The Faith of the Cicada

The first thing anyone notices in my apartment is my collection of insects. Among them, there’s a special piece: a 17-year-old cicada from Thailand. Many people assume I’m a biologist because of this collection, but the answer is, "No! I am a writer and an artist." Most of the time, I struggle to find a short answer to the question: "What is the secret of the cicada?" I rarely reveal my fascination with cicadas because many don’t share my excitement about their importance in Fijian folklore or how Bermuda has carefully carved the cicada’s image into its currency.

I have many thoughts related to cicadas: postage stamps adorned with this magnificent insect, or a long list of designers inspired by the cicada, crafting everything from toys and clothing to architectural designs. But I usually present the cicada in a philosophical way that people can relate to: "To me, the cicada symbolizes my philosophy of life—it represents hope," I reply.

My life experience has shown me that hope is the greatest driving force in our universe, at least from my personal perspective. Many people have their own hopes: the desire to achieve something academically or scientifically, the dream of building a productive economy, or even the hope of falling in love with someone. Hope takes many forms.

As an atheist, I understand why people pray and seek hope. Many mistakenly think that atheism is synonymous with existential nihilism, the belief that life has no intrinsic meaning or value. But I understand the importance of religion for others; I fully grasp why someone would seek spiritual guidance in life.

Many people look to the heavens for guidance and hope, but I bow my head and think. I believe the true source of guidance in life comes from within, from the heart and the mind. This guidance can be religious, political, or philosophical. For me, the most important thing isn’t what you call this guidance—it’s that it exists.

I don’t look to the sky for answers in moments of defeat. Instead, I bow my head in thought, remembering the cicada during my darkest times. The 17-year cicada spends its life underground, living in darkness for 17 years, only emerging into the light for one month. In that short time, it flies toward the sky, eats innumerable delicacies, loves passionately, and celebrates nature’s beauty. The cicada waits in the dark, confident that the timeless darkness will end in a grand celebration.

I’ve always believed in embracing positivity and loving life by fully living it. In August 2012, I visited a small town called Kom Umbu in Aswan, in southern Egypt. While there, I heard a song by a local Mauwal musician named Youseff Shita. I recorded a verse from this song and kept it close to my heart; it says:

Iktum aljarh wa qawwey al-rubatt bi-a’shaash,  

Wa shuf bi-eayn al-rida wajah al-zamman bashash

Which can be roughly translated as:

Bind up the wound and wrap it tight with care,  

Then gaze with satisfaction; joy is everywhere

I wrote this verse and displayed it on a board in bold, colourful letters because I must always keep positivity in my mind and front of my eyes. I know many think this hyper-positivity is an illusion, and I understand their logic. We live in a time when optimism is taboo, dismissed in the name of rationality. The glorification of violence leaves no room for positivity because the voices of hate occupy every platform. Despite all this, my inner guide keeps whispering: "If you can’t sing like a sparrow, at least don’t hoot like an owl."

My guidance always whispers: "See every difficulty as an opportunity," because I believe this positivity can help me move forward—from possibility to reality. Even when the results aren’t as expected, I smile because my goal in life isn’t merely to win but to make a meaningful statement. Through my positivity, I try to make a statement as an artist, as a writer, and above all, as a human being. When I get hurt, I remember that verse from the Egyptian song—I cover the wound, and I look with the eye of satisfaction.

I believe everyone should have this faith—the faith of the cicada, which understands that darkness isn’t eternal, and neither is waiting for the light. Perhaps moments of joy are fleeting, but that’s the essence of life: it’s about the quality of living, not the length of time we live. The cicada lives only for one month, singing loudly for days before it dies. The wind and rivers carry the cicada on a journey beyond death, long after its message has resonated loudly. I believe in this logic, and in moments of darkness, I know the light will come, and I will sing loudly like the cicada—singing for the hope that is coming.