There’s a memory that’s only now starting to surface clearly.

It happened during one of the most disorienting, vulnerable times in my life—when I was sectioned in a psychiatric hospital. At the time, I was so flooded, so dysregulated, and so raw that I didn’t fully register what was happening around me. My body was in survival mode, and my mind tucked most of it away.

But now that I have space—calm mornings, solitude, a therapist—I’m remembering.
And this one moment stands out with striking clarity.

The Man Who Looked at Me Like I Was Nothing

He was tall. Arab, I think.
A presence that took up space in a threatening way—not loud, but full of intensity.
And he made it clear: he didn’t like me.

He stared at me like I was scum. Not just anger—contempt.
It was in his posture, his stillness, and especially his eyes: a calculated attempt to intimidate.

He wasn’t just mentally unwell—he was radicalised.
He openly talked about wanting to blow up the trams.
He saw people like me—white, Western, probably “soft”—as the enemy.
And I was in a locked ward with him.

He tried to fight me—multiple times.
I remember him lunging toward me, being pulled back by staff, his fury sharp and focused.
But I wasn’t afraid. Not because I’m brave—because I didn’t have the capacity to process fear at the time. I was already surviving something internal. I had no room to run from someone else’s hatred.

The Moment of Unexpected Truth

At some point—while he was glaring at me, trying to project menace—I looked at him, and I said:

“You have beautiful eyes.”

It was completely genuine.
They were striking—deep green, unexpectedly soft.
I hadn’t seen many Arab men with green eyes, and part of me wondered if he had some English blood in him.
But that wasn’t the point. I wasn’t trying to flatter. I wasn’t trying to de-escalate. I just saw something true and named it.

And it shocked him.

He didn’t know how to respond. You could see it.
He was expecting fear or avoidance—maybe confrontation.
Instead, he got something human. Vulnerable. Slightly intimate.
Maybe even, from his lens, a little too close to something “haram.”

It might have confused him further. Maybe, in his world, men don’t offer kindness like that. Especially not to someone who’s projecting hatred. Especially not someone he’s supposed to despise.

A Strange Dynamic

After that moment, things shifted. Not in a fairy tale way—he still tried to fight me again later.

But there was something different.
A flicker of… I don’t know. Curiosity? Respect? Internal conflict?
He still hated me, maybe. But I also think he didn’t know what to do with me anymore.

I wasn’t behaving the way he expected.
I wasn’t confirming his biases.
I wasn’t scared, nor was I dominant.
I was just… present.

And I think that presence got through to something deep in him, even if only for a second.

Looking Back Now

I was never truly safe in that hospital. Not just because of him.
Because the staff didn’t protect me in any real way.
He was dragged off multiple times. But there was no follow-up. No containment. No support.

I had to internalize that danger as normal.
I buried the memory because I had no one to process it with.
But now—years later—it’s surfacing, and I see it clearly:

  • He was trying to intimidate me.
  • I disarmed him with truth.
  • And for a moment, something shifted.

It’s one of the strangest, most surreal moments of my life.
And I’m only just beginning to realise how powerful that moment was.

Why I’m Writing This

Because I forget.
Because my mind protects me by erasing the things no one helped me hold.

And because that sentence—“You have beautiful eyes”—wasn’t just a comment.

It was an anchor.
A moment where I was fully me, even in danger.
A moment where I saw the human inside the threat, and refused to meet hate with hate.

I didn’t know it then.
But that was the therapist in me.
Long before I had any training, I knew how to see someone others had written off.

Even if they wanted to hurt me.
Even if no one protected me.
Even if I never spoke about it until now.