Threads Volume 20 Issue 1

threads volume XX | issue I

uc berkeley’s muslim student publication

welcome to threads, volume XX issue I

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board

alaa elshahawi editor-in-chief muriam choudhery managing editor sarah bellal senior editor

ali raza marketing director

mujahid zaman creative director

faaria hussain print editor

hanna shah finance director

nayaab ahsan web editor aamna abbasi social media director

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table of contents

5 editor’s letter 6 when my strength fails me

28 sunset

8 women’s march

32 the sahara

14 letters to Allah

38 a walk through campus

20 spain

46 dreams 53 apply

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Readers, This publication was created and curated for all of you.

On behalf of the board and staff who worked tirelessly to make it happen, thank you for a wonderful year. We miss you already. Enjoy.

With love, Alaa Elshahawi

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when my strength

fails me words | kaylee hunt photos | ahmad shami through the rain they march carrying flags and posters their feet beating on the pavement left, right, left, right the rhythm of hearts too strong to be silenced no justice, no peace no justice, no peace they march but soon they are gone a shadow in the falling rain their voices an echo they will be back and i will be still -- silent -i want to be a vanguard marching forward

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but i will be still -- silent – because my burden is existence my burden is silence the inability to speak when i am needed most

the inability to move on from the past i am silent because there are no words for what is happening -- what has happened i am still -- silent— – no justice, no peace— -- no justice, no peace— i am -- silent— still

i watch them fight for what i cannot express

-- no justice, no peace— -- no justice, no peace—

i watch them protect me

i watch them march onward the voice i need to rise from within

-- no justice, no peace—

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‫صوت املرأة ثورة‬ Jihe jin li berxwedane ye

nevertheless, she persisted

‫ہر کامیاب آدمی کے پیچھے ایک عورت کا ہاتھ ہے‬ Debo luchar con todas mis fuerzas ... a apoyar la revolución

pas de liberté ou de fraternité sans l’égalité

Hinfallen, aufstehen, Krone richten und weitergehen

女 な らで は 夜 が 明 け ぬ

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letters to Allah words | hana qwafan

G

od is a heavy word. Just like the word love, it doesn’t carry much weight until its meaning is profound enough on the individual to make the knees go weak.

It is a word rooted in every language-one that is timeless and patient. In the Arabic language, God has ninety-nine names. Can you imagine how heavy that feels at times?

Sometimes I forget that I can't fly. How often do you think of this? How often do you think of how small and insignificant we are? I don’t think of it that often. Sometimes I even treat my mundane problems as if they were the end of the world. And in a sense, they are the end of my world. What have I been exposed to? What have I actually experienced? How privileged am I? How close to death have I gotten? Do I even know of all of the times that I have just scraped by? No, I don’t think I can be sure. We can get so engulfed in our lives, in our own problems, circumstances, and goals that we forget to look at a bigger picture.

But I think God can be sure. Whoever He is. However high He is. I heard heaven is perfection-we all have. And if heaven is perfection, the promised reward of this journey called life, then aren’t we destined to struggle every once in awhile? To fall off a path, a spiritual routine, or a journey to enlightenment and peace? Take a look at your surrounding environment-I’m sure you can find something unpleasant.

Unsettling. Maybe it’s right in front of you, or maybe it’s something that’s been

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with you for a while. Family problems. High expectations. Strained friendships.

Stress. When something like this disrupts the peace, it can be hard to continue as a practicing Muslim-surely we’ve all experienced this. It’s our differing ways of reclaiming our faith that differs and differentiates us. Some people’s faith comes back stronger, others struggle to reclaim their faith, and some never rebound.

You can find God rooted in every song, in every picture, in every spec of dust that has swept across the earth. You just need to search for Him, and sometimes we forget to. Sometimes, we might not even want to. And for me, in very dark times, I assure myself that I might not even need to. It’s interesting how I can come to this conclusion, especially when I’ve always thought of God as a guardian, watching from the clouds while I am stuck on earth, unable to fly.

I can write about how I never miss a prayer and how spiritual and enlightened I feel, but in reality I find it a struggle within myself to complete all five prayers.

I'm not sure what's more embarassing: coming to terms with it or admitting it.

