The scene staring right back at her was not one she had imagined in all the years she had lived. This helpless situation had tied her hands. With every day the sun rose high, she could count the strength departing from her, and today the sight of her husband and children laying on the bare floor caused the tears to finally fall down. Droplets first and then a full stream of pain and anger drifted down her cheek to the hard floor.
Home is an essence that promises protection and warmth. Home was the one place she had always treated like her shrine and proudly too. A week before, that very home had been ripped from her shaking but reluctant hands, along with it her children’s memories and her husband’s hard work had all been whipped away, like the sand castles which disappear as the water runs over it.
She clung to the shards of her cultural identity, the threads of perseverance passed down through generations, among the ruins. The walls, which had previously reverberated with stories of struggle and survival, now murmured of displacement and a fervent desire for justice. Her spirit remained unbroken as airstrikes soared through the sky, a monument to the enduring power embedded in Palestinian blood. She sought comfort in the thought that one day, the shattered pieces of her home would rise again, resilient like the Palestinian spirit that refused to be destroyed.
In a different continent, where the ground rattled with artillery booms at the heart of Saké, a little boy named Muntu clung to his parents, their possessions precariously balanced on their heads. Born into a life entwined with conflict, Muntu's innocent eyes absorbed the chaos around him. His family, like countless others, repeatedly sought safety from the unrelenting bloodshed that ravaged their homeland. The streets, once filled with the promise of fortunes, were now a maze of uncertainty.
Where were they going? Where is his home? The loud noises piercing the ear drums, what were they? His eyes scanned the crowd around but he couldn't spot the familiar faces. The park he once played in was filled with rubble, the swing set he adored was nowhere in sight. His innocent mind couldn't comprehend what was going on around him. While hugging him gently and tears streaming down her face, his mother had written his name on his hand.
Crossing oceans and territorial boundaries, Yasir quivers. The home he bought due to its perfect location, stands no more. Layering his sleeping family with torn sheets that were once blankets , he himself shivers. The savings he had kept for his children's universities were now for their survival. Slowly, grasping the prayer mat he had been hiding, he prays for the protection and security for palestinians.
Suddenly, the faint cries of a child can be heard. He runs to see a mother whimpering with a pale baby in her arms. If only Yasir could access his clinic at home, he would have stopped the tremendous plight of innocent souls. He takes the remaining medicine he has left, hoping it will last as long as possible, and measures some into a small container which he believes is about 5 ml. As if understanding her need for the medication the baby gulps the coloured syrup. Giving a sigh of relief, the mother thanks Yasir and leaves. Returning to his tattered mattress, the bitter realities don't let Yasir sleep, haunting him like neverending nightmares.
These three tragic instances provide just a tiny glimpse into the countless shattered lives, broken hearts, and lost dreams that war puts upon human beings. War is nothing more than an act of demeaning human lives, of making selfish interests the sole purpose of governance, and of putting the whims and fancies of a handful above the greater good of humanity. Who would comfort the broken Palestinian when all that she loved and lived for has been reduced to dust? How would little Muntu grasp the monstrosity of the situation when he has been stripped off the ability to grasp his mother’s hand? And where has the humanity gone that Yasir showed towards the mother and her sick baby even when he was on the verge of losing everything he has held dear?
The increasing instances of toying away with human lives leave in us a void that cannot be filled. These stories leave us with unanswered questions and unsolved riddles. What is it that has become so important that a living, breathing human being can be strangled to achieve it? Is it our greed, our selfishness, or merely indifference?
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