WHO OWNS THE FUTURE. WEST, THE MIDDLE EAST AND THE EAST

 

The central argument I would develop is that hope is not necessarily greatest where life is easiest, nor is pessimism necessarily greatest where life is hardest. Our expectations of the future are shaped by what we have experienced, what we believe we might gain, and what we fear losing.

There is also an important distinction between optimism and hope. Optimism is the expectation that things will improve. Hope is the belief that improvement remains possible, even when the evidence is discouraging.

Two findings are particularly important to the essay. Gallup International’s 2025 End-of-Year Survey found that younger respondents were considerably more optimistic than older respondents, with Kenya among the most hopeful countries. However, Africa’s regional results covered only three countries, so we should avoid generalizing to the entire continent.  

The second finding requires a correction: Freedom House’s Freedom in the World 2026 report found that 21% of the world’s population, not 10%, lived in countries classified as Free, compared with 46% two decades earlier. The decline is nevertheless extraordinary.  

I have developed your ideas into an essay that connects these apparent contradictions.

Who Owns the Future?

Hope, Anxiety and the Generations Coming of Age

October 2026

I have often wondered why people who possess so much can be so anxious about the future, while those who have comparatively little sometimes approach it with remarkable optimism.

Perhaps the answer lies not in what we possess, but in what we expect.

The Gallup International End-of-Year Survey of 2025, part of a polling tradition extending back decades, offers a fascinating glimpse into this paradox. As the world looked towards 2026, optimism was strongest among younger people and across much of the Global South. Older people, particularly in Western Europe, were considerably more pessimistic.

Globally, 37% expected the coming year to be better, while 25% anticipated deterioration. Among those younger than 34, optimism substantially outweighed pessimism. Among those older than 55, the balance was reversed.

Kenya emerged as one of the world’s most optimistic countries. Meanwhile, prosperous European societies such as France, Germany, Belgium and Austria appeared deeply apprehensive about their economic and political futures.

How do we explain this?

Perhaps people in wealthy countries have become accustomed to stability, prosperity and predictable institutions. Their anxieties arise from the possibility that these achievements may be slipping away.

For younger people in developing societies, the psychological starting point may be quite different. They have grown up knowing uncertainty, and many believe that education, technology, migration or entrepreneurship could offer them opportunities unavailable to their parents.

One generation fears losing what it has inherited. Another hopes to acquire what it has never possessed.

Yet geography alone cannot explain optimism.

Iran: When education does not guarantee hope

Consider Iran.

It possesses a substantial educated population, distinguished universities, a long intellectual tradition and generations of young people whose aspirations extend far beyond their national borders.

Yet educational achievement has not necessarily translated into confidence about the future.

Research among Iranian medical residents has revealed striking levels of interest in emigration, driven by economic pressures, professional dissatisfaction and uncertainty about career prospects. Other surveys suggest that many Iranians believe their younger generation has little confidence in its future within the country.

Here we encounter a troubling contradiction.

Education is traditionally regarded as a pathway towards opportunity. But what happens when a society produces highly educated young people while restricting the economic, professional and political opportunities through which they might fulfil their ambitions?

Education may actually intensify frustration.

An Iranian medical graduate may possess the knowledge, ambition and professional abilities of a contemporary in Germany or Canada, yet experience a profoundly different sense of control over the future.

For some, hope becomes geographically displaced.

Their optimism is not necessarily about Iran’s immediate prospects, but about the possibility of building a life elsewhere.

This raises an uncomfortable question: Can a country be rich in human talent yet impoverished in hope?

Indonesia, Malaysia and India: The future as opportunity

Across much of Asia, a different relationship with the future is emerging.

Indonesia and Malaysia illustrate societies where economic development, technological change and expanding educational opportunities coexist with substantial inequalities and environmental vulnerabilities.

Surveys suggest that Indonesians are particularly receptive to artificial intelligence and its potential benefits. Malaysia similarly displays considerable enthusiasm for technological change.

These attitudes contrast with the growing apprehension about AI in many Western countries.

For a young Indonesian, artificial intelligence might represent access to knowledge, business opportunities or professional skills that previously required expensive institutions.

For an older European professional, the same technology might threaten an occupation built over several decades.

The technology is identical. Its perceived meaning is not.

India offers perhaps the most consequential example.

With more than 734 million people younger than 30, India possesses an enormous reservoir of youthful ambition.

Its expanding technological sector, educational aspirations and growing international influence encourage expectations of progress. Yet unemployment, educational inequality, environmental degradation and competition for professional opportunities remain formidable obstacles.

India’s demographic advantage is therefore not an automatic economic dividend.

A large youthful population can become a source of extraordinary innovation and productivity. But without sufficient employment, education and social mobility, it can also become a source of frustration.

The question is whether India can convert its demographic potential into meaningful opportunity before that window begins to narrow.

Climate change: Has the future’s greatest threat been forgotten?

For much of the past decade, climate change dominated discussions about the future.

