself and my faith. I went as far as to proclaim myself atheist, when in reality I was certain of God’s existence, I just didn’t want to believe. Why would I believe in a God who rejected me and permitted me to suffer such pain? I assured myself at night. How wrong I was.

“Allah does not charge a soul except [with that within] its capacity.” [Quran 2:286]

The truth is humans need setbacks to grow. Depression is one of these numerous setbacks. In the view of myself and other muslims, this world is a temporary illusion. A test of patience and love, a unique examination of one’s ability to cope with trauma. God (SWT) loves us. A love that our limited minds fail to conceive. He (SWT) wants us to grow and thrive and for this to occur, we will experience the uncomfortable. That is inevitable. Take this example: often you’ll see podcasters and influencers stressing how it is normal to lose people around you. Some people aren’t good for you, although you are unable to see this at the time. Losing friendships and relationships is a setback, a setback that transforms your life for the better. Whether you believe in religion or not, that is not for me to decide. But everyone has a paradise in their eyes, something to strive for. Muslims strive for Jannah, an eternal garden of paradise. Other religions have their own idealised notions of heaven that although I do not believe in, I respect the idea of. For someone who doesn’t align well with faith, their paradise might be a dream they have, the future they desperately strive to manifest. Setbacks are littered on the path to heaven. That much is certain.

A Levels saw my relationship with my deen grow. I too experienced setbacks, whether imminent heartbreak or the fitna associated with starting university. I don’t talk much about this for obvious reasons, I have changed, but my biggest push towards my deen was my struggle with addiction. I don’t think there is a need to dwell on my sins much further as this isn’t necessary, but my struggles had partly erased the hard work I had done towards the end of sixth form. “You were getting so religious!” said one person. “What on earth happened?” For obvious reasons, despite my respect to those who advise others, I much prefer my relationship with my deen be kept private unless I choose to reveal it (like in this post). I understand the genuine intention behind the remark, so I bit my tongue and said nothing. In all truth, my desire to fit in is still there. There are times when I do slip into unneeded habits (although nothing like addiction). I am a human in flesh, still suffering setbacks. Although I no longer enjoy ‘partying’, I do enjoy getting ready with my girls. Now, I choose late night restaurant dates with friends, a suitable substitute that doesn’t involve neglecting my friend (my deen). The easiest solution to my issues is the feeling of tawakkul7, absolute trust in God (SWT). Everything does in fact happen for a reason, you miss the bus because something better is waiting to step onto your path. If I don’t get a first in an essay8, perhaps it is because it could lead to dangerous overconfidence.

Finally, I do believe my biggest push towards my deen was the isolation I experienced in the summer. I have not spoken about this without metaphor, but I experienced something no person should ever experience last summer. The cruel and unwanted touch of a vile stranger. I cried to God (SWT) about what had happened, how I was made to feel so slutty and disgusting9. The man I thought I had taken an interest to pretended like I never existed, my friends again isolated me. I feared leaving the house and being harassed by men who judged me for what had happened and had found out about it without my consent. My reputation as a woman, socially delicate and doomed from the start, had tarnished tremendously. Although I had lost many, I remained patient. God SWT kept my best and closest friends and family, all unwaveringly loyal and supportive. Those who had left me, people who would to this day stubbornly deny their wickedness, were swiftly replaced with much better friends and more in quantity. My unfaltering faith in my deen and God (SWT)’s ability to violate those who had violated me kept me going. It still keeps me going.

Dear deen, I now write in my concealed and battered journal. I understand. I applaud you for remaining patient with me. For keeping my faith in God (SWT). An unwavering faith, In Sha Allah. I express my deep appreciation for you as being an anchor granted by Him (SWT), softly nudging me towards Him (SWT) and a much better future.

Dear God (Allah SWT), I write in a much larger and emphasised fashion, for He (SWT) is the sole reason for my existence and everything and anything I will ever seek to please. Thank you for accepting me and bringing me closer to You (SWT). I hope that my patience is rewarded in ways I can never imagine, and the same goes for all of you readers.

I will reiterate for a final time, in possibly my longest substack post to date. This is a love letter to my deen and mostly my Creator (SWT), a culmination of two decades of pain and trauma in the making. The setbacks have enabled me to thrive, and I will continue to thrive. After all, how can any pitiful human threaten me if I have a strong and unbeatable force on my side?

