On the topic of love

by Mariam Elshafie

I keep returning to love as a question rather than an answer. Not as something purely private or romantic, but as something that touches everything—how we relate, how we build community, how we survive.

I tried to tackle the question of love in many different ways. I circled around it, approached it from angles that felt intellectual, political, philosophical, even cautious—as if love is something that needs to be studied before it can be spoken about.

Bell hooks’ All About Love was one recent entry point. Despite mixed feelings about the book, its central argument feels difficult to dispute:  the lack of love, and our inability to love, in our societies is not accidental. Whether because of capitalism, patriarchy, neoliberalism, or more generally because of our failed humanity, we live in a world that does not nurture love. We live in a patriarchal world that trains us to survive, to compete, to harden, but rarely to soften.

This summer, I read a brilliant book by Brigitte called Monogamous Mind Polyamorous Terror, and I thought I’d touch on it in my own quest to talk about love. A book that reminded me that love is never neutral—it is shaped by structures, by histories, by the cages we inherit without noticing.

And yet, every time I tried to write about love, the words wouldn’t come. Maybe because I was trying to write for a work blog without really feeling it. More like a work essay… about love.

A few days ago, thinking about my dog and his birthday coming up, I asked myself: why is it that I love this dog so much?

It frightened me to think of myself as the kind of person who loves dogs for their unconditional loyalty and submission. I didn’t want love to be about obedience. I didn’t want my affection to come from power.

So I wondered if I loved him for other reasons. For the strange gentleness of his presence. The way he only eats when he’s hungry. How he stands behind the door making no sound until I feel his presence and open up or in his world obviously smell him. The way he eats and drinks slowly and politely, without making a mess, as though he is careful with the world. Whenever we have other dogs over and they approach his plate to eat his food, he will simply watch them from afar until they’ve finished, then continue playing, untouched by resentment.

This made me wonder: do I love him for his “human traits”? Of course, keeping in mind that most humans—especially the male species—do not eat slowly or politely and certainly know very well how to harbour resentment.

The more reasons I listed to understand why I loved him, the more I realised it wasn’t about a set of offerings or traits. A kind of inventory.

But love is not a checklist. It is not a résumé.

I began to notice that what I love is not just him, as an object of affection, but the life that forms between us.

I love him because we are both social animals, and together—with our morning messed-up hair—we make our daily coffee run brighter. We walk through the streets as if we belong to them. We do outdoor activities, we go on long walks that lift our moods, and we greet each other with absolute excitement every time either of us passes through the door, as if returning is always a miracle.

I love him because we witnesses one another. Because his presence turns the ordinary into something warm. Because in a world that demands so much performance, he asks for nothing except to be near. And I want nothing of him but his presence.

And at the end of each day, we wipe our feet, lie in bed, and cuddle to sleep with full hearts and tired bodies. Two creatures resting beside each other, not because the world is easy, but because softness is still possible.

Which brings me to the conclusion that love is harboured through small daily acts of pleasure and offering. Love is not only grand declarations or dramatic sacrifice. It is repetition. It is routine. It is the quiet devotion of showing up again and again. It is buying quality produce to make him his favourite meal, not pebbles from a dog food factory. It is about caring and making the effort.

And maybe life, too, is made up of these small acts of pleasure. The unnoticed tenderness of sharing time, sharing space, sharing breath.

Maybe love is not something we find once.

Maybe love is something we practice daily.