Mahdi Ahmed

THE MORNINGS WE KEPT

3 November 2026 — Thirty-eight years later

The morning of 3 November 1988 began like any other in Malé.

The sun had not yet risen. Most people were still asleep, while others were barely waking up to the familiar stillness of the early morning. Nothing suggested that this particular Thursday would be any different from the countless Thursdays before it.

Then came the distant gunfire.

At first, some people thought little of it. Republic Day was approaching on 11 November, and the National Security Service (NSS), now known as the MNDF, was expected to be preparing for the celebrations. Perhaps they were rehearsing for the procession. It seemed a reasonable enough explanation.

But the gunfire didn’t stop.

What initially sounded like a military rehearsal was beginning to sound like something far more sinister. Soon, people would learn that Malé was under attack by foreign mercenaries, aided by a handful of Maldivians, attempting to overthrow the government.

And just like that, an ordinary morning became a day that would remain in our history forever.

I wasn’t there to witness any of it. I was seventeen, living in Colombo, and my morning began with my Sri Lankan landlady frantically banging on my bedroom door. I have written about that experience before. The frightening news, the dead telephone lines, the uncertainty about my family’s safety, and the tremendous relief I felt when I finally heard my mother’s voice on the radio the following morning.

I have also written about how those memories eventually inspired me to write and direct the television drama 3 November.

So, I won’t repeat those stories again. Anyone who has been following my blog long enough has probably heard them more than once.

Today, however, I find myself thinking about something else.

What happened to all those ordinary mornings after 3 November 1988?

Thirty-eight years is a long time. Long enough for a child born that year to have children of their own, perhaps even old enough to complain about them spending too much time on their phones. Long enough for Malé to become almost unrecognisable from the little city I knew back then.

We have changed considerably. Our lifestyles, our politics, our priorities, and certainly our ability to argue about practically anything. These days, we don’t even have to leave our homes to pick a fight with someone. Social media has made that remarkably convenient.

But life has continued.

People went back to work. Children returned to school. Shops reopened. Families gathered around dinner tables. Weddings were celebrated. Babies were born. We laughed, cried, fell in love, lost loved ones, and carried on with all the little things that make up our lives.

In other words, we got our ordinary mornings back.

And I wonder how often we have stopped to appreciate that.

Every year, on 3 November, we commemorate Victory Day. We remember the bravery of our soldiers, the resistance against the attackers, and the timely intervention of India that helped bring the crisis to an end.

And rightly so.

But somewhere behind the celebrations, the flags, and the speeches are nineteen Maldivians who never got to see another morning. Eight members of our security forces and eleven civilians.

Nineteen lives.

I sometimes wonder about the families they left behind. What must 3 November mean to them, even after thirty-eight years? While the rest of the country celebrates a victory, they are reminded of someone who never came home.

I cannot pretend to know how that feels.

I was fortunate. Everyone in my family survived. When I finally heard my mother’s voice broadcasting from Voice of Maldives, I knew she was safe. And when I managed to contact home later that day, I learned that the rest of my family was safe too.

At seventeen, that was all I cared about. I wasn’t thinking about sovereignty, politics, or even the significance of what had happened. I just wanted my family to be alive.

Looking back, I realise how fortunate I was to receive the news I had been praying for. Others were not so fortunate.

Perhaps that is one of the things age does to us. We begin to look beyond our own experiences and think about the people whose stories ended differently.

I also wonder what 3 November means to the younger generation today.

For many of them, it is a chapter in a history book, a documentary on television, or simply a public holiday. They know there was an attempted coup. They know it failed. They know we celebrate Victory Day because of it.

But can they truly understand what it felt like to wake up one morning and discover that their country was under attack?

Probably not.

And in a way, I am glad they cannot.

I wouldn’t wish that uncertainty on anyone, especially our children. The fear of not knowing whether your family is alive is something I remember even after thirty-eight years. And I experienced it from the relative safety of another country.

Those who were in Malé that morning lived through something far worse.

Yet, I don’t think we should expect the younger generation to feel the same emotions we felt. That would be unfair. History means different things to different generations. What matters is that they understand what happened, why it happened, and what it cost us.

There is something else I have come to appreciate over the years.

We tend to think of peace as something permanent. We wake up, go about our business, complain about the weather, the traffic, the government, or whatever happens to irritate us that particular day. We make plans for tomorrow without really considering that tomorrow might not turn out the way we expect.

That is how most of us lived before 3 November 1988.

And then, before the sun had even risen, everything changed.

I suppose that is why I find myself increasingly drawn to the ordinary rather than the extraordinary whenever this anniversary comes around.

The people who defended our country that morning weren’t fighting for grand speeches or annual ceremonies. They were defending their homes, their families, and a country whose people deserved to live without the fear of armed men taking control of their lives.

Their sacrifice allowed the rest of us to continue living ours.

That, to me, is what makes the victory meaningful.

Not that everything has been perfect since. Far from it. We have had our share of political turmoil, disagreements, and difficult times. We are still a nation learning, sometimes rather painfully, how to live with our differences.

But thirty-eight years later, we are still here.

And life goes on.

Tomorrow morning, someone in Malé will probably oversleep. A parent will struggle to get a reluctant child ready for school. A shopkeeper will open for business. Someone will be annoyed about the ferry running late. And somewhere, two people will undoubtedly be arguing about politics before they’ve even had breakfast.

Nothing particularly remarkable about any of that.