I often let life engulf me and my attention entirely; consequently, my prayer and spirituality wither away. It's not a rare occurrence; I know it happens frequently. I also know that I’m not alone-why else would I be writing this? I also know that every situation is different and that in this life, beliefs are subjective. But the one constant factor is this: God will always have enough love and mercy preserved for his creation. Even when people don’t bother praying or believing. We were created to be imperfect. As humans, we are prone to misguidance, but that should never render us entirely hopeless or make us feel unworthy of God's love. Whether you are the poster child of Islam or someone barely holding onto it, there is no strata or hierarchy when it comes to believing. In the end, what matters is what you believe.

Our actions can only get better if we actively work on them.

Although it gives a complex and deeper meaning that fills inside of me, religion can be best thought of as fine, smooth silk pajamas. You wear silk pajamas in special circumstances, usually when you feel good and want to. Similarly, we practice our religion in special circumstances-when everything’s going well and we have

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convinced ourselves that we have reason to practice. When you dress and lounge in your silk pajamas, you realize how luxurious and comforting they are to have in your life. Yet when your mind or life gets cluttered with other aspects of life, you tuck them away in a corner, telling yourself that you’ll get back to them when things are more orderly. You convince yourself that they're a luxury-one that you don't have time for when things go astray. But you always go back to them, eventually. I usually get back to them, but not until after I have fully realized the comfort that has slipped away from my fingertips.

-As a child, I felt giddy with joy when I played with my friends, or was rewarded with a treat. I still feel this joy today, but as an adult, it come with things like buying a latte or discussing politics with friends or poking fun at your sibling’s mistakes . These short-spanned, yet meaningful moments remind you just how little you are compared to the order of the universe-how something so relatively small and insignificant can be a source of joy. These small moments are my North star, except I am fortunate to have many of them keeping me grounded, hopeful, and believing. Sometimes I’m served with an abundance of stars, and other times I am disappointed when I only get one.

The strangest part? I often slip away from my voice, opinions, and foundation of thought when life is good. When the universe aligns to make a simple path for me to walk across, to reach out and hold all of the stars that I have been searching for, it is easy to forget who brought me there. And it isn’t until I am miles deep across my path that I realize I didn’t cherish these wonderful moments enough-I forget to share them with the creator of this pathway.

And that’s when I realize that I take things for granted. There are so many things in life that fill you with joy and gratification, and sometimes it almost seems as if they replace the feeling you get when you’re with God. The question is whether or not this feeling of happiness comes temporarily, or if it stays a little longer. Is true happiness only reserved for the long term? Or is it okay to let yourself enjoy the little things that come in when you’re feeling down? It's subjective. Material things shouldn’t replace the happiness you get with spirituality, but enjoying five minutes with the people you love can also be a way of being spiritual; it's not binary. In

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those moments, I’m not only thankful to be alive, but I’m thankful for being surrounded by such good people. And when I’m thankful of things I didn’t ask for, but was given, I thank Allah (the Arabic word for God).

Just as you can look around and find unpleasantries, you can also look around and find something you think you are undeserving of. But I think this is Allah’s way of saying that He believes in you. Whether it is your education, a close friend, or an amazing opportunity: you were given it for a reason. And even if your spirituality is not anywhere near perfect, He is still rooting for you. Just listen to your own breathing: this dunya, this life, this test-it isn’t over yet.

-As a hijabi, my headscarf might represent a symbol that physically shows the ties to my faith, but the dress is not enough to sustain the actual lifestyle: there needs to be action. My faults of skipping a few prayers do not imply that I am any less Muslim; rather, they're an implication that I need to work harder. I have never questioned my faith, but there have been times where I have forgotten the challenges that come with being human: from the little ones presented daily to the larger ones that leave a lasting impact on my life. It is silly to assume that my spirituality has peaked, when in reality I have so much more to work on in various aspects of it. It’s okay to express these struggles because they are valid. But also know that they don’t define you.

This inconsistency, albeit not addressed openly within Muslim communities, is exceedingly common. When I was younger and I missed a few prayers, I blamed it on my youth. Now that I’m older and have to manage a job, school, and extracurricular activities, I blame it on my busy life. I found over time that the days I was consistent in my religion, my mind was calm. And on days when I wasn’t consistent, I often got lost in the fast pace of life. And when I reached a low point, where my mind was so far along that it couldn’t even process the sound of the Athan, I turned to a journal.