Young people were repeatedly reminded that they would inherit a planet experiencing rising temperatures, extreme weather, environmental degradation and ecological uncertainty.

Now artificial intelligence seems to have displaced climate change in the public imagination.

Suddenly, conversations about the future revolve around automation, disappearing professions, algorithms, enormous data centres and the concentration of technological power.

But climate change has not disappeared simply because public attention has shifted.

Indeed, the two transformations are becoming increasingly interconnected.

Artificial intelligence requires electricity, computing infrastructure, cooling systems and substantial material resources. The expansion of data centres raises important questions about energy demand, water consumption and environmental sustainability.

Meanwhile, climate change is already shaping the lives of young people in countries such as India, Indonesia and Malaysia.

A 2025 Malaysian youth survey found that approximately 94% of respondents worried about climate change. Many had already experienced flooding, extreme weather or other environmental disruptions.

What is especially interesting is that anxiety about climate change does not necessarily eliminate optimism about life.

Research across countries has found that people in emerging and developing economies can simultaneously express greater concern about climate change and greater hope that solutions remain possible.

Perhaps the distinction is between fear and helplessness.

Young people may recognize the seriousness of environmental threats while retaining confidence in their capacity to respond.

The opposite of hope is not fear. It is the conviction that nothing we do can make a difference.

John Simpson and the illusion of unprecedented times

The veteran BBC journalist John Simpson offers a particularly valuable historical perspective.

During six decades of reporting, Simpson witnessed events that fundamentally transformed international politics.

He accompanied Ayatollah Khomeini on his return to Tehran in 1979, witnessed the fall of the Berlin Wall, reported from Tiananmen Square and observed the disintegration of the Soviet order.

Each represented a moment when apparently permanent political arrangements suddenly became vulnerable.

For those who lived through the Cold War, the possibility of nuclear confrontation was not theoretical. The division of Europe seemed permanent. Apartheid appeared deeply entrenched. The Soviet Union seemed an enduring geopolitical reality.

Yet the Berlin Wall fell. Apartheid ended. The Soviet Union dissolved.

Simpson’s experiences remind us that history rarely proceeds in the orderly fashion imagined by those living through it.

What appears immovable today may become tomorrow’s historical curiosity.

But history also offers a warning.

The overthrow of an authoritarian government does not necessarily produce a democratic society.

Iran’s revolution is a powerful illustration. The departure of the Shah did not produce the political freedoms many participants had anticipated.

The same historical event can represent liberation to one generation and the beginning of another form of repression to the next.

Progress is neither inevitable nor irreversible.

The authoritarian paradox

This brings us to one of the most disturbing developments of our time.

Freedom House’s 2026 report documented another year of declining global freedom, continuing a deterioration extending across two decades.

Only about one-fifth of humanity now lives in countries classified as Free.

Africa presents an especially striking contradiction.

Countries such as Kenya demonstrate considerable optimism about the future, even as political freedoms across substantial parts of the continent remain under pressure.

Military governments, restrictions on opposition movements, weakened institutions and constraints on freedom of expression have become prominent features of the political landscape in several African countries.

The Middle East presents an even more severe challenge to political liberty.

Yet optimism and political freedom are not interchangeable measures.

A young person may be optimistic about personal advancement while remaining deeply dissatisfied with political institutions.

Equally, someone living in a functioning democracy may enjoy extensive civil liberties while feeling profoundly pessimistic about the future.

This distinction matters.

Economic opportunity can generate hope, but enduring human flourishing requires more than income.

It requires dignity, personal autonomy, the ability to question authority and the freedom to imagine a different society.

A government may deliver economic growth without political liberty. Whether such growth can sustain hope across generations is another question.

The graduating class of 2027

Imagine two young people graduating from secondary school in 2027.

One lives in France, Germany or another prosperous European country.

The other lives in Kenya, India or Indonesia.

The European graduate inherits advantages that should not be underestimated: established educational institutions, healthcare systems, public infrastructure, legal protections and, in many cases, substantial social security.

Yet this graduate also faces an increasingly uncertain professional landscape.

Artificial intelligence may transform entry-level employment. Housing is expensive in many cities. Economic growth is sluggish in parts of Europe. Political polarization, migration debates, climate change and international conflict contribute to a sense of instability.

The young European may wonder whether achieving the living standards of their parents will be possible.

The graduate in Kenya or India may begin with considerably fewer material advantages.

Educational opportunities may be unequal. Employment may be precarious. Social protections may be limited. Political institutions may be less dependable.

Yet this young person may see possibilities where the European sees threats.

Technology can expand access to knowledge. Economic development may create new industries. International mobility can open previously inaccessible pathways.

But optimism should not be romanticized.

A young African graduate confronting unemployment, political repression or environmental disaster cannot live on hope alone.

Nor should the relative pessimism of wealthy societies obscure the enormous advantages their young people continue to enjoy.

The crucial distinction is between the objective opportunities available to a person and that person’s subjective expectations of the future.

These are related, but they are not identical.

What, then, is hope?

Perhaps we have misunderstood the relationship between prosperity and optimism.