I would also like to emphasise; this is a post I hope figments of can relate to both the religious and those who do not attach themselves to any religion. My page is a safe space for all peaceful opinions, and I am eager to remain openminded and listen to the experiences of others around me. Acceptance is so important to me, as is diversity. I think every belief is so distinctly beautiful and I admire each and every one.

Yours truly,

— The Fig Tree in a love letter to my deen.

let me tell you about the story of a fruit orchard1, something i concocted in my mind while watching the smudge of greens and browns outside the bus windows. i implore you to keep an open mind, understand the complexities of what i am trying to say.

this is short prose; upon first read it appears as absolute nuisance. it is not. i implore you to keep an open mind, understand the complexities of what i am trying to say.2

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.”

— sylvia plath, aka my current literature muse

as the sullen girl turned her head away from the heated glares of the sun, she admired the hues of greens and browns blending seamlessly. the bus came to a halt, then continued, then halt, continue, halt, continue, halt… you must understand the gist of things!

her stop had approached, one would think she’d be relieved at the prospect of escaping such a tedious journey - au contraire, the sick feeling in her gut deepened. she wasn’t ready, the memories were too much. or perhaps, the girl had merely imagined all this in her head.

she walks swiftly, almost tripping over a misplaced cobblestone. her destination twists to the left, she must be quick, he is waiting. he is waiting.

to the twenty-something protagonist of this tale, something has gone horribly wrong. but we know best. there is no man waiting, she has been fooled once again, the cryptic texts! she was certainly amongst the fools.

in the man’s absence, a beautiful fruit orchard exists. it is grand in its presentation, well-structured soil pathways and ripe crop. the fruit glistens, but it is forbidden. it glistens again - no dear girl, it is forbidden!

there is something regarding the uncanny charm of the forgotten fruit orchard that draws her in neck-first, she is blinded by lust and desire. “you don’t eat certain fruit” they told her once. maybe they were right. maybe she no longer knew what she wanted. maybe, just maybe, the fruit was merely an attractive distraction.

the first bite is a surreal experience, she feels the heavens and the earths3 move, a whisper of temptation, “just taste it longer, sweet girl. taste it for four months.”

they say that man’s inherent weakness is giving into their desires. but if a man chooses to do so, they shall never raise the matter. it didn’t happen, it wasn’t your fault. essentially, a man may commit any act without fear of accountability. yet if the culprit was instead a sullen twenty-something female with burdensome hair, suddenly it would be an issue. a town wide spectacle. “how dare she, the slag!”

double standards are the very soil consumed foundations of the girl’s sacred fruit orchard. she ignores them, for they cannot exist in her head. she is supposedly not capable of carrying this much.

let us return to the fruit narrative, the girl takes another bite, and another. three more bites. just another bite! at first she wasn’t sure, but now she likes the idea of things. the idea of the unspoken pronoun.

the fruit metamorphoses into a plum, distinctive in its appearance and sweeter than what is expected. it melts on her tongue, the texture is appealing. she feels whole again, the plum just gets her. everyone she knows adores the plum fruit, so she should too.

“i see you’ve tried it.” a sneering voice says, and the girl spins around frantically to see another man. he is shrivelled in appearance, towering and plump. she feels a surge of disgust. “the plum fruit. there will be consequences.”

he raises an axe, as if exterminating a stubborn branch penetrating his backyard. she braces herself and cannot fight, for she is paralysed. if only they understood you. now, the girl is gone. she has transformed into a pomegranate.

tragic it is, so poetically and devastatingly tragic - the girl has become the very thing she consumed. the thing she was seduced into. let us shift the perspective, what if i told you the plum she had ripped apart on her tongue had been the boy she liked. initially, it had been attractive and had opened up the most wonderful of possibilities. she was destined to be the girl who devoured the plum. it was all she could envision, even in her final moments. but within the final bites, even with death, the taste changed slightly. it was still sweet, but with a bitter aftertaste. it appears that the plum has shrivelled, once a plum ripe with sweetness and promise, now a mere afterthought. it had poisoned her before the peculiar and grotesque stranger had cut her in half.