I use a journal as a way to connect to God, like prayers or duaa's. I do not use it as a replacement to the daily prayers; rather, I use it as a motivator-a catalyst that kick starts my spirituality.

I started this journal with the idea that I was writing letters to Allah.

I did this because I loved the feeling of gliding a pen across paper without thinking or overanalyzing which words or phrases to use. I took my emotions and transferred them onto paper. I wrote things that I was too afraid to say and owned up to mistakes that I was too ashamed to admit. I knew that most people had these similar feelings hidden away in their closet, so I decided to free mine and dress them in silk so that I can face them a bit easier.

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When there is no filter to your writing, the deepest of emotions unapologetically pour themselves onto paper. Sometimes I don’t know if my emotions are valid for the given context and sometimes I know that they are valid but are still disregarded by others in society. Whatever nerves, anger, worry, stress or heartache I feel, I am able to press them against a page and preserve it for memories and reflection. I look back at what I have overcome, and return with more logic and sense to understand a younger version of myself.

At first, I only wrote when life was stressful and difficult to manage, or when I was upset and felt alone. Yet over time, I was able to build a relationship through these letters, and consequently found myself writing even during the happiest of times.

There are little things that occur throughout my day that bring me joy, so minuscule that no other human could really understand the type of emotion invoked within me. But in my letters to Allah, I wrote of them confidently and passionately, because I knew that He was the one who implemented them. He was the one that guided me through the universe to show me all of the stars, and encourages me to hold onto all of them. I was able to use my journal to not only document my physical journey, but also my spiritual one. These words were the very ones that stitched the open seam within me and helped connect my body to my spirit. I remind myself that through this journey across the universe, I must hold a firm grip onto my faith. Just as a child would, sometimes I get excited and let go, but I also must learn that the universe was given to me to borrow, not own.

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Psst. This page is for you. Write down what’s on your mind; let it out.

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chefchaouen blues photos | zahra ansari

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ast December, my family and I had the privilege of exploring the northwest coast of Morocco. In three days, we managed to experience the increasingly cosmopolitan Tangier, the hustle and bustle of Tétouan, the cool, serenity of Asilah, avnd lastly, the cerulean streets of Chefchaouen.

Chefchaouen’s charm by far captivated me the most. From the moment I first stepped foot in the city, I was mesmerized. Every street, alleyway, and building is touched by some hue of blue, with every shade working together to produce a place that looks like an abstract artist’s wildest fantasy. Vendors crowd the city selling colorful trinkets and handmade rugs. Mint tea is plentiful. Children play freely, laughing and unsupervised.

With my camera, I tried my best to utilize whatever skills I have to capture the city’s undeniable beauty. I hope that through my photos, you too can catch a glimpse of the splendor of Chefchaouen.

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the sun rises, the sun sets words | kaylee hunt

the phone vibrates on the shelf next to my bed i reach across the sheets and silence the alarm the phone vibrates under the pillow where i rest my head and i sigh i cannot ignore it again so i rise to the day i wash my hands, wash my face, rinse my feet and kneel to pray

i pour myself a bowl of cereal i pull on my favorite sweater and my jeans i try not to forget anything before class i grab the scarf off the back of my chair and the mat off my desk classes drone on and professors ramble before i feel my phone vibrate in my pocket i silence the alarm and wait for the end of lecture but it vibrates ten minutes later and i roll my eyes at how impatient the day is i wash my hands, wash my face, rinse my feet and kneel to pray

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work another day, another dollar listening to customers tell me how to do my job and counting the hours until i get to go home until i have to do my homework and wash my dishes until i get to sleep but in the middle of my shift my phone vibrates—again— but i wait until my fifteen minute break i wash my hands, wash my face, rinse my feet and kneel to pray

work drones on the same as school people’s faces begin to blurintoasingleimage and my feet get tired my head starts pounding from exhaustion and then, when i need it most my phone vibrates—again— i look at my coworker and ask for them to cover me while i wash my hands, wash my face, rinse my feet and kneel to pray

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finally the day is done the sun has set classes are finished work is over and i am home one last time i wash my hands, wash my face, rinse my feet and kneel to pray thankful for the routine of my days

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saharan sand photos | simon greenhill

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he Sahara is vast emptiness. Endless rolling dunes of sand so fine I was pouring it out of my shoes, my bags, my ears, for days after leaving the desert.

