Content
Warning: This article addresses sensitive subjects,
including war trauma and violence.
I
found myself wondering, “Should I return to work?” At least the fatigue
there was confined to working hours; at home, it felt like an endless marathon
stretching from dawn to dusk, week after week.
As
I passed the kitchen, my eyes caught the clock—one hour remained before the
children would return, bringing with them the familiar chorus of “We’re
hungry!” Like a soldier preparing for battle, I took a deep breath, washed my
hands and face, donned my apron, and readied myself for the second shift: the
evening meal.
While
washing up, my thoughts drifted elsewhere. I moved through the motions—washing,
stirring, humming a tune—while time flowed by unnoticed. Soon, the children’s
voices signaled their arrival. Thankfully, dinner was ready.
Suddenly,
I was surrounded by three children, all speaking at once, their voices
overlapping like a flock of birds each singing its own song. I patiently offered
brief answers, and settled them at the table. As they ate, I was left alone
with my thoughts.
I
questioned myself: “What kind of life am I living? Should I hire help? How
can I tune out the children’s voices? Or how can I forget what I hear?” I
realized I was trying to escape my own life, feeling overwhelmed and burdened.
What
did I truly want from life? As I was thinking this, I reached for my phone,
seeking escape. Social media, the drug of our age, numbed my pain but did not
provide any real relief. While scrolling, a video caught my attention.
And
at that moment, my life was divided into two parts: before the video and after
the video.
On
the screen was a Palestinian woman from Gaza, tears streaming silently down her
face. Her voice trembled as she spoke, like a lone leaf swaying in the wind.
She described the singular wish of a Gazan woman.
I
watched. I swallowed hard. I watched again. I cried. I watched once more.
The
woman was describing the atrocity she had endured in front of her husband.
Words could not capture her pain. She ended the video with a single sentence—a
prayer, a plea, a final hope:
“MY
ALLAH, HELP ME FORGET THAT MOMENT.”
Time
seemed to stop. Everything fell silent—the children’s voices, the clatter of
dishes, the noise of the world. That sentence echoed in my mind: “My Allah,
help me forget that moment.”
I
was breathless.
All
my desires, troubles, and complaints vanished in an instant. The problems I
thought were so significant dissolved like soap bubbles. The shame I felt was
indescribable, as if my conscience had held up a mirror and I recoiled at my
own reflection.
“How
could you?” my conscience demanded—not as a
whisper, but as a shout, enveloping and shaking me. The more ashamed I felt,
the louder my conscience became.
That
woman wished to forget a memory. I, on the other hand, had forgotten which
memories I should be grateful for.
She
wanted to erase the hell she had endured, while I complained as if I were in
hell, despite living in comfort.
I
do not know how long I sat with my conscience or my tears. Time lost all
meaning. Eventually, a prayer formed on my lips: “O Lord, forgive me, help
me overcome my ignorance, protect me from my selfishness…”
I
endured a period of deep reflection and growing shame. My greatest fear was
reverting to my old self, for humans are forgetful—what we see today fades
tomorrow; what we feel today disappears with time.
After
dinner, the children fell asleep. I paused outside their room, not wanting to
disturb them. “Why?” I asked myself. “Why should I pass by quietly?
Life awaits them, too.”
Even
if they did not realize it, the world is not wrapped in cotton wool. They must
learn to appreciate simple things, to be grateful for what they have. So must
I.
We
must not ignore the suffering of others or the realities of life. If a child
creates problems for themselves today, when they have no real worries, how will
they cope with genuine problems tomorrow? If they do not learn to worry now,
how will they manage later?
Then
I realised that failing to recognise the real difficulties causes us to see
minor problems as insurmountable. That was why we saw the two crumbs and dirty
laundry at home as mountains. Perception disorder—that was its name. Looking up
from the bottom of the well like a frog and seeing the sky as nothing more than
a circle.
Tomorrow,
I must be different. I must live without minimizing small matters or
exaggerating large ones, seeing reality as it is. I must raise myself and my
children with this perspective.
Well,
will the noise of my children or the state of my home bother me again tomorrow?
Perhaps not for a while. For now, I will say, “Thank goodness I have a home,
thank goodness for my children and their joyful voices, thank goodness for a
messy kitchen.”
But
what about later? Sadly, humans are forgetful creatures. To remain mindful, we
must remember that what we have can be taken from us at any moment. Only by imagining
their absence can we truly appreciate their value.
Only
then our ‘Thank goodness...’ moments will continue to increase. And do you know
how one achieves this maturity? By taking on the troubles of others, by
thinking about the pain of others. Is not that very interesting?
When
we look beyond ourselves and witness the world’s suffering, our own problems
seem insignificant—like a drop of water beside the ocean.
That
Gazan woman taught me a profound lesson. She wished to forget a moment; for me,
it became a lesson I will always remember.
Now
I understand: some experiences are meant to be forgotten, while others must
never be. Her pain should be forgotten, but the lesson she gave must endure.
The
Gazan women, if only you knew what you have taught of the world...
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