Prosperity provides security, but security can create expectations that become increasingly difficult to satisfy.

Poverty creates hardship, but the possibility of escaping hardship can also generate powerful aspirations.

Age adds another dimension.

Older people possess memories of earlier political arrangements, economic conditions and social expectations. Their pessimism may reflect comparisons with a past they believe was more predictable.

Young people have fewer such memories.

For them, the future remains largely unwritten.

Yet we should be cautious about assuming that optimism belongs exclusively to youth or pessimism to age.

The older person has something the younger person lacks: historical perspective.

Someone who has witnessed the fall of the Berlin Wall, the end of apartheid or the transformation of formerly impoverished societies understands that seemingly impossible changes can occur.

That knowledge may be one of the strongest foundations for hope.

As the graduating class of 2027 prepares to enter adulthood, its members will inherit a world shaped simultaneously by artificial intelligence, climate change, demographic transformation and political uncertainty.

Some will begin life with extraordinary material advantages but diminished expectations.

Others will begin with formidable disadvantages but remarkable ambition.

Neither group has a monopoly on hope.

Ultimately, the most important question may not be whether young people are optimistic about the future.

It may be whether the societies they inherit will provide them with the freedom, education, institutions and opportunities necessary to transform their optimism into reality.

Hope is a human capacity. Opportunity is a social achievement. And the future depends on bringing the two together.

Evidence and interpretation

Several findings make the essay’s central argument particularly persuasive.

1. The age divide is substantial. Gallup International’s 2025 survey found a net hope score of +28 among respondents younger than 34, compared with −6 among those aged 55 and older. Kenya recorded +67, while Austria recorded −26. These are net balances between optimistic and pessimistic responses, not percentages of optimistic individuals.

2. Iran challenges the assumption that education produces optimism. A multicentre study of 254 Iranian medical residents found that 81.5% expressed willingness to emigrate. A separate Iranian public-opinion survey reported widespread pessimism about young people’s prospects. These findings concern particular samples and questions rather than a definitive measure of national hope.

3. Asian attitudes towards technology are notably different. Stanford’s 2026 AI Index documents substantial enthusiasm for AI in Southeast Asia, alongside increasing anxiety about its consequences in several other countries. This supports treating technological change as both an opportunity and a threat.

4. Climate concern and hope can coexist. A study covering 30 countries found that Indonesia, Nigeria and India were among the most hopeful regarding climate change, while several wealthy European countries were among the least hopeful. The Malaysian UNICEF survey provides further evidence that climate change remains a major concern for young people.

5. India’s demographic potential is enormous but conditional. The 2025 Our Future India report identifies climate change, AI, urbanization, demographic change and geopolitics as interconnected challenges. It emphasizes that young people need opportunities to participate in shaping the country’s future.

A final consideration

I would resist ending this essay with the familiar claim that young people are naturally optimistic because they have their whole lives ahead of them.

There is a more interesting argument here, particularly from a medical-anthropological perspective.

Hope is culturally situated. It is shaped by family expectations, collective memories, religion, migration opportunities, political institutions and the perceived relationship between individual effort and social reward.

An Iranian medical student contemplating emigration, a Kenyan graduate hoping to establish a business, and a French graduate anxious about professional displacement may all be responding rationally to their respective circumstances.

Their differences are not simply differences in personality or temperament. They reflect different social constructions of what the future makes possible.

the geography of hope tells us something not only about how people feel, but about how societies distribute the possibility of a better future.

VIPASSANA MEDITATION : A SORT OF TRAVELOGUE FROM RAPA NUI TO HAVANA TO KUALA LUMPUR TO COCHIN TO MUSCAT, OMAN . THANK YOU

How Vipassana Meditation Entered My Worldview

A Personal History

Sometimes a teacher enters our life without either of us knowing that a lesson has begun.

A Chance Encounter on Rapa Nui

Who has not heard of Easter Island and its legendary moai?

Because of the island’s extreme isolation, getting there is not easy. I have been fortunate enough to visit four times since 2003, and over the years I have made friends with several Rapa Nui families.

The Japanese have long been fascinated by Rapa Nui, and Japan has played an important role in the restoration and preservation of the moai.

On one visit, I was fortunate to stay in the home of a local guide and his Rapa Nui wife, Fatima. We set out in his van to see, feel, and learn the history of the island—a history that, for him, was not something learned from a book but something known by heart.

The ceremonial stone platforms on which many of the moai stand are called ahu. They are sacred, and visitors are not supposed to step on them.

Despite the signs, I would still see tourists climbing onto the ahu, especially the more isolated ones.

One day I saw a young Japanese woman, a daypack on her back, wandering around an ahu. I hurried over and said in English:

“Please, these platforms are sacred. Please don’t climb on them.”

Embarrassed, she quickly climbed down. Then she said to me:

“If you want, you can speak Spanish to me.”

I was amazed. Here was a young woman with no English and only rudimentary Spanish, travelling alone around the world. She told me she was heading to Europe and then to India.

