here i am, a 26 year old first-time mother, dancing in my living room to the jonas brothers with my baby on my hip, and suddenly, i’m 8 years old again.

i remember running downstairs to grab a snack from the kitchen. i’d pass the living room and always catch my mother watching meet the fockers for what felt like the 20th time. i used to always ask her, “why are you always watching the same movie over and over again?” it was either that or 50 first dates.

and she would always say, “when you’re older, you’ll understand why.”

and she was right.

it was nostalgia.

you only really understand it as you grow older. and to me, the jonas brothers are a little key to that nostalgia. i still remember my bedroom, their poster hanging over my bed. growing up, even though my family was conservative, i’m so glad my mom let me express myself in my own little room.

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oh my goodness, the amount of times i used to beg my mother for those magazines in the middle of the supermarket by the gas station, just so i could get the posters…

and what’s even crazier is that my little self had started a whole lie at school that these brothers were my neighbours. i told everyone i had such a close friendship with them that i used to watch them practice in their garage. i even told the girls at school to call me and i’d make sure they could hear the jonas brothers playing through the phone.

and so they did.

they would call me, and i’d play one of their songs from the cd i had. somehow, i became known as the girl whose neighbours were the jonas brothers.

well… that lie did not last very long.

because i was in 3rd grade. who was going to believe a 3rd grader when she claimed the JONAS BROTHERS were her neighbours?!

to the jonas brothers,

i know you’re touring around now and that you’re coming to the bay area, where i am. unfortunately, i won’t be able to come see you, and honestly, it would’ve made my younger self so incredibly happy.

but here you are again, playing on my tv in the living room.

and i’ll always remember the first time i saw “sos” on our old, big, grainy tv. it was just me and my sister, sitting there and fighting over joe.

thank you for giving my younger self good music to listen to, and for giving me something i could carry with me all these years later.

“music is in my soul.”

from your neighbour,

naeema.

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p.s. i remember my sister and i dragging our dad to watch the jonas brothers concert experience in the cinema lol

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i saw myself in the old city, walking down ancient stairs that carried the history of everyone who had walked them before me. the very city my grandfather grew up in.

he would always say that you could feel the land speak to you when you touched the old walls.

though they only spoke back to those with pure hearts.

my family has a secret. a secret that, if anyone ever found out, could get us into deep trouble. we might even be taken away and studied by scientists.

my family and i can travel through time.

but not in the way you’d imagine. there’s no entering a date into some delorean and going back to the past like in back to the future. we can only travel through memories.

sometimes, we can take someone with us.

and that’s how my siblings and i get to travel to the ancient city.

through my grandfather’s memories.

my grandfather would always tell us stories about an ancient city, a land that belonged to him, his father, and the ancestors before them. until the great migration came, and a war took place.

though that’s what everyone calls it.

or, at least, that’s how it was written down in history by the others.

my ancestors were forced to migrate to the lands nearby, seeking refuge. you see, what really made my family leave wasn’t a war.

it was an invasion.

an invasion from another planet.

their appearance could fool you. it could fool anyone.

nobody understood the kind of technology the others possessed, but they looked just like you and me. they had human faces. they spoke our language. they walked among us as though they belonged here.

but they lacked empathy.

they didn’t feel for people like you and me because we weren’t one of them.

and that’s where the name came from.

“the others.”

because no human could ever do the things they did.

if you didn’t obey their rules, they wouldn’t hesitate to execute you. they didn’t care how old you were.

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though they were especially thirsty for young blood.

they believed that the younger the sacrifice, the closer they would come to fulfilling one of their ancient prophecies.

nobody dared to step in from the neighboring lands. nobody even dared to think about getting involved.

other rulers had tried before.

and they had failed miserably.

they lost their lands, and the others made them unlivable.

every other night, my siblings and i would gather around our grandfather in the living room by the fireplace, and he would tell us stories from his memories of the land.

and then we would travel with him.

we saw him as a young boy, full of energy and happiness, running through the streets and guiding us as though he knew every corner like the palm of his hand.

the walls knew him.

so did the trees.

they recognized the hands that had planted them.

the land knew her people.

she recognized you, even through memory.

that’s how strong the natives are.

even when we are far away, she knows we still carry her inside our hearts.