even in death, she still thought. her soul was gone, her mind remained intact. she was then a pomegranate, bursting with life. those she had once fondly seen as friends, split pomegranate-her open. they blamed her for the seeds spilling onto the soil, the bloody mess in their wretched palms. the plum had not killed me directly, but its absence had rendered me weak and useless. he-plum wasn’t the one who broke me, not necessarily. but his silence made me bleed onto the palms of now strangers.

it is cruel really, like the overripe pomegranate, being torn apart by hands that didn’t belong to me. rather, i was blamed for the mess. “the plum so sweet, never to blame!” they caw. i try to ignore them. my mind threatens to disintegrate with the burden of my thoughts. the plum who had once known my sweetness, lay there, too afraid to touch the remnants. i was left to retrieve my scattered seeds from the soil.

the hues of green and brown no longer appeal to the girl. she just wished she had stayed on that stupid bus. curiosity and the lustful possibility of something special had poisoned her, rendering her the mess of seeds that no one felt able to collect.

this is short prose; upon first read it appears as absolute nuisance. it is not. i implore you to keep an open mind, understand the complexities of what i am trying to say.

hope you enjoyed this read, it is so deeply personal to me. made this up on the bus journey

love you all x

alee

it was 2015 - the age of tumblr and zoella, ‘baby lips’ and a concerning societal infatuation with dutch braids. it was the year of taylor swift, and eleven year old aleeha would religiously screen record her music to listen to during lengthy car journeys. most of all, it was the year that everything changed — long gone was the bubbly eleven year old that could recite every fact off pottermore by heart, and a distant and anxious secondary schooler had taken her place.

it feels as if every taunt, every remark, every muttered comment is permanently etched onto my mind and soul. every giggle made by the ‘cooler’ girls in the PE changing rooms, every look of utter disgust shot at me during our weekly assemblies. essentially, i had become my high school’s very own frankenstein’s monster, for i had been “cursed” (like many brown girls my age) with being ugly. with having facial hair.

“ The beauty of the face of woman is as irrelevant as the appearance of her soul; yet society only values her superficial aspect, condemning the plain and ugly.” — mary wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

up until year seven, i don’t think i’d ever paid much attention to my looks. sure, i would plait my hair back and oil it (a traditional desi trick, thanks mama). i’d pick out pretty skirts from zara and pair them with cute accessories from claires. but i never thought much of the damning thing between my eyebrows. it was just there, i had learnt to forget it even existed.

initially, secondary school wasn’t as daunting as i felt it would be. i had made a few friends here and there, and everyone got along (reminiscent of primary school friendships). everyone liked each other. but the transition between my childhood and teenage years had come to an end. a high school experience that was painfully similar to every novel and 2000s film i’d seen, had began.

ANONYMOUS BOY IN MY MATHS CLASS: [smirking] why don’t you shave that tache and unibrow off, you look like a fucking troll.

ME: [perplexed] i don’t know what you’re talking about. what’s a unibrow?

another moment that is entrapped within a wormhole in my mind, ever repeating, is when a group of year nine girls approached me in the library. i’d volunteer there every lunchtime, during moments i preferred to spend in solitude or yapping away to the librarian. i reluctantly answered the giggles, the plea for assistance, expecting to assist them with the rather tricky printer. instead, they had the audacity to ask me (and proceed to do so anyway) for a couple selfies.

it was then when it occurred to my eleven year old self, that my unibrow had rendered me the joke of the entire school.

it was horrible, the sinking sensation in my stomach, the teachers comforting my sobbing self, my parents being called — yet, i refused to give in names. “it would only make everything infinitely worse” i whispered to myself, as my dad sat himself on the edge of my bed, hoping for answers. thus, i found comfort in distance. in isolation. in solitude. my dinner was sent upstairs, i’d only communicate in nods or screams — what a wretched oxymoron.

“Can you get rid of it?” I ask mama during the christmas holidays, frantically pointing at my unibrow and moustache. “Can I finally be deemed beautiful?”

she had done it, frankenstein’s monster had been killed off. a beautiful, much more ‘teenage like’ version of me had birthed. everything had been fixed.

“Nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect.” — wabi sabi, Japanese philosophy, 16th Century.

