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Former Journalist | Humanitarian Media Specialist
In an era where everything can be published in a matter of seconds, the easiest question to ask has become: *How do we get noticed?* However, the more vital question remains: **How do we leave an impact?**
In an era where events are measured by their virality rather than their human weight, a figure like **633 children killed in Lebanon** in just a few days appears... like a fleeting shock. A shock mentioned, circulated, and then shelved, as if it warrants no more than a momentary glance.
On a cold night, by the side of the road, a mother was lulling her child to sleep inside a car parked on the shoulder. She was not a refugee in a camp, nor a displaced person in a statistic, nor a victim in a breaking news report. She was simply a mother trying to convince her child that this situation was only "temporary." Many cars passed by, carrying many cameras... but no one stopped. Simply because she was just a mother who did not belong to the "story being told."
What if Eid arrived this year with a single moon? One that no two people would dispute, and no official statements or committees would contend over. A moon that asks for no nationality and recognizes no borders drawn by politics—but instead descends as a guest into every heart, reminding us that joy, much like pain, is a shared right.
In times of war, it is not only military strength that is tested; the ethics of nations are tested as well. Wars do not launch missiles alone—they also release what lies within hearts: anger, fear, and sometimes… gloating.
The question today is not: "Do we return ISIS members to their home countries?" Rather, it is: Can a modern state abdicate its legal and moral responsibilities toward its citizens—especially children—under the pretext of protecting national security?
When we visit someone, an open door offers us a quiet trust: “Enter as you are—we are the same.”
Detroit’s story is not as distant as it may appear. Once the beating heart of the global industrial economy, the American city now offers a stark human lesson about what happens when urban centers are governed by cold numbers—and when people are removed from the equations of profit and loss.
We do not merely misread life—we insist on doing so. We chase what we want as if it were absolute truth, and label whatever stands in our way as injustice, failure, or betrayal. We grow angry, complain endlessly, and curse our luck, as though we possess full knowledge of what should happen to us, and when.
Imagine a firefighter in a neighborhood packed with wooden houses who suddenly decides to leave his post—not because the fire has died down, but because he disagreed with the neighbors over the cost of the water truck. The people in that neighborhood do not care about the details of the dispute, nor about who is right or wrong. All they know is that the flames are creeping toward their children’s bedrooms, and that the chair where the “rescuer” was supposed to sit now stands empty.