From an old man’s slap to a scream of catharsis

It was four-thirty in the afternoon on a Ramadan day, the sun tilting toward the horizon, the weight of hunger and exhaustion casting a shadow over the atmosphere. I had just parked my car in one of the popular alleys near the Haram in Mecca, and as I prepared to step out, I saw an old man emerge from his car in front of me. His face was ablaze with anger, his voice like a raging bull; he didn’t ask me to move my car but hurled a harsh, arrogant command at me, as if I were a trivial obstacle in his path.

I ignored his crude insolence with all the self-restraint I could muster, but his anger didn’t subside. He approached my window, then raised his hand and slapped me with a shocking audacity. The slap wasn’t strong, but it was steeped in provocation, breaching my boundaries and wounding my pride.

I flung the car door open violently, as if unleashing a beast within me. He scurried quickly toward his car, returning armed with a thick stick, like a desperate warrior mustering his last strength to defend his pride. He advanced toward me, threatening with his stick, and only a few moments separated him from striking me. Danger crept into my depths, awakening what Carl Jung called "the shadow," that repressed part lurking in the soul, where wild instincts lie in wait, anticipating the moment of explosion.

I decided to protect myself from his anticipated attack, so I rushed to my car trunk, frantically searching for a weapon to save me from this absurdity. But, to my astonishment! All I found was a foldable chair, one of those cheap types for picnics, and a small car fire extinguisher. I gripped the chair in my left hand as if it were a magical shield, and the extinguisher in my right as if I’d spray the old man instead of hitting him—I was like a comical character in a play pretending at heroism, holding junk and thinking it useful.

I imagined myself raising the chair as a shield to deflect a blow from his stick, then aiming the extinguisher at his head like someone desperate to survive by any means. But amid this madness, my awareness suddenly returned. I saw his frail, worn-out body, his short, stooped frame, his stumbling steps that nearly felled him, as if time had conspired against him to reveal his weakness without mercy. I realized that any strike from me, even with my bare hand, could be the end—not just for him, but for everything I believe in throughout my life.

Instead, I let my hands fall to my sides and unleashed my voice—resounding screams erupted from my depths like a roar freed from the shackles of the past. My voice was the true weapon, the power I summoned from my pain and wounded pride, terrifying my adversary and forcing him to retreat. I felt I had taken control of the situation like an alpha animal, dominating without lifting a hand, solely with my voice and presence.

After the uproar subsided, I called the police, determined to protect my rights through legitimate means. But before matters escalated, his son and neighbor spoke to me in a tone brimming with regret, apologizing on his behalf. I learned that the old man was exhausted by his inner struggles, his pain seeping out to harm those around him. Then I understood that his anger was more a reflection of his helplessness than a threat. So, I chose peace and decided to let the matter pass without filing a report, desiring to preserve my own peace of mind and grant his family a chance for calm.

In reflecting on what happened, I felt a strange relief, as if a weight had lifted from my chest, as if in that moment I had confronted every weakness accumulated within me over the years, its toxins dissipating with every breath I released into the air. I learned that that scream wasn’t just a fleeting reaction but a ritual of "catharsis," that deep purification derived from the Greek, a moment when the remnants of anger vanished under the glow of liberation, its warmth melting the weight of repressed emotions, making space for a profound emotional release that freed me from my inner chains. It was a scream that didn’t merely restore my inner clarity but revealed to me that negative energy isn’t suppressed—it’s released and transformed, becoming a force that propels us forward with lightness and peace.

And so, from an old man’s slap to a scream of catharsis, pain merged with a moment of transformation, where the anger ignited by the slap wasn’t just a blazing fire but an energy I directed with awareness. For strength doesn’t always lie in what we hold in our hands, but in what we carry in our chests, manifesting in a powerful presence, in the voice, and in the ability to reclaim inner peace instead of being swept away by violence.