Last night seemed never-ending, as if time had stretched out into an abyss of darkness and horrors unfolding before my eyes as I scrolled madly through my twitter feed. It felt like the longest night I’d experienced in a while. Memories from my childhood in Karachi, during the turbulent '90s, flooding back. It was a night when a young man from the house next door was brutally murdered during political riots. The screams of his mother and the heartbreaking cries of his sisters echoed through our neighborhood. I, as a child, hid under the covers, plugging my ears, trying to block out the sounds of anguish. It was the first time I’d seen a mutilated body, and that memory still etched in my soul.
But I had no idea that night was just the beginning. Many more nights followed, each more devastating than the last. I had to witness the loss of lives, both of those close to me and people far away, torn apart by bomb blasts, targeted attacks. World had slowly showing its darkest side, and these experiences weighed heavily on heart, shaping who I am today. This is how we grow in that world. We all have.
10pm
Now, in this night, I'm far from my home sitting in a quiet room in Cornwall, thousands of miles away. Outside, rain pours heavily, like a sky is crying and the trees swaying in the strong wind, protesting. A certain unexplainable pause has occurred. A dead silence. But the silence of this room is far from my mind. Instead, I am captive of the news, the constant images and stories of rockets falling on Gaza and then the communication was lost, a complete blackout.
The is night dragging on, the more it drags the more it feels like the world has fallen silent in the face of these horrors and the more deafening this silence is against these atrocities. The night is also a time to reflect - grapple with the thoughts, of this world and my own place within it.
1am
It's 1 am now, there's still no sign of relief for Gaza. The internet is cut off, and all connections to the outside are still severed. There is news of ground invasion. The atrocities continue in the darkness, hidden from the world's gaze, a stain on our collective conscience.
Then there is fear of the approaching dawn. The darkness hides the full extent of the devastation, and I dread what the daylight might reveal. I can't help but wonder how many more have been buried under the rubble as rockets rained down all night.
3am
At some point, I open my laptop, to document this night when the world seems to turn a blind eye to the unfolding tragedy. The violence continues, and while there are cries for help, frustration, desperation, fear, the olive tree planters fought their battle alone. Their ancient olive trees, symbols of their heritage and resilience, must be in flames, and they witness these symbols of their history and identity burning to ashes.
4am
I still sit in silence, silenced by fear, knowing that speaking out could have severe consequences, including losing a job, a dream course. This silence weighs heavily and the words are like an iron ball stuck in my throat, making it impossible to express my anguish or protest.
I am reminded, we are from the lesser world. Lesser human beings..we are called "Animals."
In the quiet of my room, I watch helplessly as the world unravels its true colors. A message from a Palestinian, broadcast on Turkish TV, echoes in that silence: "Tell the world not to offer our funeral prayers, for we are alive, and it is you who are dead."
We are dead, and complicit in this bloodbath, one way or the other, while we have our hands tied and our mouths sealed. Tomorrow when I go to work or go out for a walk, I have to put up a show. Conceal those eyebags that are now evident due to staying wide awake all night, watching buildings ablaze. I have to grow flowers in my eyes, and smile on my lips while an olive tree grow in my heart, to remain forever.
