Revisiting the Sara Higazy incident today. I was participating in the discussion of deleting her Wikipedia page. This was around 6 years ago. Back then, the whole story struck me with an intensity I can’t quite reconstruct now. I remember feeling genuinely shaken, moved in a way that felt deep and urgent. Today, the sadness is still there, but it’s quieter, more distant, almost abstract. What I can’t fully explain is why it affected me so strongly at the time.

The sexual rights movement, which once felt like a defining moral battlefield, feels to me now as a strangely disproportionate to the scale of suffering and disorder in the world. Not wrong, exactly, just small. Almost trivial when placed beside poverty, war, genocide, poverty again, and the quiet, grinding injustices that shape most human lives. I’m surprised, in retrospect, that Sara herself, someone from a relatively ordinary, middle-class background, would stake so much of her life, and ultimately lose it, over something that now feels so marginal.

There’s also something uncomfortable in admitting this: maybe what moved me then wasn’t Sara alone, but the version of myself who needed her story. A younger self, more eager for clean moral lines, more convinced that tragedy must always point toward meaning. Nietzsche taught me that this is not always the case.

Now, older and less certain, I’m left with grief stripped of narrative payoff. No lesson neatly learned, no cause vindicated—just a human life that encountered the full weight of cruelty and didn’t survive it. #Politics

#Music #Rafa't Lila al-Stora

Listening to #Ballade No. 1 in G Major, Op. 23 by Hélène Grimaud. What a battle #Music