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our grandfather would always remind us never to forget the land.

he had passed down the ancient key to us, hoping that one day, the true natives would return.

that one day, they would rule their land once more.

to return to the land that cries for her people.

she doesn’t forget.

she will never let go.

for she is still waiting for you.

she will know you by the way your hand runs along the old church walls.

by the way your head rests against the floor while you whisper your prayers.

by the deep sadness she sees carried in your eyes.

by the heaviness of your heart.

she will know you.

because the land remembers her people.

and she patiently waits for her true ruler to come home.

and i’m getting sick of it.

i want to feel realness again.

i want to feel life again.

i want to hold a book in my hands and get lost in its pages instead of endlessly staring at a screen.

i want to feel present again.

every day i wake up, and the first thing i reach for is my phone.

and every day i tell myself i need to stop.

i need to change.

i need to live a healthier, more present life.

i don’t want to be a zombie. i don’t want to miss out on what’s happening right in front of me.

and yet, every day, i find myself thinking about deleting my socials. then suddenly, i get this urge of, hey, maybe i should go public on instagram. maybe people would actually like my posts. maybe they’d like what i have to share.

so i scroll.

and i doomscroll.

for hours.

a video about moms getting their bodies back postpartum.

working out.

here’s what i feed my baby.

skincare.

and then that little voice starts again.

stop.

you need to change.

you need to focus.

lose the postpartum weight.

be there for her.

do it for her.

i need to be in control.

i want to write again.

i miss it.

i want to read my books again.

i miss getting completely lost in a fantasy world.

i miss literature.

i miss watching movies that actually made sense.

i miss romanticising every little moment of my life.

i miss feeling present.

how do i get rid of this toxic addiction?

maybe writing about it is the first step.

maybe i’m slowly breaking up with everything that stands between me and the life that’s waiting for me outside of this screen.

i will change.

not just for me,

but for her.

here it’s just me and you.

every day in this little apartment feels familiar. three big windows frame the world outside, and every day we watch people pass by — heading to work, running errands, going somewhere.

and here we are.

just me and you, figuring things out together, one day at a time.

i watch you learn new things.
i watch you grow.
i watch you become more and more yourself.

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outside, life keeps moving. people come and go, the days pass, and the world carries on.

inside, i do the dishes, fold the laundry, tidy up, and watch you.

we watch the lady walking her puppy, the one whose leash got tangled with another dog’s. we watched two strangers stop, laugh, and leave as friends.

we watch the little girl on her way to the pool with her grandpa.

you get excited every time you see a dog.

and the trees

— those same trees outside our windows —

the ones you wave to every morning. they’ve stood there through it all, quietly watching you grow alongside me.

sometimes i wonder if one day we’ll look back at these days and miss them.

just me and you in our little apartment.

sometimes i pray for a village.

sometimes i wish my mother lived nearby, or that home wasn’t an ocean away.

but for now, it’s okay.

i have you.

and we have your papa.

so as people walk by, you and i sit by the window in our cozy little home, watching the world outside while our own little world grows inside.

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last night, i sat with myself in the parking lot of in-n-out, eating a flying dutchman with a version of me from the past. we opened the trunk of the ford and took in the scene—the restaurant glowing in yellow and red, lighting up the night. above us, just the sky, scattered with stars and endless possibility.

i looked at her. she seemed so naive, so full of joy and excitement. alive in her loud curls, colorful makeup, ripped jeans, and mismatched socks.

so different from me now. quieter. softer. more grounded. wrapped in earthy tones and carrying the weight of responsibilities.

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she had so many questions. what does life look like now?

am i working for the united nations, representing my country? or did i become a teacher? who did i turn into?

do we still play the ukulele? are we still living on our beloved island?

“tell me,” she said.

she already knew we were in california—our in-n-out meal made that obvious.

i laughed, took a sip of my cold drink, and told her,

“no… but we’re really happy. you’d be so proud of us if you knew.”

i didn’t say too much. i didn’t want to overwhelm her, or scare her with everything she hadn’t lived through yet. i didn’t tell her that we’re a mother now, to a beautiful little girl—bright and full of life, just like we were.

“you do look a little tired though,” she said, studying my eyes—the kind that long for a beach, for a break, for a cold piña colada in the sun.

we looked at each other, smiled, then turned back to the glowing restaurant, alive in the middle of the night.

“thank you,” i heard myself say.

i looked up at the sky.

and i was content.

