u/Alternative_Fuel2433

My English is bad, so I used AI to translate my thoughts. That backfired completely because it made my real life look like a fake bot post.

The truth is 3 years ago I was a UI/UX designer. I lost my office and my old life. Now I built a small street stall selling coffee to survive. I am a real guy, a coffee man, not a bot and not homeless. I just wanted to share my actual journey my street stall (imgur)
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the old original text body of this post is here

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3 years ago, I was a graphic and UI/UX designer, spending my days behind a comfortable desk. When life took a massive turn and the reality I built changed completely, I knew that giving up was never an option. I shifted gears, stepped onto the pavement, and built my own makeshift street stall. and today, I’m out here brewing hot coffee . Moving from digital interfaces to making street coffee wasn't a step down—it was a masterclass in resilience. It taught me that you don't need a fancy office to find purpose. Buildings can crack, but a stubborn will to work and stay positive remains unbroken. Still here, still brewing,

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Two days ago, I visited my close friend who lives near me. When it was time for lunch, he brought out 4 packs of Indomie noodles (very rare here)

He started cooking them for the two of us, but then everyone came in. so we divided the amount into cups so there was enough for everyone. ate, laughed, and honestly had the best time. I don't think I'll forget this meal

Today was a genuinely beautiful day here. With Eid al-Adha just around the corner, some volunteers set up an outdoor barbershop to give the kids fresh haircuts. The energy was so lively, and seeing them this happy really lifted everyone’s spirits and gave us a much-needed break from everything we're going through. Huge thanks to everyone who made this happen!

I witnessed a touching moment today. This boy was sitting on the hot pavement, shielding his sick cat from the scorching sun with his shirt and arms. When I approached him, he told me he was waiting for his mother so they could take the cat to the vet together. Even in the darkest of times, the children of this area teach us the meaning of true compassion. He refused to leave his little companion to face the heat or the illness alone. Look at him in the last picture; he was afraid the other boys would steal his cat, and he sought refuge with me.

This is Said, my father.

Despite being born completely blind, he persevered through school with unwavering determination and enrolled in university directly after high school. During that time, he married my mother, who became his eyes, reading his books aloud to him so he could earn his bachelor's degree. From a very young age, my father was deeply connected to radio; it was his only window to the world.

When the first local radio station opened, my father fought tirelessly to prove himself. He faced skepticism and rejection, with people asking, "How can a blind man work at a radio station?" But his passion ran deeper, and his determination was unyielding. He overcame the obstacles and landed his first job at "Radio Liberty."

Over the years, his brilliance only grew. He mastered computer audio engineering with a precision that surpassed many sighted (and even today, he still uses modern smartphones with remarkable skill). His extraordinary journey captivated the media, and articles about him appeared in major regional publications, including Zahrat Al Khaleej magazine in 2003. As he moved from one radio station to another, he built a remarkable legacy and became a prominent figure in his field.

But after more than a quarter of a century dedicated to the world of media, his life took a dramatic turn. His name, Said, literally means "happy" in Arabic.

The last photo of him today shows him at the age of 57. He is enduring his seventh forced displacement.

Before this war, we had a unique lemon tree that bore the most delicious fruit. I would pick a few lemons, squeeze them there in the shade, add refreshing mint, and breathe a sigh of relief.

The tree and the garden are completely gone.

I managed to find some lemons, so I sat on the edge of the steps and made a drink. It tasted the same, but looking around at what we've lost is incredibly painful. War doesn't just destroy buildings; it steals the beautiful little traditions that hold us together.

Last night, on my way back from a close friend's big celebration party, I found myself walking past the old "Al-Saha" cemetery. Something about the sudden stillness of the place drew me inside.

​As I walked through the quiet paths, reading the inscriptions on the weathered tombstones, one particular epitaph caught my eye. It belonged to a young man named Jamal al-Din Saqallah, who passed away on a Tuesday in 1938 (1357 AH).

​The tombstone featured a beautifully carved poem, honoring his youth and family lineage. I translated it into English, trying my best to capture its poetic soul rather than just a literal translation:

​Al-Fatiha (The Opening Chapter)

​May showers of divine mercy eternally grace your resting place,

The grave of a dear, noble soul of lofty character.

​I speak of Jamal al-Din, a branch of a generous lineage,

Whose father is our revered Sheikh Hassan, renowned for his stature.

​From the family of Saqallah, a house of honorable people,

How noble they are, complete in dignity and pride.

​When God called the departed soul to His Paradise,

He answered the call as a martyr of youth and purity.

​And Ridwan (the keeper of Paradise) pointed to him, marking the date:

"This is Jamal al-Din, and he is now in my Paradise."

​The Mind-Blowing Detail:

In classical Arabic poetry, there is a fascinating tradition called Abjad Chronogram (حساب الجمل). In the very last line, the poet says, "marking the date: This is Jamal al-Din, and he is now in my Paradise."

​If you calculate the mathematical value of the Arabic letters in that specific phrase (هذا جمال الدين وهو بجنتي), the total sum equals exactly 1357—which is the precise Islamic Hijri year of his death mentioned at the bottom!

​It amazed me how a sudden shift from a joyful gathering led me to discover such a beautiful piece of history, blending grief, poetry, and mathematics on a stone from nearly a century ago.