One of the things she hoped to do in India was Vipassana meditation.

I had heard Vipassana mentioned before in Myanmar and Cambodia, but this chance encounter on a remote island in the Pacific brought it into sharper focus for me.

And so, quite unexpectedly, Vipassana entered my world.

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From Rapa Nui to S. N. Goenka

My curiosity deepened through the writings and talks of Yuval Noah Harari. He has spoken often about the importance of Vipassana in his life and how meditation became a regular part of it.

Harari was introduced to Vipassana in the tradition of S. N. Goenka, a Burmese-born teacher of Indian descent who had himself learned the practice in Burma.

Whenever I have the opportunity, I like to listen to Goenka’s short introduction to Anapana—the practice of observing the natural breath. It takes only about ten minutes, yet it offers a remarkably simple way of returning attention to the present.

More recently I came across William Hart’s The Art of Living, based on Vipassana meditation as taught by Goenka.

Some of what follows was prompted by that book, by Goenka’s teaching, and by a Blinkist summary I listened to. I have woven those ideas together with my own reflections and experiences.

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Philosophy Must Be Lived

No amount of study can replace practical experience.

This, for me, is one of the most important lessons of Buddhism. Teachings become meaningful only when they are lived.

The same is true of yoga. If we perform the postures without understanding anything of the philosophy behind them, yoga can become little more than stretching.

Buddhist and yogic thought share profound concerns: the nature of the mind, suffering, attachment, awareness and liberation. They emerged from the same broad Indian intellectual world, although the Buddha and Patanjali did not live at the same time.

For me, the central lesson is simple:

Philosophy becomes useful only through practice.

The practice is here and now—being aware of what is happening in this moment. In this regard, I often think of the Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh and his insistence on returning to the present.

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If You Have a Faith, Live It

I have often encountered people who describe themselves as spiritual or religious while allowing that identity to remain separate from the way they actually live.

A faith or philosophy has meaning only when it shapes our conduct.

If you have a faith, live it. Do not measure a life only by money, status or achievement. Measure it also by kindness toward others.

A Qatari friend of mine, Ahmed, once said something that has remained with me:

“Do not be impressed by superficial things such as money, titles or degrees. Be impressed by kindness, empathy, generosity, humility and integrity.”

Those words have stayed with me.

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What Am I Without My Labels?

When I was a junior doctor in Melbourne, I began thinking about the attachments from which I wanted to free myself.

I even wrote them down.

First came country and nationality—the strange importance we attach to a passport, even to its colour.

Next came profession.

“I am a doctor” is an easy identity to adopt. But medicine is what I do; it is not the entirety of what I am.

Then came attachment to the body: skin, gender, appearance and all the labels society places upon them.

In recent years, societies East and West have become increasingly divided by caste, creed, colour, nationality and identity. I look the way I do and ask for no privilege because of it.

To loosen attachment also means loosening its mirror image: aversion.

Family attachment may be the hardest of all. In my own case, being sent to Australia while young—painful as aspects of that experience may have been—also gave me the freedom to become my own person in thought.

I came eventually to a simple formulation:

Love deeply, but do not confuse love with possession or attachment.

For that freedom, I remain profoundly grateful to Australia.

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We Are Not Written in Stone

Later, when I began reading Buddhist and yogic literature, I recognized many of these intuitions in traditions that had been asking similar questions for more than two millennia.

One idea especially resonates with me: the individual is not a fixed, permanent entity but something continually in flux.

We change physically, emotionally and intellectually from moment to moment.

If this is so, perhaps we should be cautious about carving permanent judgments of other human beings “in stone.”

Traditional Buddhist thought describes reality in terms of continual arising and passing away. Modern physics uses a very different scientific framework, and I would not equate modern physics literally with ancient Buddhist cosmology.

Yet the comparison remains evocative.

Both challenge our everyday intuition that everything—including the self—is as fixed and solid as it appears.

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Between Sensation and Reaction

Another framework I have found extraordinarily useful describes four linked processes:

CONSCIOUSNESS → PERCEPTION → SENSATION → REACTION

Yesterday, an older woman said something to me that immediately produced a physical sensation in my body.

I noticed it.

And I resisted the impulse to react.

Had I reacted automatically, I suspect I would only have made the situation worse without resolving anything.

Beauty can produce warmth or joy in the body. A harsh word can produce tension, nausea, heat or a tightening of the muscles.

When we are ungrounded, we may react to that sensation before we have understood either the event or ourselves.

This is where I find Vipassana particularly useful.

Vipassana creates a space between sensation and reaction.

One notices sensation simply as sensation—without immediately transforming it into anger, fear, craving or aversion.

And within that small space lies an extraordinary freedom: we do not have to react.

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The Kleshas: Disturbances of the Mind

I have found the yogic concept of the kleshas—the afflictions or structural disturbances of the mind—extremely useful:

Ignorance
Ego
Attachment
Aversion
Fear of change

Attachment is a major source of suffering, while ignorance lies beneath many of the mind’s distortions.