But imagine what those ordinary moments would have meant to the people who woke up to gunfire on 3 November 1988.

Or to the nineteen people who never lived to see another morning.

I have written about this day many times over the years. At first, I wrote about my fear. Later, I wrote about the story that grew out of those memories. Today, at fifty-five, I find myself thinking less about what happened to me and more about what we were fortunate enough to have afterwards.

The years. The people. The little moments we rarely give much thought to until something threatens to take them away.

Every 3 November, I remember that frightened seventeen-year-old boy in Colombo, desperately trying to hear a familiar voice through the static of a radio.

But today, I also think about the nineteen people whose families never received the reassurance I was fortunate enough to get.

We call it Victory Day, and it was indeed a victory. One that came at a terrible price.

Perhaps the greatest tribute we can pay to those who lost their lives is not merely to remember how they died, but to appreciate what their sacrifice allowed the rest of us to keep.

Our families. Our homes. Our tomorrows.

And all those ordinary mornings we have lived since.

May we never take another one for granted.

May Allah bless our beloved Maldives with lasting peace, unity, and prosperity. May He protect our nation from harm, guide our leaders with wisdom and integrity, and keep our people united despite our differences. May He grant the martyrs who sacrificed their lives for our nation the highest ranks of Jannah, and may our children inherit a country where peace, justice, and compassion always prevail.

Aameen.

In remembrance of the nineteen Maldivians who lost their lives on 3 November 1988, and with gratitude to everyone who defended our nation that day.

CLAYFACE (2026): THE HORROR OF BEING SEEN

Sometimes the most frightening thing about losing your face is discovering how much of yourself goes with it.

An actor spends his life trying to make people look at him. In Clayface, his greatest tragedy is that people can no longer bear to.

That, to me, is the most interesting idea in James Watkins’ film.

Not the grotesque transformations. Not the blood. And certainly not the graphic violence, which I genuinely struggled to watch.

Yet, strangely enough, I enjoyed the film.

Matt Hagen, played by Tom Rhys Harries, is an actor whose face is his livelihood, his confidence, and his ticket to a better life. When that face is taken away, his entire identity begins to unravel.

As a screenwriter, I find this premise fascinating. Take away the one thing a character believes he cannot live without, and you have the foundation for a compelling tragedy.

What interested me most was how the film explores our obsession with appearances. We admire beautiful faces, trust familiar ones, and often judge people before they have spoken a word. Matt’s transformation exposes how quickly that acceptance can disappear.

There is something terribly sad about a man becoming invisible precisely because he has become impossible to ignore.

Of course, James Watkins has other plans for our nerves.

The body horror is extreme. Disturbingly extreme. There were moments when I could barely keep my eyes on the screen. I appreciated the craftsmanship, but appreciating something and being able to stomach it are two very different things.

My curiosity wanted to keep watching. My stomach was strongly recommending otherwise.

And yet, I remained invested.

Tom Rhys Harries brings enough vulnerability to Matt for us to recognise the frightened man beneath the monster. Even when his choices become difficult to defend, his desperation remains understandable.

I also admire DC’s willingness to venture into darker territory without turning everything into another conventional superhero spectacle. Clayface has its own identity, and it is not particularly interested in making us comfortable.

My only real reservation is that the violence occasionally threatens to overwhelm the emotional weight of the story.

I have always believed that what we choose not to show can be more powerful than what we reveal. A man hesitating before looking into a mirror, or someone he loves instinctively stepping away from him, can be more devastating than another elaborate display of disfigured flesh.

That does not make the violence unnecessary. It belongs to the film Watkins has chosen to make. I simply wonder whether a little restraint might have made its emotional horror even more effective.

Because beneath all that disturbing spectacle, Clayface asks an uncomfortable question: How much of our affection for another person depends on what we see?

I enjoyed Clayface more than I expected, considering how often I found myself fighting the urge to look away. It is unsettling, ambitious, and surprisingly moving. Not an easy film to sit through, but certainly one worth thinking about afterwards.

What hooked with me was not the monster Matt Hagen becomes, but the man desperately trying to hold on to whatever remains of himself.

There is horror in watching a face fall apart. But the greater tragedy is watching a man’s place in the world fall apart with it.

And that, more than anything gruesome the film puts on screen, is what makes Clayface worth watching.

A Word of Caution: Clayface is an exceptionally gruesome film, featuring extreme graphic violence and deeply disturbing body-horror imagery. This is certainly not for the faint-hearted or those sensitive to such content. Consider yourself warned.

KEEVVE?: SOME QUESTIONS ARE WORTH WAITING FOR

The official poster of KEEVVE? is finally out!

There is something wonderfully strange about being a screenwriter. You spend months living with people who don’t exist, listening to their conversations, understanding their fears, and occasionally making their lives miserable. All in the name of storytelling, of course.

And then, one day, those imaginary people appear on a movie poster.

But Keevve? is special for another reason.

After more than 22 years, veteran filmmaker Easa Shareef returns to directing. Reeko Moosa Manik returns in a leading role after a long hiatus. And Aslam Rasheed, one of the successful producers of Dhivehi cinema’s golden era, brings them together again.

Interestingly, these three men were part of Fathis Handhuvaru back in 1997. Almost three decades later, they reunite to tell a story that began as words on my pages.

That’s quite a journey. And quite a responsibility for a screenwriter!

As for what happens in the story, my lips are sealed. I’ve already made these characters go through enough. The least I can do is let them tell you their story themselves.

