My joy is incomplete. I tried to write this wish clean and bright, but the words keep catching on eyes I cannot forget.
A mother whispering Eid Mubarak to a grave. A father digging with bare hands because the shovel broke. A child trading tomorrow's walk for today's hunger. A widow who wakes at 3 AM to check if grief is still there. A prisoner forgetting what sunlight looks like. A family burning their last book to stay warm. A girl learning to sleep through explosions. A boy who knows the sound of drones better than birdsong.
This is happening now. While you read this. While I write this.
Ask yourself: when a child is buried in dust, does their blood have a nationality?
I don't care if you hate their country. I don't care what their government did. If you judge a child for their flag, you're the problem. If you look away from suffering because you don't like their leader, you need to grow up.
People are dying in both sides. Mothers. Children. People who never voted for war. Your hate doesn't feed them. Your silence doesn't honor them.
All I want from you is to Pray for them. Ask God to finish what Ramadan started. mercy, feeding, waking at night for someone besides ourselves. Pray for them. Not because it completes their Eid. Because it might complete yours.
Or admit you're just another kind of cruel.
๐ ๐๐ข๐ช ๐๐จ๐ ๐ฃ ~ ุนูุฏ ู ุจุงุฑู