For just under six hours, from Cairo to Casablanca, I flew over that great ocean of yellows and browns, the dunes invisible from the stratosphere. Two trains, an eight-hour grand taxi ride, and three hours in a beat-up 4Runner took me from northern Morocco to the Sahara’s edge. A 15-minute walk was all it took to get lost among the dunes.

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traipsing through telegraph

words | aliza siddiqui photos | zahra ansari

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shielded the numerical keypad on the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit, or, as I like to call it, “Berkeley’s Alternative to Rent Troubles”) machine from onlookers by hunching my broad, full shoulders forward and typed in my four-digit PIN. Four dollars and five cents were withdrawn from my account, and out popped my beautiful scarlet debit card, as well as the objective of my transaction: a faithful blue ticket smaller than a standard index card. I placed my right foot forward on the escalator-believing it to be Sunnah-and then my left, and observed myself moving slowly upwards towards the train platform. At one time, this used to be the most monotonous part of my walk to campus. But my second-semester walks to the bus stop closest to my off-campus apartment displaced that dreariness soon enough.

My first semester of college was defined by BART and Amtrak train rides; I never counted AC Transit, since almost every student’s life includes AC Transit rides, though it did-and still does-act as my bread and butter 99% of the time. I would be hopelessly clueless without those blissful buses.

As a commuter student at UC Berkeley, my weekly three-day class schedule unofficially began at 5.15 AM, with a heavy breakfast, enough to get me through the forty-five minute drive from Santa Clara to the Fremont BART Station, and officially started with a regular, mundane ticket purchase, a routine swipe-in to the train platform, and what seemed like an eternal wait for the train to actually arrive.

Reaching school early was imperative for me: my preference for 8 AM classes was

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clear whenever I woke up with puffed up, though reluctantly circumspect, eyes.

Back in those days, the sky was still pitch-black, perfectly lit for the stars to glister their brilliance; there was still time to pray Fajr, still time to figure out the illuminated constellations above the pithy, urban street lights of Silicon Valley, and-most fortunately, though all the more unlikely to fulfill-still time to sleep. While rubbernecking at the dozens of dusty vehicles down in the parking lot below and taking in the strong wintry scent that blanketed the mild breezes of the night, - one that was presently transitioning to dawn-the well-known sound of railway tracks grating against fast-moving metal finally ensued. This reverberation was all too familiar to me now. In retrospect, if I were to repeat the entire semester over again, I would rather take a gap year than endeavor to take on such a crucible once more.

I still remember the first time I dreamt about BART. It was one of my most atypical dreams, though the fact that something so ordinary as a mode of transportation could become important enough for my subconscious to actually dream about was not the reason why. The oddness had to do with the overall nature of the dream, not its subject. I had dreamt about other trains, airplanes, boats, cruises, and buses many-a-time long before. But around the time of Halloween, the standard, slender, gray worn-out shape of the train that I so readily recognized appeared in the form of a mild nightmare. In the dream, it was still seven in the morning; the sky was still shadowy and midnight blue and the birds had only just begun to chirrup their sweet dayspring tones. The thing was, I was the only person on the entire platform.

The train had already arrived, but I wasn’t expecting to go in; I didn’t want to, from what I saw. The doors of all the individual cars connecting the subway were open wide; in each car, there were children, ranging from young toddlers to innocent middle school children to confused teenagers, dressed in amusing Halloween costumes. There cars had no seats, so every child was standing, with blank expressions that screamed something between consternation and utter bewilderment. They were all staring at me, with eyes open enough to focus directly on me, but not enough to petrify me completely. Quite frankly, while in the dream, I thought I was looking at the adolescent version of Sesame Street.

My mother told me that the dream simply reflected some hidden desire of my subconscious. It made sense: I was longing to go trick-or-treating, like I had for the past two years, but I doubted that any college student attending the University of California Berkeley would dare engage in such a childish activity again. Nevertheless, my BART dream, though quite amusing, did not affect the tedium of my walk from the Downtown Berkeley BART station to class. The walk barely lasted fifteen minutes, but it always felt like eons to me-maybe because I was an insanely slow walker, or because I started lamenting over the thought of lectures and impending midterms while walking, or perhaps both. Either way, my pessimism got the best of me while I made the stroll.

