As the great Antoine Dodson once warned us… ‘Hide yo wife, hide yo kids’ and in our case, hide your Zara haul, baby names, and travel plans too. Because nazar is real (or at least, people act like it is)
Ok but seriously though, Let’s talk about nazar because I think we are SO way off.
To those who are unfamiliar with nazar (or the evil eye) it is basically just … the act of giving you bad luck by witnessing you and your luck through a jealous bitter lens.
The concept of nazar is present in many cultures in South Asia , Africa, Middle East , the Mediterranean, Turkey and I’m pretty sure multiple indigenous tribes too.
Basically the solution to nazar is. “hide your blessings or haters gonna hate… no for reals … your luck is fucked if you overshare”
As a result people often become weirdly secretive and paranoid … withholding things like … where they traveled on holiday or .. the grades their kids got.
Everyone is downplaying shit constantly .
It’s so … odd.
Because no one wants to admit they have a visibly happy life.
Nazar is so misunderstood, and it’s paralyzing us as a society.
We can’t have any pride, any joy, any confidence because we’re terrified of what people might think.
People are out here covering their babies photo with emoji hearts on Instagram, or decorating their kids’ eyes with kajal like they’re performing some ancient anti-hex ritual like kind of a vaccination against jealousy.
Why?
Because they’re convinced that a single glance from a jealous auntie will curse their kid forever.
Get a grip.
That is not how it works.
(If it even exists at all.)
And I know what you’re saying: “But it’s in religion.”
Ok … Yes. I’m aware … BUT even then — hear me out.
What if we have it all wrong?
What if nazar was never meant to be some magical, supernatural hex?
What if it was simply a piece of advice for your own benefit?
It is common sense that hanging out with draining people does drain you.
Envious, bitter people can suck the light out of a room.
They can weigh on your spirit. So avoid them. That’s it. That’s my interpretation.
Maybe nazar was meant as a general heads up about human energy — not a call to paranoia. But we’ve twisted it. Nazar has become “everyone is a default hater until proven innocent.”
This was never supposed to be a reason to be shady, live in fear and shrink and downplay joy.
I’m gonna Socrates this shit for you: what YOU think about people’s intentions says more about YOU than about them.
Boom.
How’d ya like them apples?
Because a bitter person only sees bitterness. A jealous person only sees jealousy. An authentic person will always presume authenticity.
Just to be clear , if you’re a naturally private person who simply prefers to keep things lowkey, that’s completely valid.
You don’t owe anyone your life story.
But if you’re shrinking yourself purely out of fear?
Of imaginary hexes and hypothetical haters? That’s not protection.
That’s paranoia.
I mean I’m not saying to
overshare to a cringe kardashian level.
Not only is that lame … it’s unsafe too. But … let’s not pretend everyone who has been through shit wishes harm .
Come on, now.
Ain’t nobody got time to sit and stew in envy.
Be for real.
It’s like dancing in a club you think everyone’s watching your moves, but actually?
Everyone’s too busy worrying about how they look themselves.
So… I hate to break it to you, but no one’s casting spells over Shazia’s good grades.
You may humblebrag in peace.
At ease, soldier.
Let’s take ME for instance. I’m gonna use myself as a case study, ok?
obviously I do not have my dad around anymore.
That sucks.
By all accounts, I’m the quintessentialjealous bitch candidate, aren’t I????
By this logic, my jealous rays are gonna come out of my eyes like She-Ra or some shit and curse YOUR relationship, right???
No… that’s stupid. Do you see how ridiculous that theory is?
Here’s this thing … I carry double grief. I grieve my dad and I grieve the version of him I never got.
The one before Parkinson’s stole him.
Sometimes I roam around random outdated malls like Mercato or Deira City Center not because they’re fun or convenient (they’re far AF) but because deep down I’m trying to relive how life felt before Parkinson’s touched us. We used to hang out there a lot for birthdays and iftars… before grief became part of the air I breathe.
I miss happily living in Dubai before.
When I was 21 to 26.
From 2005–2011 if we’re being specific.
Those were our carefree years.
The only “problem” I had was rushing home from clubbing to honor the STUPIDEST most unrealistic desi girl curfew ever.
(Midnight. At 21. WTF, Papa? Am I Cinderella?!!!)
Apple Bottom Jeans would come on at the stroke of midnight, and id be gyrating carefree in my happy 2000s bubble and suddenly it’d hit me like lightning
OMG it’s 11:45, I’m still in Jumeirah, I’m 40 minutes away… Papa is gonna MURDER me.
(The ghost of Apple Bottom Jeans still possesses me whenever I hear it. Its instant music time travel . God, I miss clubbing before twerking became a thing.)
Anyway .. then I’d YANK my best friend Colin by the collar and chaotically hiss, “DEEMZ, take me HOME! I’m LATE AF!!!”
And he’d be like, “Ok, Japs, relax…” (so non-judgmental) and calmly keeping me grounded while I’m losing my mind hyperventilating with stress and scurrying off in a panic in those ridiculous platform heels everyone wore in the early aughts.
Those weren’t problems.
They were charming. misadventures.
I’d give anything for charming misadventures to be my biggest problems again.
(And yes — I know. I realise how ungratefuland bratty that sounds because there’s cancer, war, so much worse out there… and Mashallah I have a good life but I’m a mortal and flawed.
Forgive me.)
I mourn the dad who would’ve made corny, eye rollingly lame jokes to my kid.
Who would’ve had the energy to play with zayan … and have had the physical strength ability to lift my kid’s chunky ass right up with ease ..
He would have been that main-character Nana, the masti instigator, the one who stirred up fun — not just the loving but passive, spectator Nana.
That Parkinson-less alternate reality has always run through my my head concurrently like the movie Sliding Doors.
Every so often I see some old guy on the bus — ancient, spry, still taking public transport at like, 100 (I mean Mashallah, but also… WTF) and I’m hit with this wave of bitterness like, Damn… why are YOU still here?!
You look like a goddamn wizard.
All nimble and shit?
Why are YOU still here?
It’s not fair .
And yes — I admit it… I picture myself shoving the old dude right off a moving bus.
Do I actually want to DO it?
No.
That’s my grief talking.
I know that. Duh.
Those intrusive sadistic thoughts aren’t my REAL self.
Why?
Because believe it or not, random homicideof the elderly isn’t going to give me solace or restore cosmic karma.
Similarly, when I see my cousins dancing with their (mashallah) healthy dad, or sharing some gossip over dinner just general tender moments?
Yes… my heart feels like it’s been squeezed like one of those novelty googly-eye keychain faces.
(See below for a visceral guide)

i cannot dismiss that pain that feels like it’s leaking out of me. It’s there.
But I say this with conviction-
I’m truly happy for everyone.
This may sound really cringe and kumbayabut I genuinely DO wish them joy despite my pain.
So there you go … I just debunked the concept of nazar for you.
Either I’m some kind of spiritually elevated anomaly or maybe just maybe… everyone doesn’t absolutely suck.
Oooh. Plot twist.