The Adventures of Compassion: Stories to Harmony

By Ali Horriyat

Welcome to a journey unlike any other. The Adventures of Compassion will take you on a global expedition, not in search of buried treasure or lost civilizations, but something far more valuable: compassion.

 

Ali Horriyat's childhood was filled with the insatiable curiosity and daring spirit of Tintin, igniting a yearning to explore the world and connect with its diverse people and cultures. That spark transformed into a lifelong journey, taking Ali to corners of the world both familiar and far-flung. Each journey wasn't just about ticking destinations off a list; it was about forging connections, immersing himself in local stories, and witnessing the triumphs and struggles that bind us all.

 

But amidst the beauty, Ali also encountered the stark realities of social challenges—poverty, inequality, and injustice that cast long shadows across communities. Inspired by Tintin's spirit of adventure, he embarked on a different kind of quest: a quest to explore the transformative power of compassion. Each story in this book takes you to a different corner of the world, from bustling city streets to serene rural villages. You'll meet characters grappling with real-world issues, from environmental degradation to social conflict, and witness how acts of compassion, big and small, can spark change. So open your heart, pack your empathy, and prepare to embark on a journey of compassion in action.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Compassiviste Publishing
• Release date: Mar 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224922635

Book preview

The Adventures of Compassion

Stories to Harmony

Ali Horriyat

Copyright © 2024 by Ali Horriyat

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by copyright law.

Cover design by Ekaterina Reyzbikh.

https://compassivistepublishing.com

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I dedicate this collection of short stories to Tintin and Hergé (Georges Remi).

This book could not exist without Tintin et Milou, and I would have never dared to imagine my journey with them through the pages of their adventures by compassion!

Je regrette, militaire, mais je refuse de serrer une main qui foule aux pieds les droits imprescriptibles de la personne humaine ! - Professeur Tryphon Tournesol dans Tintin et les Picaros

Forgive me, officer, but I cannot shake the hand of someone who disregards human rights! -  Professor Cuthbert Calculus in Tintin and the Picaros from The Adventures of Tintin vol, 23"

Merci mes mamans, Nada et Shahraz. Because of you, a little boy in 1980 Dubai learned French and learned to dream with Tintin on his adventures!

CONTENTS

Welcome to the Adventures of Compassion

The Bridge Between Worlds

Believe in Rainbows

From Code Cave to Kafkaesque Maze

Avocado Toast Activism

Distinction Is Not Imperfection

From Beyond the Market’s Reach

Dearest Santa

Balling for the Mansion

A Second Chance

Dancing Wheels

Colonialist Mindset, the Maasai, and Intellectual Property

Kant to Confucius

Shrapnel Lullabies

The Alster Swans

The Verdict of the Vines

Equity for Favelas

Charter for Starlight Dreams

Disarming Aswang

The Pálinka-Fueled Pay Gap

The Search for Joy

Where Time Bends to a Mother’s Love

The Price of Cool

The Great Thirst

The Tuschinski Centennial

The Resilience of Baobab Trees

Games Along the Bosphorus

Christ in the Desert

Haifa’s Package of Peace

The Forgotten Algorithm

The Essence of Family

The Mosquito Net

Penelope’s Thesis

The Paradox of Power

The Littlest Dragon

The Price of Ivy

The Box Jellyfish Is Safer Than Capitalism

The Search for Absolution

The Global Heartbeat

A Gangster’s Paradise

The Music of Harmony

Whispers of Eden in Starlight

Paris to Milan

Little Lion

Breaking the Cycle of Hate

Dusty Dreams

The Cost of Silence

The Amazon’s Specter

The Bridge from Despair to Defiance

The Algorithm’s Bias

The Gift of Vulnerability

Alia’s Last Gasp Presentation:

Love in the Time of Extinction

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Welcome to the Adventures of Compassion

Welcome to a journey unlike any other. Buckle up, because we’re embarking on a global expedition, not for buried treasure or lost civilizations, but for something far more valuable: the discovery of compassion. Compassion is not a passive observer here, but an active hero, tackling the social challenges that plague our world.

My childhood was filled with the insatiable curiosity and daring spirit of Tintin. His globe-trotting adventures ignited a spark in me, a yearning to explore the world and connect with its diverse people and cultures. Over the past four decades, that spark has transformed into a lifelong journey, taking me to corners of the world both familiar and far-flung. Each journey wasn’t just about ticking destinations off a list; it was about forging connections, immersing myself in local stories, and witnessing the triumphs and struggles that bind us all.

But amidst the beauty, I also encountered the stark realities of social challenges—poverty, inequality, and injustice that cast long shadows across communities. It was in these moments that the true essence of this book began to take shape. While many of these stories recount my own adventures across continents, they’re not simply postcards from exotic locales. They are windows into the human heart, each reflecting a different facet of that most powerful force—compassion. These are not just fictional narratives; they reflect my own experiences, the faces I’ve met, and the stories I’ve heard.

