How do we live while others are dying?

I sat in front of my laptop, trying to figure out how to prioritize my tasks. I have a long to-do list. At the top of it: study for my Icelandic exam and practice using a new rendering program. But the moment I opened my screen, I was immediately hit with a wave of guilt.

It’s not new to say that life for any Palestinian has changed since October 7th, 2023. I was supposed to be thinking about my family in Gaza — but instead, I found myself consumed with the desire to succeed. The battle for life and death somehow turned into a battle to achieve whatever I could. And the truth is, no one knows when the next rocket will hit.

I’m not in Gaza, nor even close to it. But I live a life that constantly pushes me to the edge of madness. I don’t know what’s right and what’s not. Should I go to bingo night at my kids’ school? Should I socialize at work? Or am I supposed to boycott life in order to stand with my people in Gaza?

What is right, and what is wrong?

Would it be shameful not to attend a protest? But then again, I have to be with my kids, help with their studies, make sure they are okay. Is that selfish? Am I allowed to live a normal life? Or should I, as Darwish wrote in his poems, always remember while eating that someone else is starving?

I keep confirming that I’ll attend the next protest. I set the alarm. I prepare myself mentally. But when the time comes, I get so emotionally overwhelmed that I just can’t go. The truth is, these protests make me vulnerable — they break me open. I can’t act like myself. And on another level, I dread the inevitable questions: How are you? How’s your family? I can’t keep repeating it over and over. Because my family is not just my parents.

We’re a family-oriented community. We were raised in extended families. We grew up with our cousins; our aunts are our second mothers. They were always at our home. We lived together — we still do. Everyone in Gaza knows everyone. So no, if my parents are out, that doesn’t mean I’m okay. My brother is still there. My cousins, my neighbors, the people I shared childhood memories with — they are all there. That is my home. My land. My country. It’s not a thing. It’s everything.

I’m not sharing this to gain pity or sympathy. I just want to understand: how are we supposed to live while others are dying?

If this genocide wasn’t happening in Gaza, would I feel the same way? Or would I, like so many others, just go on with my days as if nothing had changed?

I walk through a world that asks me to carry on, smile, be productive — while part of me is frozen in grief. My body is here, going through the motions, but my heart is elsewhere — split, scattered across borders and memories. Sometimes, I envy those who can turn away, who can scroll past without feeling a thing.

The only thing I truly wish is that I could go back in time — but I know that’s not possible. I also know how difficult life will be even after a ceasefire. The echo of war will continue to reverberate within us — an echo that never leaves. It’s the sound that comes every time a plane flies overhead, or fireworks light up the sky. Every sound becomes a sound of war. Every action becomes a trigger for those days we can never forget.

I’ve been in this deep hole since long before 2023. So I wonder: how will it be for those who survive — inshallah — this genocide? What kind of world will they inherit? And how do we rebuild from a place where even memory feels like a battlefield?

What would you do if this was your people? Your family?

Mahmoud Darwish – “Think of Others”

As you prepare your breakfast, think of others
(do not forget the pigeon’s food).

As you conduct your wars, think of others
(do not forget those who seek peace).

As you pay your water bill, think of others
(those who are nursed by clouds).

As you return home, to your home, think of others
(do not forget the people of the camps).

As you sleep and count the stars, think of others
(those who have nowhere to sleep).

As you liberate yourself in metaphor, think of others
(those who have lost the right to speak).

As you think of others far away, think of yourself
(say: “If only I were a candle in the dark.”)