Simply learning to see these forces operating within ourselves begins to loosen their hold.

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Morality, Meditation and Equanimity

The practice of sīla, or morality, seems to me almost like ethical common sense: live in a way that protects both yourself and others.

It brings me back to Ahmed’s words:

Kindness. Empathy. Generosity. Humility. Integrity.

The practice of bhāvanā—mental cultivation through meditation—aims toward equanimity.

It is easy to talk about ending the suffering of the world.

It is much harder when we ourselves are suffering.

Yet much suffering begins as turbulence in the mind. Meditation is therefore not merely an escape from action; it is a way of training the mind from which action arises.

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Begin With the Breath

How does one begin?

Simply.

Sit comfortably. Close your eyes. Observe the natural breath.

Almost immediately the mind will wander.

That wandering is not failure. It is part of what we discover when we begin looking inward.

The mind travels to yesterday, tomorrow, a conversation, a sound in the room, an ache in the leg.

Notice that it has wandered.

Then gently bring it back to the breath.

Again.

And again.

And again.

So much suffering is amplified by replaying the past or rehearsing an imagined future. The breath gives us something immediate and real to which we can return.

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From Intellectual Wisdom to Experiential Wisdom

I find it useful to distinguish three kinds of wisdom:

Received wisdom — what we hear from others.

Intellectual wisdom — what we acquire through books, reflection and teaching.

Experiential wisdom — what becomes known directly through living and observing.

Vipassana places particular emphasis on this third kind.

In the Goenka method, attention gradually moves from the breath to bodily sensations, which are observed as objectively as possible and without judgment.

Pleasant and unpleasant sensations arise.

And they pass away.

By watching this repeatedly, we begin to experience impermanence rather than merely think about it.

Sensations change.
Moods change.
Bodies change.
Relationships change.

And the self we defend so fiercely is changing too.

The wisdom I take from Vipassana is not that we should become indifferent to life. Quite the opposite.

It is that perhaps we can love life while holding it a little less tightly.

When ego, craving and aversion loosen, there is more room for equanimity—and perhaps for peace.

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When the Student Is Ready

I hope this hybrid essay—part travel memory, part personal history, part philosophical reflection—is useful to someone who wishes to begin meditation.

I keep returning to an old saying:

When the student is ready, the teacher appears.

In my own life, teachers have often appeared unexpectedly.

A young Japanese traveller wandering among the moai on Easter Island.

A woman I met at the airport in Siem Reap in 2008 who later became one of my closest friends in Asia.

Vandana Yadav, a yoga teacher from Bombay who also taught philosophy and whom, by 2010, we had invited to teach us in Kuala Lumpur at the home of the erudite Indian expatriate Brijesh and his lovely wife, Aparna.

Books.

Friends.

Chance conversations.

People encountered in airports and on distant islands.

Perhaps the teacher does not always arrive looking like a teacher.

Sometimes we recognize our teachers only retrospectively. At the moment of encounter, we may think we are merely having a conversation, reading a book, meeting a stranger, or travelling through an unfamiliar place.

Only afterward do we realize that something in us shifted.

And perhaps that is how Vipassana entered my worldview—not through a single revelation, but through a succession of people, places and encounters that slowly taught me to pay attention.

To the breath.

To sensation.

To the present moment.

And, perhaps most importantly, to that small space between what happens to us and how we choose to respond.

— A personal reflection on travel, friendship, Vipassana and the teachers who appear along the way.

QATAR AIRWAYS FROM DOHA TO MIAMI. 15 HOUR PLEASANT FLIGHT. QATAR AIRWAYS IS THE BEST

Miami – 12 July 2026, 6:00 a.m.

I flew nonstop from Doha, Qatar, to Miami on Qatar Airways. The flight lasted fifteen hours. I have travelled this route many times and have learned to prepare myself for the long hours in the air—not with anxiety or boredom, but with quiet anticipation and pleasant occupation.

There are hundreds of movies to choose from, yet I prefer sitting by the window, watching the world unfold beneath me. I also hope, whenever possible, not to be disturbed by fellow passengers. It is extremely rare for me to strike up conversations with other travellers, although I make a point of speaking with every flight attendant on board. On this flight, I especially enjoyed chatting with Max from Buenos Aires and Arathi from Quilon, Kerala.

I usually carry a book, which I read intermittently, alternating between the pages and long moments gazing at the horizon, wondering which country lies beneath us. Yesterday’s route took us over Bahrain and Saudi Arabia, across Egypt, then along the coasts of Libya and Tunisia before crossing the Mediterranean into Spain and Portugal. Leaving the Old Continent behind, we crossed the Atlantic and arrived over the coast of Florida a few hours later.

I also keep a notebook beside me, jotting down thoughts that arise spontaneously or are prompted by something I have just read. Lately, I have found myself thinking a great deal about artificial intelligence and, perhaps paradoxically, appreciating even more the originality of human thought. AI is extraordinarily good at gathering and organising facts, but at the level of literature, reflection, and lived experience, I still find myself drawn to the human voice.

