Some stories arrive like visitors. Others stay long enough to become memory.
The Arabian Stories did not knock on my door one day – it was already there, waiting, when I began to write in 2001.

In those early years, words were heavier. They travelled slower. A sentence had to earn its place on the page. I found in The Arabian Stories not a platform, but a silence that listened. A place where writing was not measured by urgency, but by meaning. That silence shaped me.

Writing is a lonely act. Yet some spaces soften that loneliness. TAS did so by allowing writers to be imperfect, honest, and human. It never asked me to perform. It asked me to think. And thinking, when done sincerely, always leaves a trace.

Over time, life changed its costumes. I moved through institutions and classrooms, banks and boardrooms, columns and novels. I learned the language of numbers and the fragility behind them. I learned how systems speak, and how people suffer quietly inside those systems. Through all of this, The Arabian Stories remained – a patient companion, never interrupting, never rushing the thought to conclusion.

Seven years is not a number. It is endurance. It is waking up every morning and choosing words again, even when the world prefers noise. It is resisting the temptation to simplify complexity, to trade depth for speed. The Arabian Stories chose the harder path – the one where meaning is allowed to unfold slowly.

What I have always respected is its refusal to shout. TAS does not compete for attention; it earns it. It trusts the reader to pause, to reflect, to return. In an age where stories vanish as quickly as they appear, The Arabian Stories stayed. Staying is a form of courage.

My association with TAS is not marked by dates or articles alone. It is marked by moments: a sentence that survived editing because it carried truth; an idea that was allowed to remain uncomfortable; a piece that did not seek applause but understanding. These moments accumulate quietly, like footprints in sand that the sea has not yet erased.

Writing since 2001, I have learned that stories do not change the world instantly. They change something smaller first – the way we look at it. The Arabian Stories understands this. That is why it has lasted. That is why it matters.

Seven years on paper. More in spirit. More in memory.

As I look ahead, I do not see an ending. I see continuity. A shared belief that words still matter. That thought still has a home. That silence can still speak.

And for that, I remain grateful – not as a contributor alone, but as a witness to a journey written slowly, honestly, and with care.