Inspired by Tintin’s spirit of adventure, I’ve embarked on a different kind of quest—a quest to explore the transformative power of compassion. Each story within these pages takes you to a different corner of the world, from bustling city streets to serene rural villages. You’ll meet characters grappling with real-world issues, from environmental degradation to social conflict, and witness how acts of compassion, big and small, can spark change.

But this isn’t just a travelogue of good deeds. It’s a call to action, an invitation to join me on this adventure. Just like Tintin relied on his wit and resourcefulness, our hero in these stories is compassion itself. It’s a force that transcends borders, languages, and cultures, reminding us that we are all interconnected and capable of making a difference. Prepare to be moved by acts of courage, inspired by simple gestures of kindness, and challenged to see the world anew.

So, open your heart, pack your empathy, and prepare to embark on a journey of compassion in action. Let these stories inspire you to discover the compassionate adventurer within yourself, and together, let’s rewrite the narrative of our world, one act of kindness at a time.

The Bridge Between Worlds

The stench of boiled cabbage and old fear clung to the cramped Munich apartment like a shroud. Jean-Marc, a Hutu by birth but a survivor by chance, stared at the opposite wall, his muscles coiled tight. There, barely a meter away, sprawled Emmanuel, a Tutsi whose very blood sang of the barbarity that had chased Jean-Marc from his home.

The genocide, a fevered nightmare carved in Jean-Marc’s soul, had opened an abyss between their two peoples, an abyss wider than the miles they’d crossed to reach this alien land. Sharing this bare concrete box felt like a cosmic joke, a cruel twist of fate forcing them to coexist under the flickering neon sign of a Turkish kebab shop.

Days bled into each other, punctuated by the clang of dishes and the murmur of a foreign tongue. Jean-Marc spoke French, Emmanuel Kinyarwanda, their words bouncing off the chipped walls like lost birds. Communication was a battlefield, littered with suspicion and unspoken accusations. Each stolen glance felt like a challenge, each muttered phrase a potential weapon. Yet the emptiness of their bellies and the bone-chilling loneliness of exile forged an uneasy truce. They learned the rhythm of each other’s silences: the way Jean-Marc tapped his foot when frustrated, the way Emmanuel hummed when lost in thought. Shared laughter erupted over mangled German pronunciations, a glint of light in the encroaching darkness.

One day, during a frantic job search, a glimmer of hope emerged. A construction site needed manual laborers, grueling work but a lifeline. Jean-Marc, used to tilling the fertile Rwandan soil, felt a tremor of optimism. Emmanuel, a former street vendor, knew the sting of hard work. For the first time, they looked at each other, not as enemies, but as partners in survival.

On the muddied slopes of the building site, their pasts seemed to fade, replaced by the shared rhythm of shoveling and hammering. Jean-Marc learned Kinyarwanda phrases of encouragement; Emmanuel, French jokes that cracked like sunlight through the tension. They covered for each other’s fatigue, the sweat on their brows a shared language of resilience.

One evening, while they were sitting on the mangled sofa, a German news report played on the TV, flashing images of Rwanda, lush and green. A sob escaped Emmanuel, echoed by a strangled sigh from Jean-Marc. In shared grief, the bridge between their worlds finally began to solidify.

They spoke, haltingly at first, then with a growing torrent of words, sharing the ghosts that haunted their dreams. Jean-Marc confessed his family’s escape, the terror that clawed at his throat. Emmanuel spoke of the machete-wielding mob, the screams that still ripped through his sleep. The room resonated with their pain, a suffering that transcended the hate etched into their skin.

As dawn crept in, painting the sky with the delicate hues of forgiveness, their eyes met. No longer a Hutu and a Tutsi, but two young men, scarred and hopeful, standing on the precipice of a future they would build together, brick by brick, word by word. The bridge between their worlds, once a rickety scaffold of necessity, had transformed into the enduring power of forgiveness, a fragile, yet unyielding symbol of acceptance in the face of unimaginable horror.

The journey ahead would be long and arduous, paved with the ghosts of a fractured past. But in the shared crucible of exile, Jean-Marc and Emmanuel had discovered a truth etched in the mortar of their new world: Sometimes the greatest victory lies not in conquest, but in the quiet act of building bridges, one story, one shared tear, one reconciliation, one sunrise at a time.

Believe in Rainbows

Bogota beats like a frantic heart, a chaotic rhythm of car horns and street vendors. But for me, it’s the hollow thrum of hunger that sets the tempo. Fifteen years ago, this symphony had a different melody—my father’s laugh, the crackle of my mother’s frying plantains. Now, it’s just a discordant chorus of pigeons and the rasping cough of my abuelo. Bogota, they call it. City of flowers, they say. But from under this threadbare blanket, sprawled on the cold concrete, all I see are cracks blooming like weeds on the sidewalk.