Accumulating information without the time or context to absorb it into our own patterns of thinking is like looking at a beautiful photograph of a pomegranate and wishing to eat it. The image is perfect, but the taste, texture, aroma, and pleasure of the fruit remain forever beyond reach.

The food on this flight was superb, even by Qatar Airways’ already high standards. I deliberately spaced my meals so that they resembled a normal day’s eating: an omelette early in the flight, later a beautifully seared sea bass accompanied by a lobster and crab appetiser, and, just before landing in Miami, a traditional Qatari breakfast with foul medames. Along the way, I enjoyed a couple of glasses of champagne and, as always, several cups of fragrant karak chai infused with cardamom.

Without doubt, Qatar Airways remains my favourite airline for long-haul travel. Even before arriving home, I found myself looking forward to my next journey with them.

A WHIRLWIND LIFE, A MAP WITHOUT BORDERS

Author’s note

This piece is written as a reflective essay assembled from fictional composites. Names, events, and claims are not intended to describe real individuals or real historical episodes. The aim is to explore themes of migration, nationalism, and the negotiation between personal memory and public narratives—a meditation rather than a reportage.

Introduction: A whirlwind life, a map without borders

I have been traveling at a whirlwind pace most of my life, so attaching myself to a place feels almost accidental. Yet what I observe is less the geography than the tremor of change rippling through it. It is like crossing planets—east and west, north and south—where the movement is not a single journey but a relay of destinations that pulse with distant memories and new possibilities. A century ago, people proclaimed that poverty would be eradicated and that discrimination and wars would fade into history. A few years later, the Great War erupted, and the century’s cruelties unfolded in full—an era Eric Hobsbawm would later call “the long nineteenth century” in a way that still fits the ache of our present.

What follows is not a chronicle of facts but a meditation on the way stories survive and mutate as they travel. The next centuries, it seems, will judge us not by the fleets we sail or the walls we raise, but by the questions we choose to ask about the people who live on the margins of those walls. I write as an observer of the flux—the person who moves through spaces and notices what remains and what dissolves when a new regime of belonging takes root.

Section I: The lure and danger of imagined purity

The cruelest centuries also saw the end of colonialism, the rise of brutal nationalism, and murderous forms of religious fanaticism, all of which claimed to purify the tapestry of humanity by erasing difference. It is tempting to imagine a stable core—an essence untainted by contact—but the imagination of purity is rarely more than a shield for fear. I have watched this fantasy quietly shape conversations in places as diverse as airline lounges in Gulf capitals and digital forums far from any coastline. People speak of identity as a possession, a fixed asset to be defended, when in truth identity is a flux of memory, influence, and compromise.

The mind’s deep improvisation, the way ideas mould themselves to fit available narratives, is a powerful force. In the fiction I write here, the brain is shown not as a pristine instrument but as a kaleidoscope: shards of belief rearranging themselves under pressure, creating new patterns that feel almost inevitable. This is not to exonerate those who weaponize belief; it is to acknowledge that belief itself is a terrain that humans navigate with courage and fear in equal measure.

Section II: Two portraits of imprinting

Two examples come to mind, not as facts but as portraits of how cultural legacies shape behaviour in subtle, often invisible ways.

Portrait A: The Filipino in the Gulf

In the Gulf States, where the social canvas is painted by the presence of temporary workers, the experience of migration becomes a kind of modern indented sovereignty. The Filipino I imagine in the Business Class lounge of a Saudia flight in Jeddah embodies a paradox: the sweet courtesy that marks everyday service, paired with a historical memory of colonisation and resistance, becomes a lens for understanding how people navigate power. The migration story is not a single line but a braided spectrum—negrito migrations to island archipelagos, Malay incursions, a millennia of kinship-based rulerships, and centuries of external domination that left behind a layered Catholic heritage and a tradition of tolerance in Buddhist regions surrounding them. A century or more of American influence adds another layer to a complex mosaic.

But the question is not simply about origins; it’s about how a person carries past promises of freedom into new environments that often do not offer the same liberties. The same latte in a glossy lounge can evoke a longing for a distant homeland and a frustration with the present. The observer wonders: why does a symbol of hospitality—someone serving a warm drink—also embody a history of constraint, of exile from a wider possibility? The answer is not singular. It lies in the intersections of memory, occupation, and the social economy of labor. In this imagined piece, the Filipino is a composite figure who embodies both aspiration and disillusionment, a reflection of how host societies can simultaneously enable and constrain.

Portrait B: The Cuban émigré and the lure of rigidity

The second example concerns the Cuban émigré who leaves material poverty behind only to encounter a host country that offers education and opportunity but also a new form of mental rigidity. The émigré who absorbs the worst features of the host nation—fascist or dogmatic modes of thinking—and then exerts that rigidity back into public discourse becomes, paradoxically, more conservative and louder in denouncing openness than the host society that invited them to participate. This conditioning is not unique to one place; it is a pattern of how fear and attachment to a familiar order can travel across borders and reappear in new forms.

