On Optimism

My dear friend,

The candle is more than halfway down tonight, and outside the city hums the way cities do — a reminder that life, even on its quietest nights, never truly stops. I want to write to you about optimism.

I just finished a long day of conversations, some hopeful, some heavy. The last one stayed with me. It was with a diplomat I have known for years, a man of experience and reason. After we spoke about funding cuts, global fatigue, and the usual complexities, he sighed and said, “Ali, I don’t know how you stay optimistic after seeing so much.”

I told him that optimism is not something I was born with. It is something I learned to practice.

Optimism, for me, is not naïve. It is not pretending that everything is fine. It is the quiet discipline of seeing light even when the room is dim. To build a better future, you must be able to see it first. You cannot build what you cannot imagine. Every lasting change begins with someone who refused to stop believing that something better was still possible.

I have met people who have shown me what true optimism looks like, not through speeches, but through living.

In Syria, I once saw a woman plant flowers outside her tent. The soil was dry, the air dusty, and the chances of rain close to none. Yet she watered them daily. “It reminds me,” she said, “that beauty can still grow here.” That was optimism.

In Bangladesh, after a cyclone swept away hundreds of homes, I watched families rebuild within days. They were tired and grieving, but one man smiled at me and said, “Storms pass, but we remain.” That was optimism.

In South Sudan, I once saw children playing football in a field of mud, the ball patched with tape, the goalposts made of sticks. They laughed as if the world was still whole. That too was optimism, joy as defiance, play as hope.

Optimism is not a denial of darkness. It is the decision to keep lighting small candles within it.

When I speak with diplomats, donors, and foundations, I often hear the same tones of ambition: soft power, leverage, capital, influence. All of it makes sense. Yet beneath every layer of strategy, there is one truth that never changes. People everywhere, no matter their flag, want the same thing: a better life for themselves and for their children. Safety, opportunity, dignity, and hope. The image of that dream may look different in each place, but its soul is the same.

I have seen that dream everywhere I went. In the teacher in Syria who rebuilt her classroom after every bombing. In the farmer in Iraq who replanted his field even though he knew floods might return. In the young people in Nigeria who built small start-ups from nothing but faith and Wi-Fi. Hope bends, but it does not break.

Every time I meet people who continue despite everything, I understand that optimism is not just a feeling—it is an act of resistance. It is a form of leadership. Every leader, whether they know it or not, is an ambassador of hope. People look at how we speak, how we act, how we carry ourselves when things fall apart. They look for signs that tomorrow is still worth showing up for.

I have learned that optimism is not about believing things will be easy. It is about believing they are worth it. It is the quiet voice that says, “We will try again.”

There was a time in my life when optimism felt like a language I no longer understood. I had lost almost everything. My job was gone, my savings were gone, my sense of direction scattered. I remember one night in particular. It was freezing. I had nowhere to sleep, and the city station was the only place still open, still lit. I sat on a metal bench that felt colder than stone. My clothes were too light for the night. I could hear my own teeth clicking, my jaw locked against the cold. Every sound—the trains passing, the echo of shoes on the tiles, the hum of the vending machines—felt distant, like the world was moving forward without me.

At some point, I took out my phone and searched for something to listen to, anything that could anchor me. I found a podcast about meaning and resilience and pressed play. The voice on the other end spoke about rebuilding, about starting again. I could barely focus, my thoughts scattered, but I kept the phone close to my ear. It was not comfort exactly—it was connection. A small bridge to the version of me that I hoped would return. The one who had purpose, a place, and a plan.

I sat there shivering, trying to believe that there was still a way forward. I remember thinking, “if this is the bottom, then the only direction left is up.” The night was endless, and the cold felt like a weight pressing against my bones, but I kept imagining the morning.

That night taught me that optimism is not the same as hope. Hope can fade, but optimism is the decision to keep the door open for hope to return. It is not a feeling. It is a discipline.

I promised myself that if I ever found stability again, I would not forget what it feels like to lose it. That I would remember how it feels to sit in the cold and still choose to believe.

That promise has guided me since. I believe in dreams. I always have. But I have learned that dreaming is not passive. It is not waiting for the world to change. Dreaming is a form of work. It is imagination turned into motion, strategy shaped by faith, and action born from vision.

People sometimes ask me how I stay hopeful after seeing so much loss. My answer is simple: because I have also seen what rises after it. I have seen people lose everything and still find ways to begin again. I have seen hands covered in dust still reaching out to help others stand. I have seen leaders who could have left, stay. Optimism, to me, is not a luxury—it is a responsibility. It is what allows us to write new stories even while the old ones are still ending.

The candle is smaller now, but its light still fills the room. It reminds me that optimism does not require endless strength, only steady belief. The wax may melt, the day may fade, but as long as there is a spark, there is still the chance to begin again.

So, my friend, believe in the dream, even when it feels far away. Nurture it like a small flame. Speak of it. Work for it. Protect it from cynicism. The future will not build itself—it waits for those who dare to imagine it.

Until tomorrow, keep your eyes on the horizon and your heart steady in the work. The light you carry is also a promise of the world yet to come.

With hope and steadiness,

Ali Al Mokdad