{"id":1922,"date":"2024-07-11T13:30:49","date_gmt":"2024-07-11T20:30:49","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/magazine\/?p=1922"},"modified":"2024-10-23T11:22:21","modified_gmt":"2024-10-23T18:22:21","slug":"persist","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/magazine\/persist\/","title":{"rendered":"Persist"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n\n\n\n \n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
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\n\n \n \u201cI hope \u2018Persist\u2019 conveys that the experiences that we go through, even if they are difficult and heart breaking, can still be healed into beauty.\u201d (Photo: Olga Burymska.)\n\n\n<\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
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Persist<\/h1>\n\n\n<\/div>\n \n \n By<\/span>Azka Sattar<\/a><\/strong>\n \n July 11, 2024<\/span>\n <\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n <\/div><\/div>\n\n \n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
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There was a clay cup in my family, handed down from the generations. When it was my turn, I looked after it with naive ambition. It was a beautiful cup, crimson and flawless, showing no signs of its age. Blue designs streaked across it, like lines on a map. I showed this cup to everyone I met. I didn\u2019t realize that precious things shouldn\u2019t be accessible to the world.<\/p>\n

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When I was 16, for the first time, a boy asked to drink water from my cup. I gave it to him, so excited for him to notice the details I see every day. I wanted to hear him say that even ordinary water tasted magical from this cup. I should have thought twice, but I was too young to know any better. He said it was an accident, the cup just slipped from his grip, and he didn\u2019t mean it. If I think back now, I will swear he dropped it with purpose. What I do know for sure, is that he made no move to catch it as it fell. I sank to my knees and cried over the broken pieces of my cup, while he offered his superficial excuses, before finally, leaving me alone.<\/p>\n

It took me a week to find the pieces of the cup from where they had scattered. I laid them all out on the floor and looked at them through tearful eyes. I was so sure that I was missing a part. The boy must have stepped on it on his way out. I\u2019ll never find it again. My broken cup will always be missing a section. No one will ever drink out of this cup again.<\/p>\n

A year later I was so thirsty. I needed water from my cup, and I decided I was going to make that happen, no matter what. I sat down with the pieces and slowly, carefully, with all the love I could muster, I joined the pieces together. The lacquer I used was mixed with gold. It took me almost a year to fully heal my cup. And when I was done, it was beautiful. I could see where it had cracked, but the gold lines just made it more valuable.<\/p>\n

Now I am certain, there is no cup like this in the whole world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<\/div>\n\n\n <\/div><\/div>\n\n\n \n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

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In five brief paragraphs, Azka Sattar gets to the heart of the matter, evoking love and loss and reconciliation, finding strength and restoration in the simplest of gestures, the reconstruction of a broken cup.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<\/div>\n \n