What Gaza Taught Me About My Own Complaints.

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One morning, there was no water. The supplier was late, and my throat itched from the dryness. I kept distracting my mind but all I had in the background was the need for having cold drinking water in the midst of such a hot afternoon. Few hours without water and I felt restless, uncomfortable.

Another time, I cut one of my right hand's fingers while cooking. It wasn't so serious but deep enough for me requiring to bandage it. It made typing awkward, washing dishes a struggle, even obstructed me from holding a pen properly, let alone washing my hair!

And there are some days when I catch my reflection in a mirror and frown at a pimple, frustrated on the skin that is otherwise healthy. Meanwhile, people in Gaza breathe pollution from bombs, their faces covered not by acne but by smoke, ash, and exhaustion.

Sometimes I complain about the heatstroke outside. I close the curtains, turn on the fan, exhausted at how awfully I'm sweating. But then I think of families in Gaza, living in tents under the hot burning sun, with no concrete walls to shield them, no switch to bring relief.

Each time, in the middle of my small frustrations, a thought interrupts me:

Somewhere in Gaza, water is not late. It is lacking.

Fingers are not cut. Limbs are amputated.

Meals are not disappointing. They are absent.

Skin is not marked by pimples. It is smudged by war dust and bombs all around.

Heat is not an inconvenience. It is never ending exposure beneath a burning sky.

While my thirst lasted for a few hours. Theirs stretches into months on end.

My cut healed within a week. Theirs are wounds deep within the heart that will never return for what has been taken from them.

My food was not to my taste. Theirs is not enough to survive the hunger.

What clean drinking water you and I get to have each day without much effort, they are in the search for it day and night. Constantly seeking it from a puddle filled with mud, or a nearby stream beneath rubbles. As though, drinking water has now become a wish they can only dream of.

What heat pricks your skin as you quickly switch on the fan or air conditioner to seek relief, they endure under tents, beneath the scorching sun.

What clean air you and I breathe without thought, filling our lungs freely, they struggle to find. Every breath for them is a search, filled with dust, smoke, and many other poisonous elements from constant bombing.

What freshly cooked food you and I eat three times a day, they are barely able to fill their stomachs with a small morsel of bread.

If you notice, these are all just the basic necessities needed in life to survive. There are so many other blessings we tend to overlook in our day-to-day busy lives.

We complain about the traffic on the road, or the noise pollution enveloping the city life. The small water leaks in the house after a rainy season but, what we don't realize is the ability to fall asleep soundly without the sounds of bombs, to wake up without fear that your house might be the next one turned into stones and dust.

We scroll through reels, complain about the slow Wi-Fi signal or sigh when a video buffers. Yet not realizing that the ability to call and connect with loved ones without the fear of whether they're alive or dead is a gift beyond measure.

We grumble about our boss calling continuously, the endless emails, pending assignments, deadlines and what not! Not realizing that to sit in a classroom, or an office, being able to earn a living for your family is luxury when schools are destroyed and offices nowhere to exist.

Entertainments, vacations and concerts are what we chase in this fleeting world. But in Gaza, such joys are not measured in outings but rather in survival, in the miracle of family still alive together for another day.

Mothers complain about their kids getting sick again and again, endless appointments and visits to the hospital, with the medical bills that seem to reach the sky.

But in Gaza? Mothers simply pray for medicine to exist, for hospitals to still be standing and not bombed, for a doctor to be alive to treat their little one.

Boredom is what on our minds constantly, weekends that feel too short to relax, and routines that feel dull. But in Gaza, people pray simply for another ordinary day, one without bombs, one without loss.

Gaza has taught me and you that gratitude is not only in saying Alhumdullilah, but in seeing what is invisible, in cherishing what we once overlooked.

It is in letting every sip of water, every breath, every heart beat, every night of safety.

Because our life continues in comfort. Theirs is still continuing in survival. And the least we can do is remember. To not forget them.

Pray for them. Raise our voices against the injustice and oppression.

Last but not least keep boycotting those who support and fund for the weapons used to bomb humans there each day mercilessly.

Ya Rahman, ease the pain of Gaza. Grant them safety from the enemies, relief from hardships, and victory. Have mercy on their martyrs, heal their wounded, protect their children, keep their hearts steadfast in faith and make us among those who never forget them in our prayers, our voices, and our actions. Ameen.