By: Wafa Arouri
My first school day was in first grade. As the eldest daughter in my family, it was customary for an older cousin to take responsibility for walking her younger cousin to school and bringing her back safely. Following the instructions my older cousin gave me that day, I finished my classes and headed straight to her classroom.
The teacher was explaining the lesson. I entered the classroom from behind her and quietly sat next to my cousin without saying a single word—she was in the eleventh grade. Laughter filled the room. The teacher asked me to step outside and re-enter after asking for permission. On my very first day, I learned a lesson about asking to be allowed in. That day marked my first real encounter with life—my first moment of awareness.
Before that incident, I remember only very small, scattered details from my childhood: a black skirt and fancy glasses I wore to my kindergarten graduation. It feels as if the journey truly began there. Every time the topic of age comes up and I try to ask myself—have I grown older or not?—I compare myself to that little girl who walked into a classroom without permission. What has she lived through since then? What lessons has she added to life’s teachings? And what happened to her heart? Is it still the same heart? Is it still capable of love—and more importantly, of forgiveness?
To be honest, I have never tried to fool myself by saying that age is just a number. I know many people say this to comfort the wrinkles on their faces and hands, and I understand that. But it is a big illusion.
Age is not just a number, and it is not an abstract one. Age is our life experiences—both small and big. It is the daily battles we fight, our journeys and paths, our joy and sorrow, our successes and losses. Age is our test of endurance, our ability to continue and to bear the weight of the complex human relationships we live through. It is our ability to rise after we fall. Age is all the people we managed to keep by our side—and those who disappointed us along the way.
What I mean is this: how can age be just a number, if that number defines the nature of the experiences we go through?
And most importantly: does our ability to love grow old with us, or do we remain children when it comes to feeling? Wrinkles do not matter much to me—“Botox and Motox exist when needed.” What truly frightens me is the aging of our emotions.