25 November 2026. In Olympus.

One word. One question.

KEEVVE? — WHY?

Come find out. Some answers are better experienced in the darkness of a cinema.

EMBER: THROUGH HER TEARS

Yesterday, I visited EMBER, the photography exhibition by GMB Akash at Gallery 350.

There were many powerful images.

But one photograph refused to leave me.

A young woman. Looking straight into the camera.

Crying.

No dramatic setting. No elaborate composition. Just her face, her eyes, and a tear travelling slowly down her cheek.

I don’t know her story.

I don’t know what happened before that photograph was taken. I don’t know whether those tears came from grief, fear, exhaustion, anger or helplessness.

And perhaps that is why it affected me so deeply.

The photograph does not explain her pain.

It simply asks you to look at it.

Really look.

There is something uncomfortable about meeting the eyes of someone who is crying. In real life, we often look away. A photograph gives us no such escape. That moment remains there, frozen, waiting for us.

And as I stood before her, I started thinking about all the people we pass every day carrying tears we never see.

People who smile.

People who work.

People who say, I’m fine.

Maybe her face connected with me because there was no performance in it. No attempt to appear strong.

Only vulnerability.

And yet, somehow, enormous dignity.

The exhibition describes an ember as something that remains glowing after the flames have died down.

Looking at her, I understood the title.

Sometimes resilience is not standing tall.

Sometimes it is simply remaining.

Still breathing.

Still looking back at the world.

Still glowing.

I left Gallery yesterday.

But that photograph did not stay behind.

Even now, I can see her face.

And perhaps that is what a truly powerful photograph does.

You look at it for a few seconds.

Then, somehow,

it follows you home.

GMB Akash’s EMBER is on view at Gallery 350 until 15 October 2026.

REACHER: I CAME FOR THE PUNCHES. I STAYED FOR THE MAN.

For a long time, I did not watch Reacher.

I watched Reacher.

There is a difference.

YouTube kept throwing loose scenes at me. Reacher enters a room. Reacher studies a man. Reacher warns him. The man makes the unfortunate decision not to listen. Then Reacher corrects the misunderstanding with the efficiency of someone closing an open cupboard.

No nonsense. No speech about what he intends to do.

He simply does it.

Every clip gave me a strange rush of blood. I rooted for him without knowing the full story or sometimes even the name of the man whose arm was about to discover a new angle.

Yet I never felt the urge to begin the series.

Then, about a month ago, I gave Season 1 a chance.

Believe you me, that was it.

I binge-watched Seasons 1, 2 and 3. By Season 4, I was waiting every week for the next episode until I finally watched the finale last week.

I am still rooting for him.

I think I always will.

Lee Child introduced Jack Reacher in the 1997 novel Killing Floor: a former United States Army military police major with no home, no car and almost no possessions. He travels from place to place, finds trouble and becomes the worst possible tourist for the people responsible.

Tom Cruise first played him in two films. When the television series arrived in 2022, Alan Ritchson brought Reacher much closer to the enormous figure described in the books. Each season adapts a different Lee Child novel, changing the place, mystery and supporting characters while preserving Reacher’s code.

The audience found him quickly. The four seasons currently average 95 per cent from critics on Rotten Tomatoes.

Clearly, Reacher is popular.

The more interesting question is why.

At first glance, Reacher appears to be a male fantasy assembled in a laboratory.

He is huge. He can fight, shoot and read a crime scene. He remembers facts no ordinary person would bother remembering. He owns almost nothing and carries no luggage—only a toothbrush.

But what makes him compelling is not his strength. It is the moral discipline governing that strength.

Reacher does not look for weak people to dominate. He notices the people being dominated. Bullies reveal themselves through the way they treat a waiter, corner someone frightened, misuse authority or assume money has made them untouchable.

He studies injustice the way another man studies a menu.

Then he orders.

There is something deeply satisfying about a character who sees clearly through the fog of real life. Institutions hesitate. Powerful people hide behind procedure. Victims are doubted. Everyone is told to wait while injustice continues working overtime.

Reacher does not wait.

As drama, he fulfils a private human wish: that someone incorruptible will arrive, understand what happened and stand beside the person nobody else will protect.

He is not simply a man who fights criminals.

He is certainty entering a world full of excuses.

The action attracts us, but the writing keeps us watching.

Reacher’s body is used as misdirection. Criminals see his size and assume violence is his only language. Sometimes we do too. Yet he usually defeats people in his head before defeating them with his hands.

He notices shoes, posture, accents, distances and inconsistencies. His military past gives him procedure. His life as a drifter gives him perspective. Because he is always an outsider, he sees the habits a town has stopped questioning.

His greatest physical feature is his size. His greatest dramatic feature is attention.

“Details matter” is not just his principle. It is a screenwriting lesson. Stories rarely become truthful through big speeches. They become truthful through the cup left untouched, the shoe that is too clean or the silence held one second longer than expected.

Reacher reads those details. When he finally acts, the action feels earned because we have watched the thought behind it.

He is also very funny.

The clever part is that he never behaves as though he is.

Most characters signal a joke. Their voice changes. Their face asks us to laugh. Reacher delivers sarcasm with the seriousness of a man reading military coordinates.

He does not perform wit. He reports it.

When someone threatens him, Reacher calmly explains why the threat will fail. When a foolish man mistakes restraint for fear, he responds as if correcting bad arithmetic. His words become warning, observation and punchline at the same time.

