On Insults

My dear friend,

The candle is low, but my mind is loud. Tonight I keep hearing echoes from long ago — words that were thrown at me when I was too young to know what to do with them. Those jobs are not for people like you. Stay where you belong. You will never be more than what we made you.

When I was a child, I was bullied often. The street where I grew up was alive with noise, with children shouting and running, playing football until the sun disappeared behind the buildings. I rarely joined them. My parents were protective, sometimes overprotective. They wanted me safe, focused, and ready for a future beyond that street. I spent my days at home reading, studying, dreaming of faraway places.

But to the other children, I was different. And in childhood, difference rarely goes unpunished.

They began calling me names. Some were silly, but one stayed with me for years: the boy who never leaves home. They said it with laughter, with mockery, with the kind of joy that only cruelty can create. Each time I heard it, I felt smaller. It was as if they had found the exact words that could trap me inside my own walls.

I started avoiding them, walking faster, taking long routes to avoid the main street. Even going to the supermarket for my mother became an ordeal. I would wait until I was sure the others were gone, holding my breath as I passed the corner where they gathered. The fear of their laughter became heavier than the sound of it.

It took me years to realize that what felt like an insult was also a prophecy.

That name—the boy who never leaves home—became the very reason I wanted to see what lay beyond it. Every time I heard those words, I imagined another version of myself, one who did leave home, one who walked into the world and kept walking. That insult became a spark. A question. A challenge. A dream.

And in time, I did leave.

I left that neighborhood, that city, that country. I left the smallness of those streets and the fear they planted in me. I lived in dozens of places across the Middle East, Africa, Asia, and Europe. I crossed deserts and borders, worked in camps and headquarters, met people in palaces and tents, in silence and in chaos. I have watched sunrises from rooftops in cities and from dusty roads in villages with no names.

Everywhere I went, I carried that memory with me—the boy who never leaves home—and smiled. Because he did leave. And the world became my home. All of it. All cities and villages and homes.

Insults can wound, but they can also awaken. They reveal the insecurities of those who throw them, and the resilience of those who receive them. What I did not know as a child is that when people insult you, it often has little to do with you. They are speaking from their own limits. Their words are shaped by their fears, their upbringing, their envy, or their confusion. Once you understand that, the weight of an insult begins to shrink.

As I grew older, the insults changed form. They became more sophisticated, hidden behind polite tones or subtle gestures. Sometimes they appeared in meetings, in the way someone dismissed an idea or questioned my experience. I used to react quickly, trying to defend myself, trying to prove my worth. Over time, I learned something else. Silence can be the strongest response.

Not every insult needs a reply. Some deserve only distance.

Here is what experience taught me: First, never let insults become your identity. You are not what someone else says you are. You are the meaning you build from what they said. Second, use their words as a mirror, not a map. Look at them only to learn about others, not to define your direction. Third, protect your inner voice. The moment you start believing the words that hurt you, they win twice—once when they said it, and once when you repeat it to yourself. Fourth, remember that kindness is not weakness. There is power in walking away without bitterness. Forgiveness does not mean approval. It means freedom. And finally, keep moving. Movement heals what words cannot.

For me, every insult became movement. Every doubt became a decision. Every moment of humiliation became a promise to rise. That early pain became purpose. It made me curious about people, about power, about what drives cruelty and what sustains compassion.

In many ways, those childhood bullies gave me an early education in human behavior. They taught me what it feels like to be unseen, to be misunderstood, and that understanding helped me build empathy later in life. When I meet people now, whether leaders, refugees, or strangers on the street, I listen differently. I try to hear the story behind the words. Because I know what it feels like to be misjudged.

The truth is, insult and misunderstanding are part of every journey. You will face them at work, in friendship, in leadership, even in love. Some will come from strangers; others will come from people you trusted. What matters is not whether you are insulted, but how you choose to interpret it. You can carry it like a wound or transform it into wisdom.

When I look back now, I no longer feel anger. I feel gratitude. Those words pushed me to imagine a world bigger than the one I was trapped in. The boy they called “the one who never leaves home” has worked across more than forty countries. He has worked in war zones and peace talks, in deserts and boardrooms. He has seen both suffering and beauty beyond what those children could have imagined.

The insult that once closed doors opened the world.

The candle is almost gone now. The flame bends gently, small but bright. It reminds me that even when someone tries to dim your light, you can keep burning, quietly and with purpose.

So, my friend, if someone mocks you, do not shrink. Take a breath. See them for who they are, not who they say you are. Turn the insult into an intention. Let it push you toward growth, not resentment.

Because sometimes, the words meant to hold you down are the very ones that prepare you to rise.

Until tomorrow, keep your light steady, and walk taller than the words behind you.

With calm and strength,

Ali Al Mokdad