I firmly believe that even in the darkest moments, there is always some form of good that emerges—however small, however distant it may feel. These moments, painful as they are, often lay the groundwork for something greater. But the fact that this war simply stopped—not because anyone cared, but because it no longer benefited the capitalist and corporate world—is just disgusting.
https://www.cnn.com/2025/01/15/politics/biden-trump-gaza-ceasefire-deal/index.html
The way human lives were treated, so dispensable, incredibly insignificant, and replaceable is mind blowing.
At first, I thought this was a form of discrimination against our people specifically. But over time, I’ve come to understand that it’s far bigger than that. It’s about power and money taking a higher step over humanity itself. It’s as if the world is consuming itself, with no value left for human lives when weighed against greed and control.
And yet, it is my complete honor to have belonged to a group of people who stood by the side of the oppressed, giving everything precious—houses, children, leaders—to stand up for what’s right. They stood firm because they could not fail their promise to their God, to their land, and to their humanity. It is my honor to have witnessed such greatness in people who gave everything they had, people we once thought only existed in the stories of history, among the prophets and saints.
We have seen the strongest of people shattered—limbs scattered, families destroyed, children left with no surviving relatives—and yet, even in the face of unimaginable loss, they still know how to say, Alhamdulillah. They remain grateful for every breath, for every moment. Gaza has shown us what true resilience looks like. It has taught us how to value what truly matters and how utterly insignificant our own daily struggles and hustles are in comparison.
https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.newsclick.in/savagery-war-against-palestinian-people%3famp
But I want you to think about this: How would you feel if you were a mother who found out you were pregnant with your first child before the war started? You carried that pregnancy through unimaginable conditions—walking over 20 miles from north to south Gaza on foot. You couldn’t even carry it to full term because the exhaustion and the stress took a toll. Then, when the time came, you gave birth in a tent, not in a hospital, not surrounded by family and care, but in a temporary shelter that barely kept the rain out.
Your baby fell sick, and there was nothing you could do but pray. You closed your eyes at night and begged God to let it all end. And yet, another year passed.
A whole entire year..
Twelve more months of struggle, of hunger, of fear. Finally, the war stopped. And now, you watch your toddler taking their first steps—not in the warmth of your home, but over the rubble of what was supposed to be their nursery. You wonder how you managed to keep going, how you found the strength to survive that journey, to give birth, to protect your child when there was so little left to give. And yet - all you say is: Alhamdulillah. Again.
https://images.app.goo.gl/zsvgJ2dh9A34YcNZ6
As you’re planning your gender-reveal parties and debating which shade of blue or pink to use, I want you to think about that mother. Keep her in the back of your mind. Because if she doesn’t live with you, she’ll live with me forever.
And I want you to think about another mother. A mother in south Lebanon who stood in solidarity with Gaza. She told the mothers there, “I am with you. I support you.” And because of that stand, she lost three of her grown daughters and all their dreams and laughters. This wasn’t just her sacrifice. It was her life. This was our life for the past year and a half.
I’m not saying this for anyone to pity us or to pity these women. I’m saying this so that we all take a moment to reflect on the privilege we hold—the privilege of sleeping through the night without bombs overhead, of waking up with our stomachs full, of sitting with our children without fear that it might be the last time. Somewhere, someone was praying not for luxury but just for the next meal, just for one more safe moment. All because they were born in a certain land somewhere on Earth.
Gaza, through its countless deaths and resurrections, has taught us how to live again—how to live a meaningful life. It has shown us how not to stand on the sidelines but to act, to be human in our daily lives. It has taught us to hold our children closer at night, to treasure the time we have with our parents, to be grateful for a warm house and a full meal.
Gaza taught us that the most technologically advanced and powerful entities cannot win the test against humanity. It was not their might or technology that triumphed but the spirit of those who lived in tents, who remained grateful, who smiled through the simplest joys, and who celebrated life even in the face of death.
It has also taught us a sobering truth: standing up for what is right comes at a massive cost. It can take everything away from you. And yet, it has shown us the distinction between standing beside what is right and truly taking part in it.
What matters in life is not who you stand next to at the finish line. In this shared human existence, when one of us loses, we all lose. When one of us suffers, when another human being acts as your enemy, it is still your loss. Because we, as a human race, are failing our promise to belong to each other.
https://fightbacknews.org/articles/st-paul-continues-to-stand-in-solidarity-with-gaza
At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter where you end up or who you end up with. What matters is who you stood beside when it mattered most. Who did you support during the struggle, during the pain? Were you watching from the sidelines, or did you stand with and behind those who needed you most?
What truly matters is how you served your humanity. And if this time you failed—because you thought you couldn’t—then let it be the last time. Let this be the lesson: next time, I will not fail my humanity.
What will you choose when the moment comes?
Most of us already know.
Because—as it was a very slim chance—we got to choose what we would do had we been there.
May this pain never, ever be witnessed again, and may the souls of those who passed scatter like dandelions and all of us with freedom and dignity.
Farah
Jan 15, 2025
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