Today, dear reader, I think it’s time to lift the curtain a little and let you in on a part of my life I usually keep to myself.
You’re probably wondering: “What does Adnan even do all day?”
Well, today’s your lucky day, because it’s the most hectic time of the year – the one time of year when you can clearly see what my job is, or in the least, get a glimpse of what my existence looks like inside the newspaper that pays my rent and slowly dissolves my sanity.
Everyone upstairs is panicking because it’s “yearly wrap-up season.”
This is when the newsroom gathers all the “biggest stories of the year” (which usually means: disasters, scandals, elections, and one viral cat video) and tries to stuff them into a 10-minute montage that plays dramatically over piano music and to post it on social media.
And where do I come in?
Deep in the basement, past the screaming editors and dying coffee machines, there is a small black door that leads to the archive room.
My kingdom.
My cave.
My beautifully ignored corner of the newspaper.
That’s where they send me every December:
“Adnan, we need every major story from the last decade. Anything with a tragic tone, a hopeful one, or a ‘look how miserable this year has been’ tone. Get digging.”
Well, that’s not exactly what the email says, but that’s certainly how it sounds.
So I put on my imaginary helmet and descend into the basement like a miner searching for emotional coal.
The room greets me the same way it has for the past five years: with a flickering lightbulb that blinks as if trying to communicate with me, a heater that wheezes like it’s dying in my arms, and shelves full of newspapers that no one has touched since people still argued over Bluetooth.
I love it here.
I really do.
Most people think the archive is where careers go to die, but for me, it’s the only place in the building where nothing is screaming in my face telling me to get a story done.
I settle into my uncomfortable chair, put my headphones on, and decide to listen to some old Arabic classics mixed with whatever Spotify thinks I need emotionally, and open the first tab on my computer:
“WINTER – MAYBE 2020?”
Inside are screenshots and Word documents announcing hope, despair, more hope, less hope, and one smiling politician.
As I scroll through endless tragedies, wars, floods, fires, and accidents, I start to wonder what actually makes a disaster “worth” reporting.
One day I heard someone ask, “Do we have a version of this with a higher death toll? The smaller numbers don’t hit.”
I went back to my office and stayed there a little longer than usual.
After a while, all December footage starts looking identical here.
Every year has:
someone shivering on camera,
someone promising change,
someone sweeping snow or rubble (sometimes both),
and someone lighting a candle in slow motion.
If you remove the timestamps, you’d never guess which year you are in.
Copy. Paste. Print. Publish.
Hope, on repeat.
My thoughts are interrupted by a call from upstairs.
“Adnan? Do you have that video from last year? The one where people were celebrating the first ceasefire? We need it for the wrap-up.”
I find it in eight seconds.
They always act surprised when I do.
Back upstairs, they’ll use it in the wrap-up for maybe two seconds, three if they feel generous.
Down here, it feels like a small victory.
The truth is, dear reader, the holiday season at the newspaper is nothing like the movies. There’s no hot chocolate, no warm team hugs, no sentimental speeches about “another year together.”
There is just chaos, deadlines, broken printers, and me, in my archives, watching humanity repeating itself.
And honestly?
It feels like the most honest job in the building.