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i saw a tree today—

the one i always walk pass

but this time i really saw the tree

i saw the way its bark

stretched and marked,

like lines earned through growth—

I felt the life it offers so quietly.

and as i stood there,

it reminded me so much of a mother.

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© 2026 Naeema Taqi. You’re welcome to share excerpts with proper credit and a link back. Reproduction without permission is not allowed.

bahr of the two seas: chapter two

key terms:

bahr: means sea in arabic and also the name of our protagonist.

abu: means ‘father of’ is what arabs refer to someone’s dad, following their first born’s name. for example, abu bahr.

umm: means ‘mother of’ is what arabs refer to someone’s mother. for example, umm bahr.

nakhuda: the nakhuda is the captain of a traditional gulf sailing vessel, especially pearl-diving ships.

the naham: the naham is not just a singer, but the soul of the ship. sings work songs and sea chants during long voyages.

yumma: an affectionate way of saying “mom” or “mother” in many arabic-speaking cultures, including the gulf and bahrain.

machboos: a traditional gulf rice dish cooked with spices, onions, and meat (usually chicken, lamb, or fish). similar to biryani but milder and deeply aromatic.

gahwa: arabic coffee, lightly roasted and often flavored with cardamom and sometimes saffron. traditionally served to guests as a sign of hospitality.

seyb: a pearl diver’s rope or lifeline, used to pull the diver up from the sea. also refers to the person who manages the rope on the boat.

deien: a woven basket or bag used by pearl divers to collect oysters while diving.

khubez: arabic flatbread, usually round and thin, eaten with meals or used to scoop food.

hajar: a stone; in pearl diving, a weighted stone tied to the diver’s foot to help them descend quickly.

habl: rope; commonly used on boats and in pearl diving for lifting, tying, or signaling.

dana: a large, rare, and highly valuable natural pearl. in gulf culture, the dana was the most prized find of pearl divers and often symbolized fortune, honor, and the mercy of the sea.

Chapter two

the men rose before the sun, beginning their days as the light slowly crept in. prayers were always first, held at the dusk of dawn, when the sky was still deep blue, melting into shades of red and orange. a soft breeze moved through the air, and the waves struck the ship gently, as if the vessel itself was born from the sea. as if it had no other place to exist.

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it was a perfect sight. and to bahr, it brought a sense of calm at the start of each day. life aboard the ship was simple—there wasn’t much to do besides work. sometimes nakhuda mishal would order him to sweep the deck, while some worked on mending nets and getting their deien ready. a smirk would stretch across his face, clearly enjoying the sight.

a legend’s son, left to scrub the floors.

“i told you, patience. that’s all you need,” naser said, joining bahr as he worked the deck.

“i just want today’s dive to come already. it’s the only thing keeping me sane,” bahr replied.

“did you hear about what happened last night?” naser continued. “abu jaafar woke up screaming. he swore he could hear an aching cry almost as if it was a sound of a woman calling to him in his sleep, whispering straight into his ear.”

that made bahr pause for a moment. he had always heard stories of them but had never truly encountered one—and he was careful not to. especially because of what his father used to warn him,

“son, no matter what you do, don’t go out to the sea at night. don’t take the fishing boat and try your luck in the dark. they don’t like that at all…”

after the chores were completed for the day, the crew gathered for lunch on the open deck. the food wasn’t much—nothing close to a feast. at sea, meals were usually dried, salted fish. on rare days, after a successful dive, they were rewarded with cooked fish and white rice. the cook would also prepare khubz and chickpeas, and every meal ended with a warm cup of gahwa.

some mornings, they’d start their day with just a few dates and that was enough to help the food last longer.

bahr didn’t complain about the food, though his mind often wandered to his mother’s matchboos, heavy with spices and shrimp. he usually sat beside naser, and at times they would join abu lulwa and his group. the naham’s voice would rise into the salty air, blending with the scent of food. he sang of strength, of nourishment for divers before they descended into the depths in search of pearls—his song sounding like both a blessing and a prayer, asking courage to stay with the crew.

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back on shore, lulwa spent most of her days by the sea, sometimes writing in her small diary—poems filled with love and longing for the one far away. she would walk along the shore barefoot, letting the sand sink beneath her feet, the cold seawater brushing against her skin. she loved how the sea answered back when the waves struck the rocks, as if it understood the ache in her heart.

lulwa gathered seashells and whispered her love for bahr into them, speaking all the things she carried inside. she laid them carefully along the edge of the shore and watched as the sea slowly pulled them away, carrying her message to him. she sat there for a long while, wondering what bahr might be doing now… praying for his safety.

when lulwa and bahr were together, they were always by the shore. there was a place that belonged only to them, sometimes sitting on his father’s old boat. bahr would read to her from the journals he treasured.

