TECHNOPHOBIA
✦ BOOK SIGNING
It all began in a city that barely breathed.
A place where dreams stumbled in the crowd but somehow refused to die.
Writing there wasn’t a luxury — it was survival,
a way to speak when the world had forgotten how to listen.
I wasn’t sure I could ever write something worth reading.
Every idea seemed to break before it bloomed.
But something inside me refused to stay silent.
I kept writing — because writing was the only way to stay awake
in a world half noise, half emptiness.
Technophobia didn’t start as a story about technology.
It started as a story about us —
how we changed without noticing,
how our phones became our mirrors,
and our screens began to show who we wanted to be, not who we are.
Outside my window, the city buzzed with politics and exhaustion.
Inside, there was only me and the dim light of a screen.
Each word I wrote felt like a quiet rebellion,
a way to hold onto truth before it vanished in the scroll.
At first, Technophobia was meant to be satire —
a playful laugh at how serious our virtual lives had become.
But between the lines, the laughter turned into confession.
The comedy became a mirror —
and the reflection wasn’t funny anymore.
I never thought the book would be printed.
The dream was only to finish it.
To see it on paper after living so long in drafts and doubt.
I wrote it to remind myself that dreams don’t need permission to exist.
Then came the coincidence that changed everything.
A group of thinkers read the manuscript and believed in its message.
From a simple idea — a symbolic celebration of thought —
the night began to take shape.
Mashareq Marketing joined as a promotional sponsor,
The Museum Hotel offered its elegant space and full support,
and Speed Click Internet handled the event’s broadcast and connectivity.
In one spontaneous evening, everyone came together —
thinkers, journalists, companies, friends, and strangers —
to turn belief into a night the city would never forget.
The night before, I couldn’t sleep.
I kept rewriting my speech,
as if words could hide the fear that no one would come.
I arrived early.
Too many chairs.
Too much silence.
The kind that echoes inside your chest.
I kept staring at the door, pretending not to wait.
Minutes passed like hours.
Then a sound — a door opened.
Someone entered.
Then another.
Faces I knew, faces I didn’t.
Step by step, the room began to breathe.
Soon, the hall was full.
Laughter and curiosity filled the air.
I saw people reading, discussing, smiling —
and realized the book wasn’t about technology anymore.
It was about us, and how we still crave something real.
That night wasn’t just a signing —
it was a moment of birth.
Not for a book, but for belief.
Proof that words, when written with truth,
can still make people listen.
Technophobia was only the beginning.
It taught me that nothing great is born from planning alone —
but from faith.
From the first doubtful word,
to the first unexpected applause.
And among all the voices I heard that night,
one still echoes in my mind, whispering:
“Continue — there’s still so much left to say.”