Alan Ritchson understands the music of those lines. There is no wink and no request for applause. We laugh because the line is sharp. We lean forward because the man receiving it has not realised it may be his final warning.

In weaker action writing, heroes joke during danger to show they are not afraid. Reacher’s wit tells us he has already measured the danger and found it disappointing.

For someone who owns almost nothing, Reacher carries a great deal.

He forms bonds, protects people and occasionally allows himself tenderness.

Then he leaves.

That is the wound at the centre of the character.

Reacher believes in people, but not in staying. His freedom is genuine, yet it has a price. He can walk away from possessions because possessions cannot mourn him. Walking away from people is harder, even when his face refuses to admit it.

The series wisely avoids forcing him into emotional speeches. Reacher is most moving when his feelings escape through action.

Which brings me to the final scene of Season 4.

After all the bloodshed, Reacher boards a subway train carrying a Philly cheesesteak. An unhoused elderly woman sits nearby.

He gives her half.

That is all.

No speech. No announcement that a good man is doing a good thing.

He notices someone who has less, and he gives.

I had watched him survive violence, uncover conspiracies and make dangerous men regret waking up that morning. Yet it was half a sandwich that brought tears to my eyes.

Because that small action explains him better than any fight scene.

Reacher does not fight injustice because he enjoys hurting people. He hurts certain people because he cannot look away when the helpless are being hurt. The fists are not the character. They are his tools.

The character is the man who notices the old woman.

As a screenwriter, I loved the restraint. The season begins on a subway with Reacher noticing a woman in danger and being unable to save her. It ends on a train with him noticing another woman and quietly helping her. The first moment pulls him into violence. The last returns him to compassion.

That is not merely a touching ending.

That is visual closure.

Perhaps those YouTube clips pulled me in because they offered justice without delay. A bad man behaved badly, Reacher warned him, and consequence arrived before the clip ended.

Real life is rarely edited that well.

But the blood rush was only the invitation. What kept me watching was Reacher’s mind, dry humour, moral clarity and the quiet sadness of a man who will fight for anyone but refuses to ask anyone to stay for him.

I came for the punches.

I stayed for the man.

Season 5 is already in production. Wherever Reacher steps off next, trouble will probably be waiting.

And I will be by his side.

Although, for obvious reasons, I will stand slightly behind him.

EVERYTHING EXCEPT YOU

My Dearest Love,

On this special day, I am here in the home you created.

Everything is where it should be—the furniture, the bougainvilleas, the warm lights and, of course, the unnecessarily necessary 85-inch television.

Everything except you.

The apartment carries your presence in every corner. Strangely, that only makes your absence feel greater. The rooms are quieter. The lights seem a little less warm. Home is still here, but the person who makes it feel alive is somewhere among the mountains—fast asleep with a headache after spending the entire day smelling, studying and taking far too many “little” sips of tea.

Every year, on this day, I try to find a new way to write about you. After all these years, this should have become easier.

It has not.

Perhaps that is because you cannot be neatly described in a few beautiful paragraphs. Just when I think I understand one side of you, another begins to reveal itself—quietly, through the little signs you may think have gone unnoticed. But after loving you this long, I have learned to read between the lines: the determined woman at work, the mother at home, the homemaker who gave our apartment its soul, and the gardener who gives every plant the attention usually reserved for a favourite child.

I am not saying the plants rank above me.

I am simply saying they are watered more regularly.

This year, more than anything, I have watched you build.

At work, years of effort finally found the recognition they deserved. Others may notice only what changed on paper. I see the early mornings, the responsibilities that followed you home and the quiet determination that carried you there.

When the news came, I was not surprised.

I was simply proud.

Then, in February, we moved into our new apartment.

I say “our apartment,” but since this is a special letter—and therefore a legally binding historical document—let us record the facts accurately.

You chose the colours.

You shaped the design.

You imagined the kitchen.

You selected the furniture.

You decided how every room should look, feel and function.

My contribution to this great architectural undertaking was one clear, bold and unwavering creative vision:

An 85-inch television.

Some men ask for a reading corner. Some ask for a home office.

I asked for something visible from neighbouring islands.

Even that exists because of you. Thank you for getting it for me despite knowing exactly what would happen. You installed a private cinema in our living room and gave its most loyal customer unlimited access.

But today, even eighty-five inches do not seem large enough to fill the space you have left behind.

Because it is everything around that enormous screen that makes this apartment feel like home.

That is your work.

You notice details the rest of us would happily walk past for years—the flowers on the kitchen island, the arrangement beside the accent chair, the way every lamp changes the mood of a room. In daylight, the flowers seem to belong to the sun. At night, beneath the warm lights, they become softer, calmer and almost cinematic.

You have worked out the lighting better than many film crews. No expensive equipment. No assistants. No retakes. Just flowers, lamps and the quiet confidence of a woman who already knows she is right.

You did not merely decorate an apartment. You gave empty rooms warmth, character and belonging. What began as walls, measurements, furniture catalogues and questions to which there was apparently only one correct answer has become a haven.

Your haven.

And then there is the balcony.

Under your care, it has become a garden above the city. Your bougainvilleas receive excellent accommodation, daily inspections and highly personalised care.

Frankly, they have a better management package than most resorts.

There is something about the bougainvillea that always makes me think of you. It withstands heat, wind and difficult weather, yet responds by producing colour. It does not wait for perfect conditions before it blooms.

Neither do you.