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“he’s seen dolphins,” he’d say excitedly. “they travel in groups, lulwa, and they make the funniest sounds—almost like it tickles your ear. dad even drew them, look. they’re beautiful.”

lulwa laughed, completely taken by the stories bahr shared. and every time he returned from fishing or diving on his own, he brought her small treasures from the sea—little things he had found along the way.

“do you know what this is?” he once asked, placing something in her hand. “it’s a sea coin. the tales say mermaids use them to trade.” lulwa turned it in her palm, surprised by how soft and smooth it felt. it was believed that gifting one to someone you loved brought good fortune, that the sea and its creatures would bless you—for the sea knows everything.

“and you believe in mermaids?” she asked, amused, lifting an eyebrow.

“i believe in all kinds of things,” bahr replied. “when you’re out there in the sea, you have to. you have to believe in everything it holds.”

bahr loved tucking seashells into lulwa’s hair, just to hear her giggle the way she had as a child. he looked into her eyes, warm as honey.
“when i come back, lulwa, i promise. i’m going to marry you.”

lulwa was taken aback, hardly believing what she had heard. her heart sank deep, like an anchor dropped into the sea. she looked at bahr as if she were falling in love all over again—unable to stop thinking about how handsome he was, his brown eyes catching the sunlight, his hair as wavy as the water beside them.

the crew and bahr began preparing for the dive, each man pairing up. every diver had his seyb, and every seyb was responsible for his diver. if a seyb lost concentration for even a second, or let go of the rope, it could cost the diver his life. he had to be ready for any signal, any tug of the habl.

in bahr’s case, naser was his seyb, though sometimes they would switch. when it was bahr’s turn to dive, the habl was wrapped around one thigh,and the hajar was tied to the other, just above his ankle. it was important that the stone matched the diver’s weight — too heavy and it would pull him down too fast, make his ears burst with the pressure. before entering the water, bahr recited his prayers, as he always did. he believed blessings mattered, that the sea knew a good man’s heart and had ways of punishing greed.

when bahr dove, the water felt like silk around him. as he moved through it, it parted, as if the sea were making room just for him. his father had taught him everything about diving — he had been doing this all his life. his father used to tell him about the creatures that lived below, and to always recite his prayers before descending, so they would know he came with respect, not harm.

when bahr reached the bottom, his deien hung from his neck as he began collecting oysters. he reached for one thick with barnacles and when he heard it — almost a whisper forming in his ear.

not this one.

it sounded like a woman’s voice, soft but aching, the kind that sent a shiver through him. he thought he was imagining it, until he felt the habl tug twice.

then something tapped his shoulder.

bahr turned. an oyster drifted toward him, floating down as if someone had lifted it and placed it in his hands.

and he took it.

when bahr ascended to the surface, the first thing he asked naser was,

“why did you keep tugging the rope?”

naser was shocked. he hadn’t. still, he said he’d been gripping the rope tightly, afraid he might lose bahr, as if something below was pulling him downward.

“i thought you were the one tugging, telling me to pull you up.”

“i didn’t,” bahr replied.

yet bahr couldn’t shake the feeling — someone, or something, had tapped his shoulder. the thought lingered, clouding his mind. could it really have been them?

when all the divers finished their dives, it was time to open the oysters and collect the pearls. sometimes they were lucky and found a good amount, and sometimes an oyster carried nothing at all. it was believed the pearl chose its diver, depending on the purity of his soul.

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bahr sat off to the side with his deien of oysters, opening them one by one. he found a few seed-sized pearls and set them aside for the nakhuda, who would collect them later in his red pouch.

then he picked up the oyster that had drifted down to him. when he opened it, he couldn’t believe his eyes — a dana, perfectly placed inside.

bahr glanced around to see if nakhuda mishal was watching. he sat by his small office on a low chair, a red pouch open for divers to drop the pearls they find in, a cigar between his fingers, a cold jug of water always within reach.

for once, his attention wasn’t on bahr.

bahr looked down at the dana again, and all he could think of was lulwa.

so he hid it.