Oh, how sick and twisted an idea beauty is! when you feel as if you are finally complete, the porcelain doll cracks and imperfection becomes reality. going into my twenties, i now understand the fundamental desire to be beautiful. even when you think you’re finally perfect in every perspective and realm of thinking, another thing breaks. it comes to no surprise that ‘the desire to be beautiful’ and ‘the desire to be perfect’ are concepts intertwined.

ANONYMOUS BOY IN MY MATHS CLASS: [snickers] imagine shaving, that’s so embarrassing…

ME: [inaudibly] oh.

ultimately, i continued to be bullied to the verge of depression and even suicidal tendency, for i had committed the crime of acting. i had decided to remove the insecurity that my classmates teased me relentlessly for, and so they found another reason to justify their actions - me, threading it off.

after a scandal in which i lost all my friends and i begged my parents to switch schools, the parents in question had decided to take it a step further. and for that, i will be eternally grateful. they decided to switch countries.

i will not bore you with the details of the next couple of years, experiencing puberty and the ‘brown girl glow up’, real and raw friendships, attention from the opposite gender. instead, i will clarify a couple of things:

a. i had finally reached the very ‘perfection’ that younger me desired. or so, i thought…

b. the very boys that bullied me began replying to my snapchat stories, the girls that teased me began to compliment me online. oh, the very irony of it all…

c. i was now attending a private international school in pakistan, but i found it difficult living apart from my dad (who was still in england). the person who understood me most…

d. the depression had not ceased to exist. instead, it had undergone a destructive metamorphosis, transforming into an eating disorder and an urge to self sabotage. “I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.” (Kafka, 1915)

“i absolutely love your hair, it’s so silky, how do you style it?” “how is your skin so clear?” “you’re so slim, do you even eat?” “he so has a crush on you!”

i think a part of me did not, could not, truly believe that there was a (plausible) sincerity to the words of my new classmates. it just couldn’t be true. i refused to see it as true. i was absolutely, unequivocally, without a doubt, still ugly. still the very frankenstein’s monster from east london. islamabad was lying, they just were.

therefore, i reached an epiphany of sorts.

I decided that I must starve myself. I must eat no more than a protein shake and four lentil kebabs a day. I must avoid fast food at all costs. I must straighten my waves to look like the idealised version of myself. I must prioritise my looks over everything else. I must be loud, to distract from the imperfection. I must be flirtatious. I must be beautiful. I must be bubbly. I must be attractive. I must overly sexualise myself. I must be pined over. I must be everything 2015 me so desperately yearned for.

They didn’t like that. Not one bit. The girls silently judged me, with every bubbly compliment and every painful dating rumour. The guys made horrible comments, they objectified me — “I like your boobs, and your arse.” I was dumbfounded.

A lot happened, a lot I will critically analyse and dissect in another post. but even when i was no longer a glamorous fifteen year old, i still yearned for it — the fundamental desire to be beautiful.

alas, God had pulled me right into another trial. the pandemic and its consequences.

falling prey to PCOS and binge eating, to my utmost dismay and horror, i began experiencing weight gain at an unprecedented level. suddenly, my relationship with food (that had taken months to heal), was changing again. i swapped the pain au chocolat for rice cakes and stir-fry vegetable. i was a victim of what i describe as the ‘chloe ting era’, confined to my old east london home and unable to participate in traditional exercise. the fundamental desire to be beautiful was still set in stone, but a larger fundamental desire to be seen and heard and understood overtook. (maybe this was the reason behind the emo phase, one can only guess?)

i was old enough, at eighteen, to understand that perfectionism was simply impossible. “i would never be enough, so what was the point in trying?” i assured myself, after fondly flicking through my snap memories from year nine.

however, it is important to acknowledge that this was just me reassuring myself. deep down, a bigger part of me still felt the fundamental desire to be beautiful. except, it wasn’t as fundamental to my nature anymore. other things started to matter. i wanted to be a unique, different, edgy, (as painful as it is to admit) quirky kind of “beautiful”. most of all, i wanted to be seen.

