I--- Fylm My First Summer 2020 Mtrjm Fasl Alany -

The footage will degrade. The hard drive will fail. But for one summer, I held a frame around the incomprehensible. And that, perhaps, is what it means to grow up: not to understand the season, but to have filmed it anyway. — An essay in the form of a personal documentary script.

What did I learn from filming? That a first summer can be a summer of first endings . First time watching a funeral on an iPad. First time realizing that “I’ll see you next year” was not a promise but a prayer. The camera does not lie, but it also does not flinch. When I review the footage now — grainy, shaky, too much sky because I was crying behind the viewfinder — I see a young person learning that time is not a river but a series of locked doors. Some seasons do not lead to the next season. They just stop.

So here is the essay, not in words but in the act of filming: The comma is the pause between breaths. The summer is the subject that refuses to conjugate properly. And mtrjm fasl alany is the subtitle that reminds us — every season arrives as a foreign language, and we are all amateur translators, holding our phones up to the world, asking it to please make sense. i--- fylm My First Summer 2020 mtrjm fasl alany

The phrase mtrjm fasl alany — “translated season – now” — insists on a double labor. First, translation as carrying across : from the language of normal summers (chlorine, fireworks, flip-flops) into the language of pandemic summers (six feet, PCR tests, case curves). Second, translation as interpretation in the moment , without the luxury of hindsight. We did not know, in June 2020, whether this would be the strangest summer of our lives or the new permanent climate. We were translating a season as it happened, a simultaneous interpretation where the speaker kept changing the script.

To film this summer is to admit that the medium itself is inadequate. Film craves movement — the dolly shot, the pan across a crowded beach, the close-up of sweat on a lover’s brow. But my first summer of 2020 offered only static frames: a laptop on a kitchen table, a hand washing groceries in the sink, a window through which the world looked like a postcard from an extinct civilization. And yet, I filmed. I filmed the way light changed across my bedroom wall from 7 AM to 7 PM. I filmed my mother’s hands kneading bread — an act so ancient it felt like rebellion against the newness of the virus. I filmed the feral cat that adopted our porch, because at least something moved without permission. The footage will degrade

When I point my lens at that summer, what do I see? Empty swingsets rocking in a breeze no child dared to touch. A graduation cap tossed in an abandoned parking lot, its tassel like a dead butterfly. The Zoom grid — thirty faces flickering with the lag of rural internet connections. This was not the summer of first kisses or highway road trips. It was the summer of first silences : the first time we heard the absence of traffic, the first time a mask became a second skin, the first time a thermometer at a grocery store door read our inner fever before we even spoke.

The command is simple: I film . Not “I remember” or “I write,” but I film . The camera becomes an extension of the eye, a prosthetic memory for a season that refused to behave like any summer before it. My First Summer 2020 — though for many it was not a first summer at all, but a suspension of all summers past — arrives as a translated text. The Arabic phrase mtrjm fasl alany (مترجم فصل الآن) haunts the frame: a season translated, and a translation that exists only in the urgent, trembling present. And that, perhaps, is what it means to

And yet. The translation was not only loss. Because fasl alany — the now-season — also gave us a new verb: to quarantine, yes, but also to notice . I filmed a single dandelion growing through a crack in the asphalt of a closed mall parking lot. I filmed my little brother learning to play the guitar, the same wrong chord for three weeks until suddenly it was right. I filmed the evening when the whole neighborhood stood on their balconies and clapped for nurses — a spontaneous chorus of pots and pans, a translation of grief into rhythm.