Typically, my walk incorporated fresh and enlivening zephyrs, since the sun had just risen and the day had just greeted my sunblock-laden visage. Traditional Berkeley traffic was still light and stable, and the campus was still free of that one man who protested something about politics and the Green Movement using a horrid loud-

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speaker. I adored how it was too early for me to satisfy my junk food cravings by purchasing a bagel from one of the dozens of small eateries and cafés that I passed by as I walked; most opened by 8 AM, and it was still half past seven. Of course, there was the usual aggravating queue at the Starbucks right by the cinnamon roll shop that never ceased to exude warmth and immense edible pleasure from within its doors. Thanks to Allah, however, my tongue naturally disapproved the taste of bitter icy coffee-coffee that cost so much mostly because of the fact that baristas possessed the uniquely trivial ability to successfully jot down individual customer names on coffee cups. At least that’s why I think that java is so exorbitantly popular-because of the sense of entitlement that comes along with the Venti demitasses.

As I treaded along the granite pavements in my fluorescent orange Skechers®, my eyes darted precisely to what-over time-made me feel queasy the most: the sight of homeless vagrants. Nevertheless, I had grown used to seeing them now. There was always the one gentleman wearing an overly-inflated crimson red jacket that I mistakenly hoped to be a puffer jacket, but was not. There was the elderly man with an untamed white beard that seemed to have stopped growing, and then there was the hidden hooded figure who slept right in front of the shop entrance to a defunct café, huddling close to his virescent blanket, and his frighteningly frail dog.

Edging my pupils away from these sorry sights became increasingly difficult with each commute, but over time-with great shame, I must admit-it became a numb vision for me. I had learned to make myself immune to their soft murmurs, their dry puckered lips, and their uncomfortable, queasy gazes. There was simply no other way for me to continue onwards, walk towards my institution of education, unless I willed myself to ignore them completely. My family is paying zakah, that’s all that matters, de rien, de rien, I told myself repeatedly. Thankfully, this commitment soothed me.

What remained painfully constant was the robotic pushes of the streetlight buttons whenever I crossed the streets necessary to get to campus. Dreadful moans escaped me whenever I heard the same monotone male voice: “WAIT.” Of course, I was well aware that everyone walked exactly like this to campus, and encountered the same buzzing buttons and unexpressive tone while crossing the street, and yet, these walks were made so much more colorless through these miniscule nuances.

My walk along Sproul differed sometimes, and the route I chose out of the two options depended upon chance. Some Mondays, I chose to walk up the highly elevated hill along Strawberry Creek to reach Upper Sproul, adjacent to the Berkeley Art Studio, to feel an invigorating adrenaline rush from the sheer increase in altitude over the pavement; other Wednesdays, I chose to amble through Lower Sproul to get directly to the Telegraph street traffic. Either way, walking, in the sole context of walking towards school, provided a time of meditation for me-a time to ponder over irrelevant, non-academic stuff, despite the fact that I was heading towards a strictly academic setting for explicitly educational matters. This was the prime time to clear up my thoughts, reflect over the little minutiae that made living life whole.

It was, what I call, my ‘contemplation window’, where I was free to inquire about

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the most useless of queries, and answer them if I wish, or leave them unanswered like important rhetorical questions (my ‘default’ response). I do not want to workor as the French say, je ne veux pas travailler.

My walks were slightly different than the majority of students on-campus: As an FPF student, my classes met at a small abandoned church exactly across from People’s Park. My walk involved trekking along the Sheng Kee bakery along Telegraph, out along several bookstores that sold music records and intriguing encyclopedias, and across from Peet’s Coffee and People’s Park to the church seminary building.

This meant that, along the way, I had encountered tempting aromas of freshly baked brioches, enticing shelves of captivating romance (and healthy cooking) books well worth swooning over, and several disconcerting gazes and bouquets of tobacco/other uncontrolled substances from troubled vagrants of People’s Park that possessed little other than the company of each other and their murderous cigarettes. The back of our sole lecture hall-exactly enough to house about one hundred and ten students, at most-was connected to the nursery of the Berkeley Rose School situated directly beneath us. Morning classes were thus aptly animated with glorious children’s chuckles, delightful toddler comments, and hilarious ‘guest appearances’ that I accepted as cameos.

