Once again, I was looking through the photos of my Kedah trip (which, I have yet to make the time to form into words) and my heart was filled with the yearning to see the children again. I miss the kids so much; their joyful faces and their innovative games, their intriguing stories and their willingness to play and learn. I really want to see them, meet new faces, and do more things that can help alleviate their situation.

To ease my heart, I played Michael Jackson's amazingly heartfelt classic Heal the World. I then came across Maati Baani's version of the song, one that featured child prodigies from all over the world. As I was doing my house chores, tears just wouldn't stop rolling hahaha. The video is so touching, and the fact that only children were the one singing made it all the more sincere and earnest.

It brought me back to the last day of the camp with the Rohingyangs, when we Irsyad facillitators were singing the very same song on stage for the children. At one point, the children simply caught me off guard when they too started to beautifully sing along to the chorus. That moment, I just couldn't continue singing, so I just stood there and waved my arms with tears rolling down my cheeks. I was standing in the centre of the stage, so it was impossible for the children to miss my crying face, so I noticed some of them actually gestured towards their eyes while shaking their heads and smiling. It was an attempt to make me stop crying, but it backfired totally because it only made me cry much harder.

Another moment that really stood out to me, was when the children raised their voice in unison every time they sang the line "for you and for me and the entire human race". It was so difficult to hold myself together every time that lyric was repeated and reverberated loudly in my ears.

It deeply touched me how they, children who suffered such a terrible past, see the world with light in their eyes, the same world where most turned a blind eye and closed their ears deaf to the horrible plight of the Rohingyans. Maybe that's just one of the beautiful things about children, about young humans – their optimism, faith, and belief in the world is still strongly preserved.

Call it strange, but I aspire to hold on strongly to my own optimism, faith, and belief in the world. I've been told many a time that it's a gullible thing to do, but is it really?

Because if I were to say I've "given up on humanity", I really mean that I'm giving up on myself, because I'm human. I don't know whether we realise it, but when we say that phrase, we're giving up on ourselves, and the things that we can actually do to help one another out. It's true, a lot of people in the world are the causers and victims of suffering, but I just don't think losing faith in ourselves is doing much to change that. Because, well, we are all part of humanity, part of the human race. We're human, and none of us a special exclusions, nor are we a unique exception. And we've got the ability in us to do something.

We shouldn't wait for others to do something, because to "restore that faith", to heal the world, it all starts from us. To heal my world, it all starts from me.

I wish I had Conqueror's Haki, the one exhibited in Eiichiro Oda's One Piece.

It's a type of power that allows its user to exert his or her will onto others, by just having a spirit strong enough to do that. Luffy used it to save Ace from being executed, as he shouts to all the Marine soldiers to stop, and he used it to defeat a significantly large amount of fishmen pirates who were threatening to kill his nakama crew. Shanks also used it to save Luffy from being eaten by a sea king monster. Most of the time, Conqueror's Haki is dangerously exhibited (if not under control) when the user wants to save someone dear to him or her.

I wish I had it, so I can, somehow, scream to the world, or whisper (whichever the world prefers), to stop all the violence on my Muslim brothers and sisters in Syria, Rohingya, and all parts of the world. I wish I could use the Haki to amplify my voice, and make everyone just... stop.

I'm in Sultan Mosque. It is just after maghrib prayers, and as usual, the turnout is large, alhamdulillah.

Just as I stood up to leave just now, I notice a group of muslimah at the back, sitting down and stagnant. A few thoughts about them came into my head, as how thoughts about people always do whenever I see them. I do wonder if they are judgments passed off as observations, but here they are:

I thought about why the sitting women were sitting down at the back. A few options: 1) The sitting women are ma'zuurah, on their period, and are waiting for a friend or relative to complete their prayer.

2) They are here to listen to the Imam.

3) They are non-Muslims, wanting to vicariously experience what a prayer in Islam is like.

4) They are those who, to their personal selves, do not cover their 'aurah significantly, and therefore are sitting at the back as they wait for the women praying at the moment to finish their prayers, and return the garments.

5) They finished their prayers and immediately went to the back to retire by themselves rather than in the sof with the rest.

6) They are none of the above, or some of the above, holding their own person reasons.

Observing people in real life and penning down immediate thoughts of them bring me a lot of pleasure. It's amazing how there can be so many perspectives to an object. (Hence why Duchamp's painting of the staircase draws me in quite strongly).

It's so different than when I "observe" people on social media. On the latter I often feel like I'm looking through a highly filtered lens, designed to display only the ideal and not real, an obscurity of the truth. I fear that I am guilty of this, so I always try to be as honest as possible. I know It's not always the case (hence the word "often") but even so, it can take an emotional toll on me, so sometimes I just avoid going on social media entirely.

Anyway, back to the now. Masjid Sultan, as always, is so beautiful as the voice of the Imam reverberates around the entire area. I love this ambience, this atmosphere, where nothing but zikr rings in my ears.

I wish I could stay.

But there my phone goes, vibrating away. Responsibility is calling.