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dear reader,

thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. this story is incredibly close to my heart, and sharing it online feels unreal. it’s lived inside me for so long, and seeing it written down—and read by others—is truly mind-boggling. i’m deeply grateful to every single one of you.

bahrain carries such a beautiful history alongside haunting folklore, and i wanted to share that with the world through my writing. i can’t wait to tell you more about bahr and his adventures.

thank you endlessly. you are all absolute rockstars.

naeema taqi

© 2026 Naeema Taqi. You’re welcome to share excerpts with proper credit and a link back. Reproduction without permission is not allowed.

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bahr of the two seas: chapter one.

key terms:

bahr: means sea in arabic and also the name of our protagonist.

abu: means ‘father of’ is what arabs refer to someone’s dad, following their first born’s name. for example, abu bahr.

umm: means ‘mother of’ is what arabs refer to someone’s mother. for example, umm bahr.

nakhuda: the nakhuda is the captain of a traditional gulf sailing vessel, especially pearl-diving ships.

the naham: the naham is not just a singer, but the soul of the ship. sings work songs and sea chants during long voyages.

yumma: an affectionate way of saying “mom” or “mother” in many arabic-speaking cultures, including the gulf and bahrain.

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bahr of the two seas: part one

“the sea is everything… and yet it is terrible.” — jules verne

a mother fears that her child will die before her. and to umm bahr, this fear lived quietly in the back of her mind as she watched her son grow. and to her, she prayed that he would never choose the sea, for she loathed it—for taking her most beloved treasure, her husband. even her son’s name haunted her, as though it were already written that he would follow the same path.

there was a time when she and her husband loved the sea. whenever he returned from sailing, he would take umm bahr out on their small boat to fish. they were always together. he loved her as deeply as the sea itself, and like the endless line where the sea meets the sky. they loved it so much that it made sense for them to name their first son, bahr.

the truth was, bahr’s family lived a simple life. their home sat right by the water, a small house in a small village where everyone knew everyone. they weren’t rich—not at all. their food came from the sea, where abu bahr fished whenever he wasn’t sailing. the sea was once a place they loved, but they had taken it for granted, forgetting just how unpredictable it could be.

abu bahr had a friend, abu lulwa, and the two of them were inseparable—sam to frodo. abu lulwa had only one child, a daughter named lulwa. their wives were always together, mending and tailoring clothes for the rich. whenever the mothers gathered, that was when bahr and lulwa would see each other, lulwa always tagging along behind her mother when she came over.

bahr’s passion, just like his father’s, was the sea. his father taught him how to dive when he was very young—only seven. bahr would dive down toward the reef, happiest when he saw the fish, the clams, and all kinds of shells scattered along the ocean floor. he would surface with little souvenirs in his hands, and sometimes he would gift them to lulwa whenever they were together.

“i caught this for you! it’s a starfish!” he’d say. it was small and bright orange, its ridges rough against his palm.

“it’s beautiful. i love starfishes,” lulwa would reply. and from then on, bahr always came back with starfish. sometimes he found shells too, and they became a small collection lulwa kept hidden away in her little box.

bahr and his father were incredibly close. his father taught him everything—how to lead a crew, how to set sail, how to mend a ship when it ached and broke. they sang the folktale songs together whenever they went out fishing on their small boat.

bahr would look at his father with the sun glistening in his eyes, seeing in him a blueprint for living, someone he wanted to become. he imagined raising his own children the same way his father was raising him.

his father noticed the way bahr watched him and said, “one day, son, i’ll take you to sea. i’ll show you what it means to lead a crew. being a captain isn’t about giving orders—it’s about earning trust, about building a family aboard your ship. the sea is lonely, but not when you have good men beside you. remember this, my son. trust is the most important part of leading.”

after bahr’s father died, abu lulwa took bahr under his wing. he treated him like a son of his own, for he never had one. bahr’s father had been a great captain, leading a loyal crew that sailed out to dive for oysters, returning with heavy baskets and fine pearls. his ship was the most envied of them all, and other captains whispered with jealousy.

bahr would often sit and read his father’s journals in his dad’s study. it was a small room in their house, with an old desk and a worn-out chair, wooden bookshelves his father had carved by hand. the shelves were filled with books from forgotten libraries, most of them found at the friday flea market.

he returned to those journals again and again. it felt like reading his father’s mind, his thoughts laid bare on the page—as if he could almost hear his voice, telling stories of long days and dangerous journeys at sea.

