I did not arrive at this work by choice alone. It emerged gradually, through a series of crossings—between disciplines, between worlds, between ways of knowing that did not easily speak to one another. Architecture was my point of entry, but not my final dwelling. I was drawn first to its promise: that space could shape life, that form could carry meaning, that building might still hold something of the sacred. Over time, however, I sensed that much of what architecture once knew had fallen silent, or been forgotten altogether.

I followed that silence inward.

What began as a search for better tools became a deeper questioning of foundations. Why did imagination feel diminished, treated as fantasy rather than a faculty of truth? Why did knowledge feel detached from transformation, critique from care, freedom from orientation? I found myself returning—again and again—to traditions in which knowing was never separate from becoming, and where the act of understanding reshaped the one who understood.

Islamic philosophy and its traditons of wisdom offered not answers, but terrain. A way of thinking in which imagination mediates rather than escapes, where worlds are layered rather than flattened, and where wisdom is not accumulated but lived. These encounters did not pull me away from the present; they sharpened my attention to it. They made visible the fractures of modern life—its dislocations, its violences, its restless pursuit of novelty—and the quiet longing that persists beneath them.

Yet I do not stand outside modernity, nor do I seek refuge in an idealized past. I live within its air, its institutions, its contradictions. I remain attentive to histories of domination, to racial and colonial inheritances, to the bodies and lives shaped by them. What I resist is the insistence that critique alone is sufficient, or that meaning must always be dismantled before it can be rebuilt. I am interested in what might still be cultivated—carefully, responsibly, without denial or nostalgia.

Architecture returned to me differently through this passage. No longer as an object to be perfected, but as a practice of attention. A way of preparing conditions. A means of holding thresholds open rather than closing them. Whether through writing, teaching, design, or translation, my work asks how space might once again participate in inner life—how it might support presence, awaken imagination, and gesture toward what exceeds it.

Asfār grew out of this movement. It is not a destination, but a trace of the path itself. A gathering of thoughts, fragments, readings, and works that remain in motion. Some are scholarly, others poetic; some are finished, others tentative. All are offered with care. The platform exists to make accessible forms of knowledge that often remain untranslated—across languages, traditions, and modes of expression—and to allow them to speak in ways that remain alive.

I share this work not to resolve questions, but to accompany them. If you find yourself lingering here, perhaps it is because you, too, sense that something essential has been lost—not irretrievably, but quietly—and that it may still be possible to recover modes of thought and making that help us dwell more truthfully in the world we have inherited.

Between what is built and what is lived, there remains a threshold where meaning still learns how to appear.

This space inhabits that threshold.