I crouch beside him, his worn hands a map of wrinkles etched by hardship. He coughs again, a wet, rattling sound that echoes off the grimy walls of our cardboard kingdom. Mi perro, Bruno, whines softly, nudging my hand with his damp nose, the only friend I can count on in this concrete jungle. His brown eyes reflect the hopelessness in my own. We’re three lost notes in Bogota’s grand opera, huddled together for warmth in the biting Andean air.

School is a faded memory, a luxury reserved for those with roofs and full bellies. I watch them walk past, their backpacks bursting with textbooks and laughter, their uniforms crisp and clean. They look at us—the girl in ragged clothes, the old man with a hacking cough, the scruffy dog with ribs like piano keys—with a mix of pity and disgust. I shrink into my shadows, Bruno’s warm fur a fragile shield against their cold stares. I remember laughter, clean uniforms, the smell of books, not rotting fruit. Now, my classroom is the cracked pavement, my teachers the pigeons cooing on the cathedral roof. Shame burns my cheeks at every passing kid, reminders of what I’ve lost, of the life that slipped through my fingers like sand. Their world of classrooms and birthday parties feels like a distant galaxy, accessible only through the blurry lens of stolen glances and wishful thinking. It feels like ages since I sat in a classroom, surrounded by giggles and the smell of freshly sharpened pencils. Now, the closest I get to education is reading scraps of discarded newspapers, deciphering headlines about a world that barely acknowledges ours.

Nina, abuelo rasps, his voice a whisper against the city's roar. Mira las nubes. He points to the sky, a canvas smeared with shades of gray, the sun a prisoner behind bars of smog. Un dia, habrá un arcoíris, mi niña. Solo debes creer.

A rainbow? In this concrete jungle where hope is a weed struggling through cracks in the pavement? I force a smile, but doubt claws at my throat. Rainbows belong in fairytales, not here, not on us. I used to believe him. Used to imagine chasing rainbows with Bruno, our muddy paws leaving laughter footprints on the sky. But lately, the rainbows seem like cruel mirages, taunting me with false promises. Rainbows are for other, luckier folks, the ones who sleep under roofs and eat hot meals. Us, we’re just dust motes dancing in the city’s harsh light, barely visible, easily forgotten.

The day stretches on, a relentless march of hunger and despair. We beg, our voices hoarse from pleading. Sometimes a coin clatters into Bruno’s tin can, a tiny victory that buys us a stale bread roll and a sip of lukewarm water. Most times, we’re met with averted eyes and hurried steps. Bruno licks my hand, his rough tongue a balm on my raw heart. He doesn’t ask why my stomach growls louder than the street vendors’ voices, why my hair is a tangled bird’s nest, why laughter is a forgotten melody. He just loves, a silent symphony of wet noses and wagging tails.

As dusk paints the sky in bruised purple, we find shelter in a doorway. Bruno curls up in my lap, his rhythmic snores a lullaby against the city’s cacophony. Abuelo’s eyes, once pools of laughter, are dimmed now, but a spark still flickers within them. He reaches out, his touch a feather-light caress on my cheek. He speaks of his childhood, of green valleys and singing rivers, a world so different from this asphalt and stone.

No pierdas la esperanza, Nina, he whispers. El arcoíris llegará. Siempre llega.

I close my eyes, trying to imagine a rainbow arcing across Bogota's grimy skyline. Will it be a bridge, leading us out of this concrete prison? Or just a cruel mirage, shimmering for a moment before disappearing into the city’s dust? Believe. The word tastes foreign on my tongue, like a forgotten song. But as I watch a single star wink at me, a tiny spark ignites in the ashes of my hope. Maybe abuelo’s right.

I don’t know. But as I drift off to sleep, lulled by Bruno’s snores and the city’s relentless hum, I clutch onto my abuelo’s words like a lifeline. Maybe, just maybe, there is a rainbow waiting. Maybe, if I believe hard enough, its colors will paint over the gray, its magic washing away the scars of hunger and despair. For Bruno, for abuelo, for the ghost of a smile I haven’t seen in years, I close my eyes and whisper to the city’s indifferent night, I believe.

And maybe, just maybe, in the heart of Bogota’s rhythm of hardship, our own melody—the song of a girl, her dog, and her abuelo—that refuses to be silenced, will rise above the noise, even in the darkest of nights. Because in the city of broken dreams, even the smallest spark can ignite a revolution, a revolution of hope whispered on the wind, a revolution that begins with a girl, her loving perro, and her abuelo who believes in rainbows.

From Code Cave to Kafkaesque Maze

Marseille, France, a digital Robin Hood, cracking corporate fortresses to shower the underprivileged with life-saving goodies. I was the Vax Vigilante, hacker extraordinaire, liberating vaccine patents from Big Pharma’s greed vault and sprinkling them like digital confetti over the neglected alleys of Marseille. Heroic, right? Except for the pesky detail that landed me in a French slammer for five years, my keyboard skills swapping Excel for shanks.

My name’s Antoine, and until recently, my most prized possession was a spork with the inscription World's Best Hacker—earned for cracking the impenetrable fortress of Pharmasaurus and releasing their latest life-saving vaccine to the underbelly of the globe.