At work, you turn responsibility into achievement.

At home, you turn empty space into belonging.

On the balcony, you turn concrete into a garden.

And in my life, you turn ordinary days into something worth remembering.

People notice the finished results: the recognition, the beautiful apartment, the flowers and the blooming plants. I notice the care behind them—the thought, effort and persistence. I see the part of you that remains in every detail.

Today, I hope you pause long enough to see what I see.

Look at how far you have come. Look at the place you earned through years of effort. Look at the beautiful home you created. Look at the life growing on your balcony.

None of it happened by accident.

It carries your fingerprints.

And so does my life.

I hope your present location is kind to you. May those distant heights hold you gently, the crisp air brings a smile, and every lovely sight return a little of the joy you have created for everyone else.

May this year bring you more rest, more laughter and more reasons to feel proud of yourself. May your bougainvilleas continue to bloom, and may you occasionally forgive the man staring at the enormous television for not hearing what you said the first three times.

In my defence, eighty-five inches require intense concentration.

I may be watching the screen.

But I still notice more than you think.

Happy Birthday, my love.

Come home soon.

Always,

BETWEEN 61 AND ZERO

Grief does not begin when someone dies.

Sometimes it begins much earlier—when a strong body becomes weak, when pain replaces conversation, when the people gathered around a hospital bed begin searching one another’s faces for hope.

You grieve while the person is still breathing.

Then you feel guilty for grieving too soon.

So you hope.

On the chilly morning of 5 August 2022, I stood outside a resuscitation room where doctors were trying to bring my father back.

The door was ajar. Through the narrow opening, I could see only his feet. Every electric shock made them bounce from the bed before they fell still again.

I could not see his face.

I could not hold his hand.

I could only watch his feet move and convince myself that movement meant life.

With every shock, hope returned.

With every silence, it broke again.

My father died that morning. But grief kept that small opening in the door from ever closing inside me. A part of me remains in that corridor, still waiting for the next shock to work.

People say time heals. I am not sure it does. Time simply teaches us how to walk while carrying what cannot be healed.

Four years, one month and one day later, on 6 September 2026, grief found me outside another hospital room.

This time, my maternal uncle was inside the oncology ward. The door was closed, but through its glass pane I could see the cardiac monitor.

The number was 61.

He had fought an aggressive cancer bravely. We watched the disease take from him little by little. His strength. His comfort. His days.

It was painful to see him suffer. It was equally painful to look at the people who loved him and see their helplessness. Everyone wanted to take away some part of his pain, but love could do nothing except remain beside him and suffer too.

Still, we hoped.

That is what love does when it has nothing else left to offer.

From behind the glass, I watched the number fluctuate. As long as there was a number, he was still with us. As long as his heart beat, even weakly, there was room for a miracle.

At around 3:02 p.m., the number reached zero.

An alarm sounded.

And it was over.

I stared at the monitor, waiting for the zero to change. I wanted one more heartbeat—not a lifetime, not even another day. Just one beat to tell us that he had not left yet.

But zero remained zero.

In that moment, I did not lose only my uncle.

I lost my father again.

The alarm from the oncology ward became the silence outside the resuscitation room. The green zero became my father’s feet falling still. Four years disappeared, and grief joined both moments together as though they had happened on the same day.

That is the cruelty of grief.

Every new loss wakes the old ones.

It does not replace one sorrow with another. It gathers them. It places them side by side and makes the heart carry all of them at once.

One death I witnessed through an ajar door.

The other through the glass pane of a closed one.

In both moments, I was close enough to see life leaving someone I loved, yet too far away to stop it.

Perhaps grief is made from such small, unbearable details.

A pair of feet.

A green number.

An alarm.

A silence.

And the terrible realization that someone who had always existed in your world is suddenly no longer in it.

Life continues after that. Doors open. Corridors empty. People return home.

But grief comes home with us.

It sits quietly in the places they once occupied. It hides inside old photographs, familiar voices and ordinary memories. Some days it remains silent. On other days, a number on a screen is enough to bring everything back.

Until their final seconds, I hoped for both of them.

Perhaps the deepest sorrow is that a part of me still does.

May Allah forgive my maternal uncle and my father, shower them with His infinite mercy, fill their graves with light, and grant them eternal peace in Jannah.

Aameen.

DHEVI: A HAUNTING LEAP FORWARD FOR DHIVEHI CINEMA

I had the privilege of attending a private screening of the much-anticipated Dhivehi film Dhevi, ahead of its official release on 26 September.

After watching it, I could not simply wait for the release, write a conventional review and move on.

Because this is more than a review.

This is what I felt while watching it.

To begin with, Dhevi has one of the tensest openings I have seen in a Dhivehi film—and, strangely enough, it is introduced by a hen and her chicks.

I will not reveal what happens.

Let us just say that filmmakers have spent years using dark corridors, abandoned houses and creaking doors to frighten audiences. Dhevi begins by proving that even a perfectly innocent hen can carry us towards dread.

The opening hooked me from left, right and centre.

Anatomically impossible, perhaps—but that is how firmly it held me.

From that moment, the film makes its intentions clear. It is not here merely to make us jump. It wants to build a world, place us inside it and slowly remove every feeling of safety.

At its heart, Dhevi tells the story of twin sisters whose lives are overtaken by something far more sinister than one can imagine.

What begins with unease gradually tightens into a chain of terrifying events, each one drawing the sisters deeper into something they cannot easily escape. The horror continues to rise until the story arrives at a rousing and emotionally charged conclusion.