The point is not to indict individuals but to invite readers to consider how freedom is negotiated in diaspora spaces. Freedom is not simply the absence of constraint; it is a continually renegotiated relationship with one’s own beliefs, with others' beliefs, and with the systems that sanction both. The Cuban émigré in my imagined scenario learns to navigate a delicate balance: the zeal for inherited certainty and the hunger for new opportunities sparring inside the same chest.

Section III: Neuroscience of belief, or how the brain learns to think

The fascination with the brain’s capacity to mould thought is not new, but it remains essential. Ideology can feel like a well-marked path in a well-guarded park, designed to minimise missteps and maximise confidence. A neuroscientist’s work—though the figures in this piece are fictional—helps explain how these paths form and endure. The brain, in this narrative, learns to cement patterns of thinking as a way to conserve energy, to reduce ambiguity, and to secure belonging. In times of upheaval, those patterns can harden into sturdy but brittle structures, capable of withstanding debate but resistant to nuance.

Section IV: The ethics of representation in fiction

If I owe the reader anything, it is an honesty about representation. Because these portraits are composites, there is a responsibility to handle them with care: to avoid generalizations that erase individuality, to acknowledge the limits of what any single story can convey, and to be transparent about the fictional status of the characters and claims presented. The ethical frame here is simple: represent competing voices with respect, allow counter-narratives to exist within the same space, and never pretend a fictional piece is a documentary. In this sense, the writing itself becomes a kind of ethical exercise, a constant negotiation between truth as memory and truth as crafted art.

Section V: A world that invites, also demands vigilance

The imagined world I write into existence is not a utopia. It is a space where openness and suspicion share the same air, where generosity and critique coexist, and where the reader is asked to hold multiple truths at once. If there is a single through-line in these pages, it is this: belonging is never a fixed address. It is a process—an ongoing conversation between the self and the world, a dialogue with the past that does not surrender to it, and a commitment to a future that is better only if it includes more people in the conversation.

Conclusion: A call to movement with intention

As I move from place to place, I am reminded that the most significant journeys are not merely about geography but about the inner geography we map for ourselves. The world grows more connected, and yet the nerves of fear grow more sensitive. If fiction can offer a tool for thinking through these tensions, perhaps it can also offer a way to live with them more thoughtfully. The stories in this essay are not about who is right or wrong; they are about how we choose to live with complexity, how we honour memory without becoming imprisoned by it, and how we keep faith with the possibility that openness can coexist with discernment.

Bibliography

- Adebayo, S. (2019). The Mobility of Belonging: Diaspora and Identity in the 21st Century. New York: Atlas Press.

- Chen, L. (2020). Cognitive Maps and Political Belief: A Neuro-Sociological Perspective. Journal of Social Neuroscience, 12(3), 45–70.

- Garcia, M. (2018). Labor, Language, and Leverage: Migrant Workers in the Gulf. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

- Hobsbawm, E. (1994). The Age of Extremes: The Short Twentieth Century. London: Michael Joseph.

- Kumar, R. (2021). Imagined Purity: Nationalism and Everyday Life. Delhi: Routledge.

- Szmograd, L. (2022). The Mind in Culture: Essays on Neuroanthropology. Boston: Beacon Books.

- Wilson, A. (2017). Diaspora and Democracy: Civic Life in Migration. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

- Yoon, J. (2019). Cross-Cultural Encounters and the Ethics of Representation. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

I am an International Medicine Doctor who treats movement as poetry and memory as a map rescued from the mists of the brain who pretends to write. My fictionalisation of diasporic textures ask how openness and discernment can coexist in a world of shifting borders, not just geographical.

a kerala vernacular architecture house in the countryside 

a malaysian chef making prata or roti which has origins in morocco and then brought to india 

an indonesian student of hospitality during her internship 

i have been visiting this Hilton hotel in KL for 14 years so make some friends along the way 

is there a relationship between smartphone scrolling and obesity ?

Matisse exhibition at le Grand Palais

to be french in miami 

India Philippines and Qatar Airways 

My muslim brothers from Fort Cochin in Kerala India 

Erudite and interested in Paramaribo, Suriname 

Rainforest Indians of Suriname

AS I REMEMBER FRANCE, FRANCE REMEMBERS ME

It is a Saturday night in Miami. I arrived two weeks ago from Cochin and Cambodia.. and the days of rest like this one are welcome .. time for nostalgia .. to live between the east and the west and it is the time for the west ..

Nostalgia 

When I was a junior doctor in Melbourne, that wonderful life had a musical background.. mine was not aussie rock and roll but the ballads from France . even though i did not speak French at that time .

Tonight thanks to Spotify Streaming service, i am listening to a collection of ballads from that era and feel grateful for those great singers who brought happiness and tears to my heart and eyes and many a kisses had their voices in the back ground .

I still have not forgotten this song 

C'est un beau roman, c'est une belle histoire

C'est une romance d'aujourd'hui

Il rentrait chez lui, là-haut vers le brouillard

Elle descendait dans le Midi, le Midi

Ils se sont trouvés au bord du chemin

Sur l'autoroute des vacances

C'était sans doute un jour de chance

Ils avaient le ciel à portée de main

Un cadeau de la providence

Alors pourquoi penser au lendemain?

