jordan pulse -

​By Atef Abu Hajar
​I have grown accustomed to feeling nervous whenever I stand before the camera to present a live television program, and strangely enough, this same feeling accompanies me at every award ceremony or recognition event I attend. Standing before an audience—whether as a TV presenter on screen or as an honoree on stage—places you under the judgment of watching eyes. The audience does not share a single standard for judging you; one person sees a nervous host, another notices a tense honoree, and a third might catch a subtle stumble or an uncalculated gesture. These are all differing opinions that we must respect, because once a person is in the spotlight, they no longer fully belong to themselves. The camera records, the audience observes, and every movement can turn into a story.
​On the surface, being honored is a noble act: they announce your name, ask you to step up, present you with a plaque, the audience applauds, and you return to your seat filled with pride and gratitude. But that is merely the official description. The truth is that being honored is an unexpected test in walking, smiling, shaking hands, handling the camera, and making critical life decisions in under thirty seconds. You sit peacefully in your seat, taking in the ceremony, when suddenly the master of ceremonies calls out your name. At that precise moment, you are no longer even sure of your own name. You look behind you—perhaps there is someone else. You look at the screen—it is indeed your name. You look at the host—he points right at you. The camera locks onto you. Game over. You have no choice left but to stand up.
​And here begins the journey up to the platform—a short trip in distance, but a very long one in thought. The questions start rushing in: How do I walk? Should I smile? Do I wave to the crowd? Should I look at the person presenting the award or at the photographer? Should I place my hand on my chest? And why do I suddenly feel that my hands, which I have lived with for decades, have completely lost their function?
​You reach the platform. The plaque is handed to you. You take it. Then comes the photographer. He tilts his head, signaling: "Look here, honoree." So you look. He winks: "Smile." So you smile. He shakes his head: "A bit more." At that point, you begin to feel that this is no longer an award presentation, but a commercial photo shoot for toothpaste.
​Then arrives the moment you dreaded most: the microphone. You pause for a second—not because you have something grand to say, but because you fear someone might suddenly decide you ought to speak. The host loudly says, "Congratulations!" You, of course, reply in a faint whisper: "May God bless you." And thus ends your historic speech. No introduction. No conclusion. No "on this precious occasion." No thanking parents, colleagues, friends, or everyone who contributed to this achievement since the Stone Age. Just a simple: "May God bless you." Then you step down.
​In truth, I believe this style of recognition is the most merciful for both the honoree and the audience alike. Why punish an honoree by forcing them to deliver a speech? They came to receive a plaque, not to defend a doctoral dissertation. As for the audience, they have had more than their fill of words. From the very beginning of the ceremony, they have been hearing: "We are pleased to welcome..." and "On this special occasion..." and "I must not fail to thank..." until they reach a point where they wish someone would just say: "And now, let us take the plaque and go."
​Here lies a profound piece of wisdom regarding award ceremonies: the fewer words you speak, the higher the chances that people will remember you fondly. But if they hand you the microphone without warning, remember the first rule of survival: thank them quickly before they realize their mistake, then leave the stage. Take the plaque, take the photo, take the applause, and return to your seat.
​True honor does not lie in the number of words you spoke, but in stepping off the stage without committing a blunder that turns into a viral clip on social media. In the age of cameras, that is no small achievement. In fact, it deserves... another plaque.