“there you are…” a gentle voice called from the doorway. it was his mother. she looked at bahr with quiet pride in her eyes.

“mama… i was just getting my spirits up, reading dad’s journals. did you know he once ran into pirates out there?” bahr said, his voice full of excitement.

his mother, however, was too heavy-hearted to share his enthusiasm. the thought of saying goodbye before his voyage weighed on her chest.

“are you sure about this, bahr?” she asked softly. “is this truly what you want?”

bahr stepped closer and placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her into a tight embrace. “yes, yumma. i have to. it’s the only way. i’ve always wanted to sail—and if dad were here, he would want me to too.”

his mother lifted his face between her soft palms. tears gathered in her eyes, yet she said nothing. bahr was right. the sea lived within him, and it was the only path he knew like the back of his hand.

when the time came to sail, bahr stood saying goodbye to his mother. tears filled her eyes as she held onto him, lingering, wishing he might change his mind at the very last moment—before stepping onto the ship. but he didn’t. he was determined. it was the middle of spring, yet the sun was unforgiving, burning hot, while the sea below looked calm and inviting.

bahr boarded the ship with abu lulwa, and only then did he realize he was the youngest among the crew. one by one, the men greeted him, speaking of his father with respect, telling him they hoped his legacy would live on through him.

“everyone wanted to be part of your father’s crew,” he heard.

“they used to pull seven pearls in a single day,” another said.

then, suddenly, a song drifted through the air—the same one bahr had heard since he was a child. it was about his father. he looked up to see the naham gazing down at him with pride as he sang.

“through the roar of the gale and the pull of the tide,

down in the deep where the dark spirits hide,

with a steady hand and his trust in the lord—

god keep our nakhuda, the bravest aboard.”

bahr’s chest tightened. he hadn’t heard that song in so long—not since his father was gone.

“silence!”

the word struck the deck like ice. men who had been resting leapt to their feet, stiff and alert, as though summoned by command. it was the new nakhuda. he moved toward bahr slowly, like a snake closing in on its prey.

“i know who you are,” he said. “and i hope you’re not as troublesome as your father was. don’t try any games on my ship. i won’t tolerate your tricks. being hamad’s son, i’m keeping a close eye on you.” his long fingers pointed straight at bahr.

anger surged in bahr’s chest. how dare he speak of his father that way? his father was brave. he died with honor.

“i am your nakhuda, mishal. ” the man continued. “my word is law. this is my ship, and you are my crew. what i say is to be obeyed.”

as the sun dipped low and the crew began settling in for the night, bahr found he couldn’t bring himself to sleep so early. instead, he lay there staring up at the stars, thinking how they were the very same ones his father once used as a map. the same sky his father had slept beneath. as the boat swayed gently with the sea, bahr noticed one of the crew watching him. the man stood and came to sit beside him.

“salam, i’m naser.”

naser didn’t seem much older, maybe in his mid twenties. a scar ran across his eye. bahr caught himself staring at it, almost admiring it like a mark of survival. naser noticed.

“oh, that thing?” he said. “barracuda. fought the bastard. nearly drowned. thank god i had something sharp on me. stabbed its eye and before i knew it—it went for mine too with those ugly, sharp teeth.”

“that’s one hell of a story,” bahr said. “and honestly, after all that, it’s a pretty brutal scar.”

bahr was glad he had made a friend on the ship.

“it’s good having you here—especially now that i’m no longer the youngest on the ship. they used to pick on me endlessly,” naser chuckled. “just be patient.”

even though the days were unbearably hot, the nights at sea were biting cold.

bahr was glad to be out there, on the same sea his father once led his crew across. the same sea that had taken him away. for the first time in a long while, he felt close to his father—as if the sea, despite all the greed and cruelty that had stolen from him, was finally at peace with bahr.

the sea was not bahr’s foe—but something he learned to love, to listen to, and to understand in her own language.

for it had been part of him for as long as he could remember—all he had ever known.