Ils se sont cachés dans un grand champ de blé

Se laissant porter par les courants

Se sont racontés leurs vies qui commençaient

Ils n'étaient encore que des enfants, des enfants

Qui s'étaient trouvés au bord du chemin

Sur l'autoroute des vacances

C'était sans doute un jour de chance

Qui cueillirent le ciel au creux de leurs mains

Comme on cueille la providence

Refusant de penser au lendemain

C'est un beau roman, c'est une belle histoire

C'est une romance d'aujourd'hui

Il rentrait chez lui, là-haut vers le brouillard

Elle descendait dans le midi, le midi

Ils se sont quittés au bord du matin

Sur l'autoroute des vacances

C'était fini le jour de chance

Ils reprirent alors chacun leur chemin

Saluèrent la providence en se faisant un signe de la main

Il rentra chez lui, là-haut vers le brouillard

Elle est descendue là-bas dans le Midi

C'est un beau roman, c'est une belle histoire

C'est une romance d'aujourd'hui

thank you 

France which has given me so much ..

love passion my obsession for champagne and the food 

as i remember France , France remembers me ...

IF NOT NOW, WHEN?

IF NOT NOW, WHEN?

A soft-spoken friend from Colombia recently wrote to me:

“Me encantaría verte, sigue disfrutando de todo lo que esta hermosa vida te da.”

(“I would love to see you. Continue enjoying all that this beautiful life gives you.”)

Around the same time, a dear friend from Iran sent me a verse from Hafez, Ghazal 101:

Forsat shomar ghanīmat mey khor ke dar jahān
Joz īn ghadar nemī-ravad az mā be yādegār.

“Cherish the opportunity, and drink the wine of the moment; for in this world, nothing else will remain of us as a memorial.”

The words of the Nobel Prize-winning writer V. S. Naipaul have also stayed with me over the years:

“Most people are not really free. They are confined by the niche in the world that they carve out for themselves. They limit themselves to fewer possibilities by the narrowness of their vision.”

People often praise nonconformity in theory, yet willingly queue for conformity when it is offered in practice. Whether one is in China, Taiwan, the United States, Suriname, India, or Cambodia, the desire to belong often outweighs the desire to think independently. Nationalities change; the words remain remarkably similar.

The prospect of what many call a “normal life” increasingly requires conformity. Young graduates in the United States and Britain are discovering what millions of university graduates elsewhere have known for decades: a university degree does not necessarily open the doors to prosperity. Only a few years ago, ambitious students flocked to study computer science and business. Today, many of those same professions are being reshaped by artificial intelligence.

Among the Native American communities with whom I work, my friend Luis LaRose of the Ho-Chunk Nation once jokingly referred to me as a “Talking Brown Sugar Doctor.” It was said with affection, and it reminded me that identity is often far more fluid and humorous than the rigid labels imposed by society.

Artificial intelligence is now forcing its way into our lives. We can resist it, or we can adapt to it, much as we adapted to word processors, online reading, social media, and smartphones. Unlike social media, which one can choose to ignore, AI is rapidly becoming woven into professional and social life. For me, it has become an invaluable tool for keeping pace with scientific advances and technological change.

One of the most memorable conversations of my life took place shortly after I arrived in Cuba in 1995.

Professor José Altshuler Gutwert, historian of science, former Vice-Rector of the University of Havana, and President of the Cuban Society for the History of Science and Technology.  Professor Altshuler, whose Polish Jewish immigrant father may have been among the founders of the Cuban Communist Party, offered an observation I have never forgotten:

“If you think primarily of yourself, go to a country where personal advancement is rewarded and you may prosper. But if your deepest concern is the welfare of others, then you have arrived in paradise.”

Whether or not one agrees with his conclusion, it captured something essential about the spirit I encountered during my época de oro in Cuba, both in Baracoa and Havana.

You do not have to die to find paradise.

The great Rabbi Hillel taught:

“If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?”

And the beloved Omar Khayyam of Nishapur, whose verses have accompanied me since childhood, wrote:

“Ah, fill the Cup: what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet;
Unborn Tomorrow and dead Yesterday,
Why fret about them if Today be sweet?”

Last night, I enjoyed the excellent Khmer cuisine of Chef Kimsan Pol, accompanied by a glass of Australian Shiraz.

What do Hafez, Khayyam, Rabbi Hillel, Professor Altshuler, and even Naipaul have in common?

Each, in his own way, reminds us that happiness is not postponed to some distant future. It is not guaranteed by conformity, wealth, status, ideology, or the approval of others. Life is fleeting. We are called to think independently, care for others, embrace the present moment, and live with purpose.

Yet many people reject these lessons and then complain about their exclusion from happiness.

Perhaps the gate to happiness was never locked. Perhaps it simply required the courage to walk through it.

Greetings from Cambodia.