My Journey

I was born in a place where the air seemed heavy with contradictions, where prayers from mosques and temples rose together like smoke, where streets whispered of fortunes won and lost in the same breath. As a child, I wasn’t the hero of any tale. I wasn’t the sharpest knife or the brightest flame. But I watched. And in the watching, I lived more than I understood at the time.

There was a feather once, drifting across a screen in Forrest Gump. It moved without resistance, carried by unseen winds, brushing against lives, setting stories into motion. I have often felt like that feather—an observer, weightless and wandering, but somehow pivotal in the stories I touch.

There was something about stories that lived in the margins—those soft, invisible moments no one spoke about. A glance across a crowded street. The silence after an argument. The way people build walls out of words and leave themselves stranded behind them. I didn’t seek these stories—they found me.

For years, I searched for the language to tell them. I wandered into filmmaking, into writing, into the landscape of media, chasing the perfect form. But stories, I realized, weren’t about perfection. They were about purpose. What good is a story if it doesn’t move someone—if it doesn’t leave the world just slightly more open than it was?

It was then I found myself drawn to the strange, untamed world of politics. Not the politics of power, but the politics of people—the quiet machinery of hope, anger, and change. It was here that storytelling became strategy, and words became the roots of action.

Like the feather in Forrest Gump, I have drifted without resistance, letting life carry me where it may. But I have come to understand that the feather is never aimless. It touches lives in ways no one expects.

It is the story of a witness, of someone who listens to the silence and turns it into something that cannot be ignored. It is a story still in motion, drifting toward what it was always meant to become.