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© 2026 Naeema Taqi. You’re welcome to share excerpts with proper credit and a link back. Reproduction without permission is not allowed.

chapter two

we’re going on a bear hunt follows a family on an adventure in search of a bear. along the way, they face a series of obstacles, and each time they come to the same conclusion: the only way forward is to go through it.

i grew up reading this book to my youngest sister, and now i find myself reading it to my daughter. it reminds me how much there is to take from children’s books. if you look it up, you’ll find descriptions about how it encourages curiosity, nature, and adventure in children—and i love that. i’m all for kids exploring the world around them. but on a deeper level, i think this book speaks about life itself.

the obstacles the family encounters feel like metaphors for the challenges every family faces. take my own family, for instance. our lives changed overnight when we had to move countries for my brother’s medical treatment. that was our first obstacle in the story—the grass.

“we’re not scared.”

“we can’t go over it.

we can’t go under it.

oh no—

we’ve got to go through it.”

and we did.

you can’t go over or under a crisis or an unfortunate event. you have to go through it. it may feel impossible at the time, but eventually you’re forced to move forward. and somehow, even in the middle of it all, you still find beauty and blessings along the way.

my biggest blessing along the way is my wonderful husband, omar. he’s my best friend my childhood crush and my sodapop. without going through what my family and i had to face i wouldn’t have met my husband. —my lucky four leaf clover along the way.

the other obstacles in life—take the river, for example—feel like grief. you don’t avoid it; you go through it. the day my grandfather passed away was one of the hardest moments of my life. it was only a month before my wedding. my grandfather was the most loving and compassionate soul. i was told that before he went to sleep each night, he would speak about me and my wedding—he mentioned me constantly. losing him wasn’t easy at all. i grieved deeply, the way any granddaughter would.

the book continues with more obstacles—the river, the mud, the forest, the snowstorm—and finally, the cave. the cave holds the bear they’ve been searching for, the reason for the entire adventure. but when they finally come face to face with it, they’re scared. without hesitation, they run back through everything they’ve already faced, all the way home, all the way to their bedroom. and in the final pages, you see the bear walking back to the cave, sad and alone.

and like the bear, misunderstood and lonely, making his way home alone, i honestly think he just wanted to be friends.

sometimes the things we fear most are only scary from a distance.

what i take from this book is simple: you have to go through life. you face terrifying obstacles, you learn as you go, and you grow along the way. moving overseas was terrifying for me—coming from a small town girl from bahrain to the land of bears, california. i had to learn how to do things i had never done before. but along the way, i found myself with the love of my life. together, we grew, learned, and faced challenges side by side. facing the bear together.

then i got pregnant, and that was terrifying too. i doubted myself constantly. would i be a good mother? i even ended up in the er once because panic took over. something the doctor said to me that day stayed with me: “what you’re experiencing is a panic attack. everything is in your head. yes, parenting is terrifying—but you’ve got to go through it.”

and i did. and i ended up loving it. i love motherhood. it feels like i was born to do this. you really do just have to go through it.

i hope that whatever you may be facing—especially the silent battles no one sees—you find your way through. because no matter how hard life gets, you can’t shut the door and hide under the blankets forever. you have to step forward, take on the adventure, and keep going.

we learn even when we fall. even when we scrape our knees.

sincerely,

pearls.

as cathy alter notes, the book isn’t just a children’s story — for adults it can become a philosophy of life: facing whatever comes, not by avoiding it but by going through it.

https://brevity.wordpress.com/2024/04/15/bear-hunt/

i’m a matilda.

i’m the eldest daughter of five siblings—the first grandchild on both sides of the family, and the eldest cousin too. everyone looks up to me, yet somehow they forgot that i was a child once, too. i took on responsibility early. sometimes i tell myself my feelings don’t matter, that compared to what other children are going through in the world, i should just be quiet and not even write this essay.

do my feelings matter?

i guess i’m just writing them down.

i had a regular childhood, i went to school—but i was bullied for my curls. i remember standing in a circle, being laughed at, because i didn’t know how to tie my big, busy hair. and that’s okay. i grew up loving my curls. i grew up marrying someone who loves them too.

i struggled with reading and writing. i didn’t even know how to write my own name. i was neglected at school, laughed at by teachers, until one day the principal told my mother i was a hopeless child—that i would never get anywhere, that she shouldn’t waste money keeping me in such a good british school. she said they might have to kick me out.

my mom went weeks crying, searching for a school that would take me. she found one. and i’ll forever be grateful—especially to one teacher who taught me how to read, who turned my can’ts into cans. i’ll never forget her.

my mother never gave up on me. because that same child who couldn’t read or write fell in love with books. she bought me my first harry potter set, and that’s where everything changed. i spent my breaks in the school library, lost in pages and pictures. books became my safe place.

