Issue 002: Editor's Letter
Dearest Reader,
I was never really good at starting things, and whenever I needed to, I always made sure I planned everything ahead. Like, way ahead—sometimes years ahead. Back in 7th and 8th grade, I would get confused looks whenever I got into a political rant. I mean, what the hell is she talking about?
I was always ahead of things, and that, I guess, affected the way I am. It was unusual for a 13-year-old to get into a heated argument with an Islamophobic teacher (which is ironic, considering she chose teaching in a Muslim country). With my unrelenting stubbornness, I wouldn’t back down until they sent me to the principal’s office, so that I continue arguing. (A pain in the neck, I know, but I was angry.)
Now that I think of it, it might be because of the subliminal fear I have for the unknown. I had to get everything backed up so I would never be put on the spot. Baba sits me down every once in a while, to remind me that it’s okay to live in the moment and wait for what the future might unravel. And when I retrieve some scenes from the past, I think it’s true.
I think déjà vu is one of the most stimulating phenomena to ever occur. The easiest way to describe it is exactly what happens when a word is stuck at the tip of your tongue and you’re not able to spit it out. You have a hazy image of what it looks like, yet can’t put your finger on it. This issue celebrates that: the frustration of not remembering, the reminiscence of the past, and the recognition to what might follow.
I was a few months into 19 (turning 20 in about 20 days, but that's something I'd like to disregard for the time being) when I started Sumou last August, driving the uneven roads of Istanbul. I’d shut down the writing club, Masked Saudis, because 1) I started it in high school and restricted it to women, and 2) the name was misleading, since almost everyone thought it was a Saudis-only online club.
Istanbul, where it all began.
Sumou was going to be named Kawkab, the Arabic word for planet, to suggest unity and inclusion, but my mom thought it was a mouthful. In a mall cafeteria while eating a McDonald’s burger, she lifted her head and said, “Sumou.”
I remember giving her a confused look. “Your magazine,” she continued. “You should name it Sumou. But give me some credit if anyone asks.” She winked at me, humor coating her tone.
Sumou means reaching the heights of the extraordinary. Highness, distinction, grace—thus the bird silhouette in the logo.
I have to admit the night we published the first issue felt somewhat like the aftermath of childbirth (the lingering presence that something I created is out for the world to see felt like that). I couldn’t sleep that night. Words of both flattery and gratitude came our way, and the closest, yet most metaphorical way to describe how I felt then was that I felt my heart explode. It felt so good to be read, to have your voice heard.
So thank you for sticking by, for spreading the word, and for giving genuine feedback. I hope you never stop evolving, growing, and embracing your déjà-vus. To Haifa, Sarah B., and Lara—to you, and to all the memories that carried a weight on you. Keep creating.
Love, love, love,
Jood
Jood is the founder of this site. Find her on her Instagram here.