“ Women have always had to fight for their beauty, and the world judges them harshly for the effort. This relentless desire to be seen as beautiful is rooted in the need for worth.” — virgina woolf, A Room of One’s Own

now, in the year 2024, i still feel unsatisfied. my weight is constantly fluctuating, and i sometimes feel like an imposter while standing next to my much more ‘conventionally attractive’ friends. but it is true when they say “comparison is the thief of joy” — i now understand that the presence of their beauty isn’t the absence of my own. my thick brows, my wide almond eyes, my long lashes, my wavy curls, my straight ethnic nose — it is all a culmination of centuries of beautiful women before me. then, there is the beauty that lies in my dry sense of humour, my intelligence, my ability to “yap to the next century”. i may not fit TikTok’s photogenic, heavily botox-ed conception of “pretty.” but, i am my own slightly fucked-up, chaotic, full of life version of beautiful. while it is true that i still feel the fundamental desire to be beautiful, here and there, i firmly believe that there is more to me than my desire for absolute perfection.

there is more i will gift to the earth, more than my beauty. there is wit, there is humour, there is raw ambition, there is intelligence, there is my voice, there is my ability to feel, and there is my ability to be.

in my typical unusual fashion, i offer you readers a thesis statement instead of a conclusion. what truly is the fundamental desire to be beautiful?

in this mixture of essay, autobiography and societal critique, i discuss my personal experiences with beauty standards and “the fundamental desire to be beautiful.” the word ‘fundamental’ insinuates something that is inherent to human nature. in this way, the title is referring to how a desire to be beautiful lies at the epicentre of my very nature. that this very desire is my main source of fulfillment.

i proceed to argue, once that was indeed true. being ‘beautiful’ was central to who i was. it was all aleeha qureshi could ever be. however, nearly a decade later, my priorities have shifted. if anything, entering my twenties has taught me that there is more that is ‘fundamental’ to me than my looks. there is more, much more, i will give to the earth and to humanity and to my next door neighbours (the carrot cake i baked ran out so i can’t give them that).

truth be told, there is no longer such thing as “the fundamental desire to be beautiful.” not, at least, in my life anyway. certainly, i still harbour insecurities that will one day throttle me completely. i still wax my face every week, and ‘freak out’ at the salon if my eyebrows are even an inch asymmetrical. occasionally, i find myself comparing my beauty to instagram influencers. as i type this, i mentally make a note of re-painting my nails to ensure perfection. i am still a raging perfectionist. and that’s okay — the fundamental desire to be beautiful has still ceased to exist. its foundations have toppled, and only the colosseum of childhood trauma and insecurity remains. there is still work to be done, but it is important to admit that it will never totally be done.

absolute perfection doesn’t fucking exist!

i hope you enjoyed this read, mind you - it took three hours and two turkish green teas to complete haha.

lots of love <3

— yours sincerely, the fig tree!

in the seventeenth year of my life, I stumbled across Sylvia Plath - more specifically, The Bell Jar. no clever use of linguistic has really moved me as much as the fig tree metaphor, it just made perfect sense in my mind. I felt heard, the very notion of wanting to do absolutely everything in this abysmally restricted life. for as long as I remember, I had wanted to be a fashion designer, then a computer scientist, a politician, a lawyer, a journalist, a diplomat, a dermatologist…the list goes on!

to me, my thoughts and interests are each to their own, like figs resting on the tree. they are rarely related and large in number, lying on protruding branches and waiting to be expressed. some may not be expressed, as there is so much to say and such little time.

it was during one dreadfully depressing evening, as I was sipping on my lemon and ginger tea, I decided to express them somewhere other than my diary. thus, the fig tree was born, and I sincerely hope that it is somewhat of a refreshing read for you all.

having stumbled headfirst into a sylvia plath hurricane in 2021, I found myself immersed in her works (in particular, the unabridged journals of sylvia plath). she was fierce and passionate, she had so much to say. some of her takes were slightly controversial to say the least, but my point lies in the fact that she expressed everything she thought. I too, aim to do so, this is a platform for the very inner workings of my thought process.

this newsletter is a shrine to literature and cinema, to fashion, and to every unvoiced thought that has fallen coma in my brain. it is a love letter to pop culture and vanilla scented products and a criticism on the patriarchy and repression of speech. it is everything I wish to be, every fig on the fucking tree, and nothing at the same time.

and I hope you love it as much as I do!

— yours truly, the fig tree