That is all I will say about the plot.

This is a film best experienced without someone walking ahead of you with a torch and warning you about what may be waiting in the darkness.

Superstar Mariyam Azza plays the twin sisters, Maahi and Maashi, while also serving as a producer for the first time.

Either responsibility would have been demanding enough. Azza chose both—apparently because sleeping peacefully is overrated.

I could not take my eyes off her.

That was true not only because of the physical demands of playing two roles, but because of the complete command she has over both characters. Through her body language, expressions, voice, movement and emotional rhythm, she creates two distinctly different women.

She does not merely change her clothes or appearance and expect the audience to complete the illusion. She changes her entire presence.

Even when the sisters occupy the same frame, we never feel as though we are watching an actress performing opposite herself. We believe that two separate individuals are sharing that space.

Physically, Azza is astonishing. Every movement appears carefully designed for the character she is playing. As an actress, she is equally remarkable. Her eyes carry fear, confusion, pain and strength—sometimes before a single word is spoken.

I watched her in awe.

These performances are miles apart from those in her recent blockbusters. There is no attempt to repeat what has worked for her before. She enters a darker and emotionally heavier space, then gives us two extraordinary performances in the same film.

As a first-time producer, Azza has also chosen an unusually ambitious project. Dhevi does not feel like a safe production created merely to carry her name. It feels like the work of someone prepared to challenge herself, her team and even the technical boundaries of Dhivehi cinema.

Mariyam Azza is not merely impressive in Dhevi.

She is extraordinary.

The supporting cast gives the film the strength it needs.

Sharaf Abdulla, Ismail Rasheed, Mohamed Manik, Ahmed Saeed and Rishmy Rameez deliver convincing performances, grounding the supernatural events in recognisable human emotions. Newcomer Hamdhaan also makes a confident impression, holding his own among experienced actors.

Then there is the late Ahmed Nimal.

He appears in a cameo in what would become his final film role.

Seeing him on the screen was bittersweet. There was happiness in witnessing him perform once more, but also sadness in knowing that this would be the last time a new performance of his would greet us from the screen.

For a moment, the horror gives way to remembrance.

Written by upcoming writer Shahudha Mahmood and director Sandy, the screenplay carefully establishes its atmosphere before allowing the horror to take control.

The writing understands that suspense comes from waiting—from sensing that something is approaching without knowing when, how or from where it will arrive.

Rather than treating the unfolding events as a convenient machine for producing frightening scenes, the writers build a human story around the people trapped inside it. That emotional foundation gives the horror its weight.

The screenplay steadily raises the tension and carries the story towards its powerful conclusion without revealing its hand too early.

Abdulla Muaz (Bhaai) and Rishmy Rameez’s crisp editing gives the narrative a well-balanced pace. The film knows when to let a moment breathe and when to tighten its grip. Horror can become exhausting when every scene screams for attention. Bhaai and Rishmy allow the quieter moments enough space, making the frightening ones strike even harder.

The workmanship applied throughout the film is outstanding. Combined with Samaah Ibrahim’s cinematography, the spaces become part of the horror. Light, shadow, colour and composition work together to make ordinary surroundings feel uncertain. Even silence begins to look suspicious.

Amid the mounting dread, I enjoyed the welcome breather offered by a modern rendition of legendary singer Naifaru Dhohokko’s Funhaa Loabi, performed by Anji with infectious energy and effortless moves.

It is difficult to believe that Dhevi is Sandy’s first film as a director. He directs it as though he has been calling the shots for years.

His confidence lies in his control. Performances, production design, cinematography, editing and visual effects all belong to the same cinematic world.

Of course, no director creates such an ambitious film alone. Sandy received wholehearted support from his team—particularly Bhaai and the visual-effects artists, whose technical brilliance helped him attempt things rarely seen in Maldivian cinema.

And now we come to the technical highlight of Dhevi: its visual effects.

Created by Bhaai, Vishal Zaky and Shamwyl Shareef, the visual effects contain moments that will genuinely leave audiences wondering how they were achieved.

The seamless presentation of Azza’s dual role is something I cannot recall seeing attempted with this level of complexity and polish in Maldivian cinema.

The sisters do not merely stand on opposite sides of a conveniently divided frame. They exist within the same physical world. They move through shared spaces, react to each other and interact with such precision that the technical construction becomes invisible.

And that invisibility is the achievement.

Creating a convincing dual performance requires far more than placing two images together. The eye-lines must match. The timing must be exact. Lighting, perspective, movement, shadows and physical distance must remain believable. Above all, the emotional performance on one side must feel alive to the performance on the other.

If even one element fails, we see the trick.

In Dhevi, we see the sisters.

Some effects proudly announce themselves, giving the film moments of visual scale and spectacle. Others work quietly beneath the surface, supporting scenes without asking the audience to admire the machinery behind them. Both kinds are handled with remarkable confidence.

The effects are not included merely to show us what the team can do. They serve the story, strengthen the horror and make Azza’s two performances possible.

That distinction matters.

Visual effects are most powerful when they stop feeling like visual effects. At several points, I found myself forgetting that the woman standing opposite Azza was also Azza.

My mind knew it.

My eyes refused to believe it.

The greatest compliment I can give the visual-effects team is that, after a while, I stopped searching for the trick.

I simply watched the sisters.

And one has to see this film to believe what this team has achieved.

