Life takes us into different paths. At first, this is just a line you hear in passing, like a proverb whispered at the end of a journey. But one day you truly see it. One day, you realize the child you chased a ball with, the neighbor you laughed with, the classmate you thought was ordinary; becomes, in another season, a light in your life. Sometimes they give you advice that bends your thinking. Sometimes they hold a mirror to your soul. And sometimes, without meaning to, they leave you with something to wrestle with long after the meeting is over.

That happened to me recently.

I met a colleague, a man who has chosen his path: resolving conflicts. Not fights of fists, but fights of words, grudges, wounds that live between people. He told me, with calm conviction, that people are willing to pay to speak again rather than pay to fight forever. Think about that, paying not for walls to be built, but for bridges to be repaired. Paying not to win, but to live in peace.

I was full of questions. Why this path? Who planted it in him? How do you wake up and decide to carry the weight of other people’s quarrels? This work that used to belong to elders sitting under trees, their beards soaked with time. What does it mean for us now? Have we become the elders, or are we only wearing their clothes, imitating their ways in boardrooms instead of courtyards?

He spoke with eloquence and passion. His pride was not arrogance but the quiet flame of someone who knows they are needed. I was caught between admiration and curiosity. Then suddenly, he gave me something I could not shake.

He told me about one conflict that became his own lesson. A mediator took a different approach. He asked the quarreling parties to write down everything they hated about the other. And they did. Not once, not twice, but several times. Every time, he took the papers and burned them. Flames eating ink. Smoke carrying grudges into the air. With each round, the lists grew smaller. Until at last, one of them said: “Enough. Why keep writing what we dislike? Let us get into the real issue.”

Those words struck me, but not just the words, the path to reaching them. It was not the mediator who declared, “Now face the real issue.” It was the heart of one of the parties that surrendered to clarity. And it came only after burning, burning, and burning again. After watching their grievances turn to ash, their anger curl into smoke, their bitterness lose its grip. Only then could they see the ground beneath the fire: the real issue.

That shook me.

I began to think of my own conflicts. The ones I carry silently. The ones others carry with me. The ones people carry with each other, passing them like inherited debts. How many of those conflicts are made of the “papers” we keep writing, small dislikes, old wounds, ego, envy, tribe, religion, politics, pride, shadows of past seasons? How many of those are not the real issue, but smoke hiding the flame?

It made me wonder: how many papers must I burn before I see clearly? Before I stop hiding behind what is easy to list, “he insulted me,” “she ignored me,” “they have more than me” and start facing what actually matters?

Maybe the real issue is not the insult. Maybe it is the wound I never healed.
Maybe the real issue is not her silence. Maybe it is my hunger to be noticed.
Maybe the real issue is not their wealth. Maybe it is my fear of lack.
Maybe the real issue is not tribe or religion or politics. Maybe it is the mistrust in my own heart, projected onto others.

We carry conflicts like suitcases packed with wrong clothes. Too heavy, too unnecessary, and yet we cling to them. We parade them in front of each other, but the moment fire touches them, they burn quickly, proving they were never built to last. What is heavy today may be ash tomorrow.

And then there is another layer.

When I looked at my colleague, I realized: I almost missed him. I almost did not see him for who he is now because I was still holding on to who he used to be. I had to burn that too. To burn the memory of the boy I knew and let him stand before me as the man who now heals conflicts. Without trying, he was resolving mine. For I left that conversation with one question echoing louder than his words:

How many papers must I burn before I face the real issue?

Maybe we live much of our lives writing lists that deserve burning.
Maybe true reconciliation begins not with saying “sorry” but with watching our anger lose its power.
Maybe the elders knew this long before us, that time and fire can do what arguments cannot.
Maybe peace is not the absence of conflict, but the presence of clarity.
Maybe the real issue is always waiting, just behind the smoke.

So I ask myself, and you may ask too: what are the papers we must burn? What is the real issue?