About Author​

I was born in the spring into a family that had nothing but religion. From the moment I was born, religion took root in me, even though I was just a budding soul. Before I turned ten, the revolution came. Religion took over my city and country, and I was a devout follower who lacked understanding.
Before I turned twenty, war stripped away what little humanity I had left, dragging me into savagery. It was a war fought in the name of a God, with both sides killing in His name. But I hadn’t come to kill—I fought for something they called a homeland. They gave me war while they thrived in the business of it. War is a strange game; for those who fight, it offers only tragedy, but for those who create it, it brings fortune. I risked my life in a war over the ownership of people like me, a grim tale that wars write for us, and we blindly believe. Those who profit from war gain wealth; those who fight in it, death.
At thirty-two, I met twenty-three a book, but I was a stranger to my own name. It was as if I was truly born at thirty-two. That’s when I armed myself with reason and thought, becoming a stranger to my body, name, religion, borders, and politics. Thirty-two years of imitation, thirty-two years of being just a body, thirty-two years of backwardness. If only someone had taught me earlier that the real treasure isn’t money but my time. But I had gambled away thirty-two years of my life on my name.
At forty, I became an immigrant. It seemed like a curse tied to the name I had been given. He too migrated at this age, but while he went to Medina, I went to Thailand—the very paradise he had promised. There, I realized that paradise isn’t so far away; it’s about finding God. But I didn’t find God in Buddha’s statues, in synagogues, churches, or mosques. God was within me—in every cup of tea I drank, every breath I took, every word I spoke, and every thought I had. I found Him when I found myself—a self that was no longer my name, religion, country, or body. I became myself to reach God.