Dhevi is not merely a successful horror film. It is evidence of what Dhivehi cinema can accomplish when ambition is supported by skill, patience and people willing to move beyond familiar limits.

It gives Mariyam Azza two extraordinary performances in one film. It announces Sandy as a director who already appears fully in command of his craft. It gives Shahudha Mahmood another strong step forward as a writer. It also gives us one final glimpse of the late Ahmed Nimal—an unexpected and bittersweet gift.

I walked into that private screening expecting to watch a much-anticipated Dhivehi horror film.

I walked out feeling immensely proud of the entire team behind Dhevi for bringing our cinema to a level of technical brilliance that genuinely surprised me.

Every department has contributed to that achievement. But the brilliance of Bhaai and his visual-effects team deserves to be celebrated. They have not merely created impressive images. They have helped turn an ambitious idea into something believable, seamless and technically remarkable.

Their work allows the film to dream beyond the limitations normally associated with our industry—and then places that dream convincingly on the screen.

For me, that may be Dhevi’s greatest achievement.

It does not ask us to admire it simply because it is a Maldivian film.

It gives us every reason to admire it because it is a technically brilliant film.

And that made me very proud.

TWO YEARS TO FADE OUT

Two years ago, I began writing a screenplay.

For now, let us simply call it Untitled.

I had the central idea. I knew what I wanted the screenplay to say, and I thought I knew the road it would take to get there.

Then my producer called.

He had recently watched a local film and felt that parts of my story had some similarities to it.

That call took the wind out of me.

I told him I needed time. I would return to the outline, take the story apart and rebuild it—while preserving the heart of what I had originally set out to write.

That sounded very professional.

What followed was anything but.

There were days when I sat in front of my laptop and stared at the screen, unable to write a single word. A week might pass before I managed one line. Sometimes two. On particularly productive days, I may even have moved a comma.

And that was how it continued for more than a year.

I outlined. I abandoned the outline. I tried another direction. I questioned it. I returned to the beginning. Some ideas survived every version. Others disappeared after weeks of work because they belonged to a different screenplay—not this one.

There was procrastination too. I would love to blame the laptop, the weather or some mysterious failure of artistic alignment. But the laptop was innocent.

At other times, I tried to squeeze every last drop from whatever creative juice remained in me. Unfortunately, creativity is not toothpaste. The harder you squeeze, the less cooperative it becomes.

Through all this, my producer never pressured me.

He assured me that I did not need to rush. He was not waiting for something quick. He was waiting for something good.

That patience gave the screenplay room to breathe. More importantly, it gave me room to fail, reconsider and begin again.

Then, at the beginning of this year, something changed.

The story began to flow.

Not all at once. Not like some divine waterfall pouring perfectly formatted scenes onto the page. But the characters started moving again. Images began connecting. Moments that had remained separate for months suddenly found their place beside one another.

I kept outlining and re-outlining.

I moved scenes. Removed them. Brought some back. I stripped away dialogue whenever an image could carry the emotion. I searched for silence where words felt too easy. I planted small visual details early so they could return later with greater meaning.

Gradually, the screenplay found its rhythm.

It became a story told as much through faces, spaces, objects and quiet gestures as through dialogue. It demanded patience from me. It also demanded precision. Every scene had to earn its place. Every spoken line had to justify breaking the silence.

Perhaps that is why this screenplay took so long.

Some stories allow themselves to be written.

Others make the writer prove that he deserves them.

This one made me work for every page.

Now, after countless outlines, discarded scenes, rewritten moments and long stretches of doubt, I have finally reached the end.

And strangely, looking back, I do not resent the difficult days. The screenplay needed those false starts. It needed the silence. It may even have needed those weeks when all I could write was a single line.

Because the screenplay I have completed is not the one I began two years ago.

I believe it is better.

It is one of the most visually driven screenplays I have written and, without revealing anything about its story, also one of the most emotionally demanding. More importantly, it has become one of the most satisfying screenplays I have written so far.

A huge thank-you to my producer for giving me something increasingly rare in this business:

Time.

Time to rethink.

Time to doubt.

Time to discover.

Time to write the screenplay this story deserved.

Two years ago, I thought I knew exactly where it was going.

I was wrong.

Thankfully.

THE STRAIGHT MAN

If he were here today, my father, Ahmed Fulhu, would have turned 94.

I still find myself using those two words—would have—as though life made a small mistake that might yet be corrected. As though he is simply late. As though, at any moment, the door might open and the man whose birthday we are remembering will walk in.

But the door remains closed.

So today, I want to open another door: the one that leads back through his life.

He was born Ahmed Yusuf of Ma. Haivakaruge on 1 September 1932, to Yoosuf Adam and Aishath Aboobakuru. Many would later know him as Haivakaru Ahmedfulhu. But before the uniform, the rank and the public service, he was a little boy who lost both his parents when he was about ten.

At ten, a child should still have someone asking whether he has eaten. Someone waiting for him to come home. Someone to tell him that the world may be frightening, but he does not have to face it alone.

My father largely did.

He grew up with the kind of absence that could easily have hardened him. Instead, he became a man others could depend on. Perhaps that was the first great achievement of his life—not that he survived loneliness, but that he did not pass that loneliness on.

He studied at Majeediyya School and became part of the first generation of modern Maldivian footballers. Selected during the time of Mohamed Ameen Didi and trained under Michael de Silva, he played as a goalkeeper. He also played cricket, hockey and military rugby, apparently believing that one sport offered an unreasonable amount of free time.

