A Journey into the Heart of Mystery
Morning Reflection
In the winter of 1978, the clock was nearing two in the morning when a light single-engine aircraft lifted off from Long Beach Airport, south of Los Angeles. There were no smart radars, no advanced navigation systems—only a mechanical compass, a paper chart, and an intuition that had to be trusted. In the back seat lay a small parcel stamped with a glaring red seal: “Medical — Urgent.” I did not know whether it carried a beating heart in a metal box, medicine meant to stop the bleeding of a life, or documents tied to someone’s fate. But what I carried within me felt heavier than any of it.
I was a young man from the village of Sweileh, north of Amman, raised on hills that embraced the sky. I used to chase airplanes with my eyes and fly with my imagination. And now, here I was—truly flying above the American sky, alone, a stranger in a land that knew neither my name nor my language. I guided the aircraft the way one steers a secret dream he dares not declare aloud.
The night over the West Coast was dense as the sea’s hidden secrets. Clouds wrapped around the plane like a gray shawl of silence. No city lights. No radio beacons. Only the hum of the engine… and an inner voice that grew louder as all other sounds faded.
Then the unexpected happened. Communication was lost. No voice from the control tower. No signal. No electronic whisper. In that instant, I was not merely confronting a technical failure—I was confronting myself.
In the seventies, a pilot relied on his senses. There were no warning systems, no digital screens tracing a path to safety. You were the compass. You were the map. You were the decision.
My isolation in the cockpit was as spiritual as it was physical. It felt as though the sky had chosen to test me—not only as a pilot, but as a human being. Can you trust what you cannot see? Can you believe in a path without signals? Can you keep flying in silence, as if the silence itself were saying, “Continue… you are on the right course”?
Evening Reflection
In the quiet of evening, I understand that this was not merely a medical mission—it was a journey into the heart of mystery. Each moment above California felt like centuries. As I threaded my way between clouds, I tried to read hidden messages within their folds. I was no longer simply flying an aircraft; I was ascending within my own thoughts. I remembered the boy in Sweileh standing on a rooftop, gazing at a distant sky he did not yet know would become his destiny.
Flying is not merely a science; it is a profoundly philosophical act. It is a decision to trust the unknown, to dive into the unseen, compelled by something within that cannot be fully explained. It is a silent prayer—not spoken with words, but enacted through courage.
That night, I realized that mystery is not emptiness. It is a space where faith takes form. When signals disappear, the inner voice grows clearer. When silence prevails, deeper certainty emerges. The sky was not testing my ability to read instruments—it was testing my ability to read myself.
And so that flight taught me that life resembles flying through darkness without signals. We do not always possess a clear map. We do not always hear a guiding voice. But if we carry within us a sincere compass, we can continue forward even when every external signal vanishes.
The young man from Sweileh did not know that flight would become a mirror of his soul. Today, after many years, I understand that every journey into the unknown is, in truth, a journey inward. And that when the sky falls silent, it does not abandon you—it invites you to listen to what has always lived within your heart.