I was not the urban spectator that French literature so often touted as the flâneur figures of leisure, investigation and exploration; I was a passing participant of those who walked around me simply for the sake of walking. I was not the wealthy, fashionable socialite whose heart wandered through the tobacco-infested, heavily drugged streets of Berkeley for the sake of strolling; indeed, I was far from being a so-called boulevardier. Often times, I felt like I was cheating myself-I was walking out of compulsion, due to lack of an alternative, because of sheer convenience; others did so because of leisure, want, and utter willpower. I envied them. I could not imagine walking for purposes of recreation or well-being-at least not yet.

There was far too much to worry about; adding transportation issues to the molehill would only rub more salt into the situation.

While walking back and forth between BART platforms, Café Cars in Amtrak trains, AC Transit bus floors, and ominously wonted roads along Sproul, Strawberry Creek, and Shattuck, I gaped down at my sneakers and thought of how I wore them around like a trademark article of clothing. They functioned to conceal my laziness. While most donned flip-flops with the utmost debonair, I used my shoes to veil the lifeless toes that lay beneath, not wanting to move forward. I was an idler, an explorer, walking in my own world of imagination on the streets of one of the most liberal, political and prestigious universities of this world, of this modern generation. I was grateful at times to be so, and regretful at other times during my walks for the responsibilities I had voluntarily committed to; my gait reflected that, sometimes. It would usually mean I would stare down long and hard while traipsing my paths; it allowed me a chance to unfold within myself and realize what I truly held in the palm of my hands. But . . . je ne veux pas travailler.

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It was at those times that I looked back up again, increased my pace, smiled oddly without reason, and pretended that no one had noticed that the girl who was leaning against the street pole, waiting to cross the lane-smirking thoughtlessly-was me.

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wake up

words | abrar haque photos | sania elahi

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pen your eyes. You are small. Not short. Tiny—infinitesimal. Look to your right. A huge tower looms over you.

The outside is clear; it’s filled with some sort of viscous, pale, purplish liquid. The words “Dial: Hand Soap” are emblazoned on the side of the building. Perhaps Dial’s headquarters.

Look behind you. A ledge. Below it, nothingness.

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Step forward. Look down. The ground is white, and so is the sky. Keep walking. You pass enormous, cylindrical structures.

Touch them. They’re soft. It gets darker as you continue.

Don’t be scared. Keep going.

You pass dozens of buildings. Some skinny, some fat. Some are shiny, some are rusty. Some are colored; others are bland.

A smell thickens the air, overpowers your senses. But it’s not horrible. Like a freshly-cleaned public restroom.

Stop. A quivering creature lies in your path. Go closer to it.

It’s about the same size as you. Is it a dog? You like dogs. A little closer. Lots of eyes. Lots of legs. It’s a spider. You don’t like spiders. Run. You stumble past the buildings with yellow and blue spires, and the fluffy marshmallow spires. You’re back where you started. Peer over the edge of the cliff once again. Take a closer look this time. Suddenly, a jarring crashing sound comes from behind you. Don’t be startled. Please don’t be what you think it is. You crane your neck. Lots of eyes. Lots of legs. Look forward. Jump.

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Close your eyes. Say a prayer as you fall to your untimely demise. You’re dead. Are you? Open your eyes. It’s soft. A grass field of small threads. Laugh a little. You deserve it.

Look up at the ledge. Lots of eyes. Lots of legs. Stop laughing. Get up. Run. Look in front of you. A white wall as far as your eyes can see.

Behind it, a shimmering streak of light. Openness. Freedom.

Run. There’s a sudden flash of movement as the entire wall begins to swing forward. A sheet of force strikes you. It feels like you’ve unwittingly stepped into the eye of a hurricane. You’re thrown into the air and propelled backwards. You land. Can’t feel your legs. An invasive ringing in the deepest part of your mind drowns out any semblance of thought. A creature lumbers a few steps in your direction. A giant. A mountain.

Its limb comes crashing down towards you. No soft landing on this one. Look up, one last time. A pair of enormous eyes peer down at you. They look familiar. Close your eyes.

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Wake up. You’re sweating. In your bed. Alhamdulillah-all praise belongs to God. Think about it for a second. It truly does. Your Creator, who gave you the ability to have stunning, clear visions of an imaginary present, where you can feel and see things you couldn’t feel or see in any other way.

Dreams are a blessing. A corporeal, vigorous sign that God has given you life.

Plus, he’s given you something else: perspective. You are never stepping on another bug again.

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