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that “hopeless child” grew up.

she became vice president in high school, and later, president of the american studies club at university—for two years. even now, professors still speak of me fondly. i hear from other students that they never stop talking about me, that i was one of their favorites. it might sound cocky to say this, but it’s the truth—and i hold onto it because they believed in me. they saw something worth nurturing.

to that principal: i graduated university. i earned my bachelor’s degree in english literature and american studies. i will always carry that as a victory, as a beautiful and hard-earned journey. and i will always believe you should never say such things to a child—

i am the oldest daughter.

“you’re the oldest daughter!!! teach them!!!”

i heard that a lot. why me? why was it always my job? why was i solving homework that wasn’t mine? i know it was hard, but i did it anyway.

then my brother got sick. really sick. everything changed. my parents stopped parenting the same way. my mother—an angel—was exhausted. cancer drained the grace out of her. my brother beat it. he’s graduating soon, and i’m so proud of him. i just wish they wouldn’t baby him so much now.

during his treatments, i was left behind to raise my siblings. i was eighteen. i became their second mother. the fiona gallagher of the house—except no one listened to me.

my father is a good man. he just never knew how to talk to his daughters. there was shouting, always shouting. i know he loves us, he just never knew how to say it. “shut up!” he’d shout at the dinner table. “yeah, shut up!” the kids would echo. he showed love through actions, never words. he never said i love you to my face—and that’s something that still sits quietly inside me.

i grew up.

and i left.

i married a wonderful man who listens—who actually listens. i have a daughter now. and i swear i will never make her feel like a matilda. she will be allowed to be a child in her childhood, a teenager in her teenage years. she will never feel responsible for everyone else’s emotions. she will never have to step on eggshells to keep peace.

as the oldest daughter, it was never my job to parent. but it feels universal—like every eldest child carries this invisible weight. we’re taught to stay quiet, to not contradict, to not talk back. because that’s what good daughters do.

harry styles said it best: “you don’t have to be sorry for leaving and growing up.”

and i’m not sorry.

i left. i crossed oceans. i built a life of my own. “you can let it go, you can throw a party full of everyone you know.” i created a family where love is spoken, where feelings are held gently

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to my daughter: i hope you never relate to matilda. i hope she’s just a song you listen to one day, and a movie/story you enjoy. not a mirror.

and to all the matildas in the world—

there is a way out.

one day, you’ll be your own miss honey.

sincerely,

pearls.

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squirrels are assholes

oh misjudged creature,

maybe your life mirrors ours more than i’d like to admit—

leaving home each morning,

kissing your squirrel wife and tiny children goodbye,

heading out to survive, to gather, to return with something to offer.

maybe you were angry when i forgot to leave a cup of nuts on my balcony.

maybe, in your mind, i failed you.

but couldn’t you have given me the benefit of the doubt?

instead, you left me a message.

once. twice. often.

your punctuation being shit i had to clean.

the same stanza repeating itself.

you feel like a metaphor for people—

how quickly we label others nut jobs,

how easily we forget the kindness they once gave us,

how suspicion comes easier than grace

in a world that rarely teaches us to be gentle.

and when you almost launched yourself at me—

thank god for the net between us,

the thin line that keeps chaos from becoming contact.

so yes, squirrels are assholes.

like some people are.

and still—

if i see you again,

i’ll probably feed you.

to my ancestors, I am sorry.

you walked so we could be carried.

you planted olive trees heavy with longing and called that land home.

the same land you were forced to leave behind,

mile after mile.

olive stains marked the earth with every step you took away.

i am sorry that the home you once stood firm upon

the home you built for your grandchildren and those yet to come

never felt the weight of the stone you carried on your back.

i sit and wonder about the vineyards.

do the trees remember?

do they recall the hands that planted them?

do they still whisper your names?

to my ancestors, i am sorry you never returned to see them again.

you passed the key into your son’s hands and said,

“she is your mother. will you care for her when I am gone?

will you remember her, and speak her name?”

to my ancestors, the walls of Jerusalem remember your laughter.

the trees and ancient stones remember you in prayer.

she remembers the smile that crossed your face

each morning when the scent of fresh bread filled the air.

she calls out for her people.

your son grew, after all.

he still aches for the land you once described to him.

would she recognize you through me?

the trees sway now,

their voices rising with the wind

“you have returned.”