Even when I was stuck at home, away from the face of the world, the undulatory movement of ink against paper was the most beautiful metaphor setting my heart free, and the purest form of freedom that carried my mind, my heart, my body and my poetry to the much needed light, writes Tiffany Saade.
I forgot what it felt like to dive into the music world and willingly drown into its beautiful margins, unwilling to reach the surface again, writes Tiffany Saade.
I realized that everywhere I went, everywhere I discovered, everything I tested, I was constantly searching for the missing pieces of Lebanon, perhaps in a scent, in a smile, in an Arabic word, in a song or in a whole new world, writes Tiffany Saade.
I never thought that being away for three weeks would lead me right back to the start, right back to the boxes I carefully taped, the memories I happily stored, the places I adventurously visited and the views I meticulously smiled at.
I am a daughter, a sister, a student, a friend, a classmate. However, before all, I am a citizen. A citizen with survivor guilt like most of the Lebanese population.
In this trip back home, I hold on to the elements that have contributed to the significant growth of my maturity and understanding of an unpredictable society, with all of its plot twists and turns.
Nothing was more overwhelming than parting after 10 weeks of living in a family.
As I reread the numbers of injured, dead, misplaced and unfound, I abandoned a part of myself, as the remaining part of myself was a cracked piece that was clinging to the frail light.
There is always a first for everything. But the Stanford Dish hike merits a second, third and fourth trip.
Stanford students were captivated by the trickle of presidential election results for the race between former Vice President Joe Biden and President Donald Trump. Anxiety mixed with cautious optimism followed them from professors' election-specific office hours to on-campus household watch parties to chores and schoolwork interrupted by notifications.
Amid a deadly pandemic and economic recession, international students say that the next administration will greatly impact their status as foreigners studying in the United States.
I pictured myself in third grade again, sharing a meal with my childhood friends and feeling the moisture of the grass under my hands.
On that day, I officially started drafting the thesis of my second chapter, scratching out my written first words, searching for an exquisite way to start new prose.
On my way back to the dorm, I placed my phone on the mobile stand — my lock in my black basket — raised the music volume to the max, and sang my lungs out.
I was reminded that home is a feeling that can exist in any place. I sat on my chair, spinning round and round, mimicking the whirlwind of my thoughts and feelings. Taking in the newness and the magic of this place, I felt a Stanford tree being planted in my heart, right next to my cedar.
Dancing feet on carpet flooring. Live concerts for an invisible audience. Images, words, old memories — prompted by introspection — unloaded onto a canvas, a page. This is the “new normal” for student-artists amid the COVID-19 pandemic: with limited access to resources like rehearsal spaces and art supplies, visual and performing artists are finding innovative ways to make and share their art.