Goalkeeper seems, in hindsight, the perfect position for him. It requires patience, concentration and the discipline to remain alert even when the action appears to be somewhere else. Those qualities would remain with him long after he left the football field.

On 21 August 1953, just eleven days before his 21st birthday, my father witnessed the mob attack on Mohamed Amin Didi near the Henveiru ferry terminal.

At twenty, he had already seen the country at one of its most painful political turning points. He would live through many more chapters of Maldivian history—not as someone reading about them years later, but as someone who had been there.

On 8 October 1953, less than two months after that incident, he joined the police-military service. He began at the lower ranks and rose through Sergeant Fourth Class, Third Class, Second Class and First Class, eventually becoming Captain—the highest rank at the time.

He served during both Thinadhoo rebellions. He was there through periods of unrest that most of us now encounter only as a few paragraphs in history. For him, they were not paragraphs. They were places, faces, orders, consequences and memories carried home.

When the Investigation Office was introduced on 27 August 1970, he was serving as Deputy Chief. After approximately 24 years in uniform, he retired on 27 December 1978.

This photograph is of him standing beside President Maumoon Abdul Gayoom during the presidential oath-taking in 1978. It records an important public moment. But whenever I look at it, I see something more personal.

I see how straight he stood.

That was not merely military posture. It was the way he tried to live.

Retiring from the military did not mean retiring from service. In different years, he served as Atoll Chief of Mulaku, Faadhippolhu and Addu. While serving in Addu, he requested a proper police-military force for the atoll—a request that helped lead to police-military services being established across the atolls.

He also served as Assistant Under Secretary at the Ministry of Provincial Affairs, Assistant Manager of the Rentals Division, Manager of Central Hospital, Assistant Director General at the Ministry of Information, Arts and Culture, and Director General of the Community Organization Development Council.

Written as a list, these are job titles.

Lived across a lifetime, they were responsibilities. Each one meant people turning to him when something had to be organised, protected, settled or made to work.

History, it seems, had a habit of arriving during my father’s working hours.

On 3 November 1988, when mercenaries attacked Malé, he was managing Central Hospital—the only hospital in the capital at the time. As injured people arrived and the city descended into fear and uncertainty, he extended the hospital’s operations around the clock and brought all available doctors and nurses on duty to treat them.

While fear moved through the streets, he made certain that the place meant to heal people did not stop working.

His actions that day were acknowledged by both the government and the public. But the most important result was simpler: the hospital remained available when a wounded city needed it.

That was public service not as a title, but as action.

He believed in discipline, rules and responsibility. He was honest and transparent, sometimes with the uncompromising firmness of someone who had spent much of his life maintaining order. But firmness did not make him reckless. He preferred negotiation before action. He listened. He waited. He tried to settle matters fairly.

His patience was not weakness.

It was strength under control.

He understood that trust takes years to build and only moments to destroy. So he guarded it—in public service, in his decisions and in the way he lived when nobody was watching.

He also understood that memory must be protected.

On 21 April 2013, his article titled From My Pen: The Military and the Police was published on an MNDF magazine. He wrote about the institutions he had personally seen change: the period when there was no separate police force, the creation of investigative departments in 1960, and the temporary police unit established in 1972 ahead of the Queen’s visit.

He had lived through history.

Then he took the trouble to write it down for those who had not.

Many people assume someone else will remember. My father knew that memory, like duty, requires someone to take responsibility.

His life was not built only around public service. At its centre was his family.

From his first marriage came two children. With my mother, six.

Eight children.

The Captain retired in 1978.

The father never did.

At home, his values did not arrive as grand speeches. They arrived through example. Be honest, especially when honesty is inconvenient. Do not act in anger when patience may still solve the problem. Listen before deciding. Keep your word. Never treat responsibility as privilege.

He had known what it meant to grow up without parents. Yet he spent his adult life building a family large enough to fill every silence childhood had left behind.

The ten-year-old boy who had once been left largely alone became the centre of a family of eight children. Life had taken a home away from him early. He answered by building another.

My father passed away on 5 August 2022 at the age of 89 at 07:33 AM. His funeral prayer was held after Asr at Aasahara Mosque.

He was only 27 days away from his 90th birthday.

That first 1 September after his death felt especially cruel. His birthday arrived exactly when it was supposed to.

He did not.

That is the strange discipline of the calendar. It keeps every appointment even after the people we love can no longer attend. Birthdays return. Anniversaries return. Familiar dates quietly knock on the door and make us feel the absence all over again.

But today, I do not want his absence to become larger than his life.

He was here.

He was the orphaned boy who refused to be defeated by loneliness.

The goalkeeper who stood between danger and the goal.

The twenty-year-old who witnessed one of the country’s most painful political moments.

The officer who rose from the lowest ranks to Captain.

The public servant who carried responsibility from one office and one atoll to another.

The hospital manager who kept the doors open while a wounded city came through them.

The witness who wrote down what he had seen so history would not have to depend entirely on rumour.

The husband.

The father of eight.

Some people leave behind buildings, titles or monuments bearing their names. My father left something quieter: a way of standing in the world.

Stand straight.

Remain calm.

Carry responsibility without turning it into privilege.

On his 94th birthday, I remember not only that he is gone.

I remember that he was here—and throughout his long life, he stood straight.

May Allah forgive his sins, accept his good deeds, fill his grave with light and grant him the highest place in Jannah.

Aameen.