Before anything else, 2025 asked for silence.

On 30th December 2025, the industry lost Abdul Faththaah—producer, director, and one of the quiet pillars of Maldivian cinema.

Some losses announce themselves with chaos. This one arrived like a power cut. No warning. No drama. Just the sudden absence of light. You keep standing in the same room, touching the same walls, but something essential is gone.

May Allah grant Fatthaah eternal peace.

His passing drained the end of the year of its usual noise. Celebration felt misplaced. Reflection became unavoidable. Silence felt earned. It was a reminder—too sharp, too final—that time does not wait for postponed calls, delayed meetings, or films we casually assume we will make “one day.”

As the calendar turned, the new year began on another quiet, heavy note. News came that a fellow legend of our film industry had been taken to the ICU, his condition critical. It was a sobering reminder that even as time moves forward, fragility moves with it. I pray for his recovery—for strength, mercy, and a return to light.

I begin this reflection here because anything else would feel dishonest.

Some years arrive with applause.

This one lowered its voice first.

I didn’t shout much last year.

But I wrote. And that, for me, is the loudest thing.

2025 was not about one big film, one viral moment, or one shiny headline. It was about showing up to the page—again and again—even when life, health scares, deadlines, family responsibilities, and plain old fatigue tried to steal the chair from under me.

Last year, I completed multiple screenplays. Some long. Some short. Some painfully intimate. Some deceptively simple. A few made me laugh while writing. A few made me stop and stare at the wall for longer than I care to admit.

What changed last year was intent.

I found myself writing more quietly—but with sharper clarity. Less noise. Fewer clever tricks. More listening. More restraint. I trusted pauses. I trusted silence. I trusted children’s voices to carry adult pain. I trusted emotion without explaining it to death.

I also noticed something else:

I no longer wrote to prove anything.

After three decades in this industry, that feels like progress.

Some stories last year leaned into family—fragile homes held together by routine, love, and denial. Some explored absence, illness, addiction, separation, memory. Some surprised me by becoming lighter than planned, as if the characters themselves needed a laugh before the storm.

I let them have it.

I also pushed myself formally—structure, rhythm, economy. I trimmed indulgence. I fought the urge to overwrite. I allowed scenes to breathe, and when they refused, I let them suffocate honestly. That mattered.

Not everything I wrote last year was made.

That’s fine.

A screenplay doesn’t fail because it waits. Some of them are just resting.

Personally, 2025 reminded me why I started writing in the first place—not for awards, not for validation, not even for release days—but because writing helps me remember what time does to us, and what we try to protect while it does its work.

And then, quietly—almost politely—Kamanaa walked into the room with a reminder.

On 28th December 2025, at the 5th Karnatakaa International Film Festival, the film was honoured with Best Director for Hussain Munawwar, Best Actor for Yousuf Shafeeu, and Best Actress for Mariyam Azza.

No fireworks. No victory laps. Just that calm, grounding moment when you realise the quiet work was heard.

Kamanaa was written in the same spirit that defined my year—restraint over noise, emotion over explanation, trust over tricks. Watching it travel, and watching its director and actors be recognised for carrying that honesty, felt less like a win and more like a gentle nod from the universe: keep going.

Awards don’t change why I write. But they do remind me that silence, when shaped well, can travel far.

And that’s a good way to end a year.

Looking ahead to 2026, I don’t feel excitement as much as I feel awareness.

Time feels closer now. Louder, even in silence.

There are stories waiting—some unfinished, some only half-formed—but I’m more conscious than ever that writing them is not guaranteed. It is borrowed time. A privilege that can disappear without announcement.

I hope to write with more courage, yes—but also with more urgency. To make fewer assumptions about tomorrows. To finish conversations while they are still possible. To leave less unsaid on the page and off it.

2025 didn’t end with closure. It ended with a pause.

And perhaps that is what it offered me: the reminder that silence is not empty— it is time passing.

I step into the new year carrying that knowledge.

Quieter.

More careful.

Still writing.

Onward.

Happy New Year!