Lines
The sun was heavy on the streets of Copenhagen today. I was walking and listening to an audiobook, when I stopped at a coffee shop. Outside, I saw a line.
A long line. A very long line.
Maybe a hundred people, maybe more, waiting patiently for their turn. For coffee.
The coffee is good, I’ll admit. The shop is beautiful too. But this post is not about coffee. Not really.
This is about lines—the constancy of them. They keep appearing in my life, again and again, in so many forms.
And today, of all days—World Humanitarian Day, when the world takes a second to remember humanitarian action—I cannot help but notice this line, and think of all the others.
Because I have seen lines. So many of them.
The line for coffee today pulls me back to a line I once saw in Nigeria: families standing in the sun, waiting for shelter items—iron sheets, timber, plastic sheeting. Each person carried a piece of paper, a registration card, a hope.
Each was waiting for something to rebuild the idea of home. To shield them from the rains, from the dry winds, from the harshness of exile.
And from there my mind leaps—to Kabul airport.
That line.
I will never forget that line.
It was a line for escape. For survival.
A line of desperation and fear, stretching for miles. Thousands of families pressed against the gates of the airport, waiting to flee the unknown that swallowed their country overnight when the Taliban took over.
I stood there and felt the weight of the world collapse into a single word: line.
And then more come back.
Lines in Syria.
Lines in Iraq.
Lines in Lebanon.
Lines in Bangladesh.
Lines I have seen. Of mothers with children pressed close, of elders leaning on sticks, of fathers carrying empty sacks. Lines of people waiting for food—for rice, flour, oil.
Rations that might last a month, a week, or only a day. In these lines hunger was measured not by appetite but by calendar.
And then South Sudan. There, I saw a line that was not on the ground but in the sky.
People standing with heads tilted upward, waiting for the sound of engines, the opening of plane doors, the parachutes unfurling. Waiting for food to fall from the sky.
But not all lines are the same.
I remember Paris—a line outside a restaurant famous for its brunch. The people around me were laughing, dressed up, scrolling on their phones. Waiting in anticipation for French cuisine, for a glass of wine, for nice coffee, for another picture to post.
A line wrapped in joy, in desire, in leisure.
And Kuala Lumpur: a twisting line I saw outside an Apple store. People waiting to touch the newest iPhone. Technology, status, longing. A different hunger altogether.
And in Dubai: a line in front of a diamond shop, in one of the malls. People waiting to enter, drawn to the shine of stones pulled from deep beneath the earth.
My thoughts return to another line I once saw, in a remote village: a line of jerrycans at a water point. Yellow plastic lined up in the dust, each one marking a household. Some water might come in hours, or in days.
Behind every jerrycan was a family, a thirst, a hope.
And in Turkey: a line at the border. People waiting to leave Syria. Escaping hunger, escaping bombs, escaping silence. Waiting for another chance at life. And then, several years later, another line at the same border—people rushing to go back to rebuild.
And yes, I also saw many other lines in front of embassies.
Hundreds of people waiting for visas. Waiting to see someone. To join something. To leave everything. To begin again.
And I have also seen the other side of those lines—people boarding planes within hours, rushing far from home to respond to an emergency. Stepping into the unknown to serve strangers they may never meet again.
Lines of departure, lines of duty, lines drawn by urgency.
All of these lines—whether of waiting or of rushing, of desperation or of service—remind me of the full spectrum of human experience.
And I must say this too: I am not against the other lines. The joyful ones. The ones we sometimes take for granted.
I love seeing people wait for a good time, maybe a new phone, their eyes bright with anticipation. I love seeing couples stand in line for brunch, dressed well, laughing. I love the lines outside diamond shops, the lines for concerts, the lines for something beautiful or rare. These lines are part of what it means to be human too.
They speak of joy, of taste, of style, of love, of abundance.
And there is something deeply human in watching people lean toward what delights them.
What I long for is not an end to those lines. What I long for is a world where they are the only lines we ever have to stand in. A world where no one waits in line for food, or water, or shelter. Where no one waits in line to flee their home or beg for survival. Where the only lines left are the ones that remind us of living fully, abundantly, joyfully.
These lines, from Copenhagen to Nigeria, from Paris to South Sudan, from Dubai to dusty villages, from tourist streets to war zones—build something in me.
A construct in my head. A heaviness in my heart. They are not separate. They are threads in the same fabric, one long line stretching across humanity.
Because life itself is a line.
I have stood in lines waiting to be seated in fine restaurants.
I have also stood in lines waiting for food rations in a camp.
I have stood in front of lines, organizing people to receive survival kits.
I have also stood in front of lines, organizing dignitaries to enter a conference hall.
I have stood in lines where silence was my only response.
I have stood in lines where I told people to stay in line.
I have stood in lines where I told my teams to think outside the line.
And today—this line outside a coffee shop—reminds me again that life is full of them.
Lines of waiting.
Lines of survival.
Lines of desire.
Lines of order.
Lines of hope.
And here I am, walking past, speaking into my phone, stitching these reflections into yet another kind of line. Words that connect one image to another, one memory to another. Words written first for myself, but also for you.
Maybe they form a line in your mind, too.
Maybe they remind you of the lines you’ve stood in.
Maybe they make you wonder what it means, and what it reveals, to wait in line.
Because in the end, perhaps, our lives are measured not only by where we arrive, but by the lines we’ve stood in—and the ones we chose to see.
Ali Al Mokdad
