All the incidents portrayed here are either from my direct experience or come from very trustworthy sources. Generally, all my posts are rooted in a specific place and country context, but in this one, I have not mentioned the real names of the country or the characters. I don’t think I need to give you a reason — because finding a logical explanation doesn’t feel that logical, given the state of my mind.

Ok, let me tell you.

Captain Rine once told me that they were no longer dumping garbage outside because it had become a threat to civilians. I asked, “How would it be a threat?” He said he went to the dumping site with the garbage truck and found children waiting to eat the garbage.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around that. I kept asking, “Waiting to eat garbage?” He said, “Yes,” and even imitated how the children were eating eggshells — “chara… bara…”

I felt suddenly empty.
But it wasn’t the kind of emptiness that Eastern philosophers or Nagarjuna describe — the Nirvanic joyful emptiness. It was as if a window of hell suddenly opened and closed in the middle of my heart. (I’m still unsure if this is the correct analogy, but it’s the closest I can find within me.)

Time passed.
I moved between war and peace — war and peace.

A long time after that story, I was in a different country. One of the national staff invited me to try their local delicacy — yes, it was camel meat. He told me to go to the main market to enjoy roasted meat.

It was around 2 p.m., and the heat was unbearable. The wind blowing from the deadly Sahara Desert was warm, sad, and dry. I felt like a giant hairdryer was following me at full blast and the suffocating difficulty of breathing in hot air.

Children followed us, asking for money in a language unfamiliar to me.
The smell of freshly slaughtered animals killed any appetite I had — even though I hadn’t eaten all day.

Somehow, in the middle of that chaos, we found a place to sit and eat roasted meat. There were about six or seven colleagues. We were served a mix of small, dry, bony pieces of what we were told was camel and goat meat. It came on a large thali — a flat aluminum plate that looked like the shiny lid of an oil barrel — covered with lemon slices, cucumbers, and onions.

I don’t think I ate much. The meat was full of small bones wrapped in hard tissue from some kind of animal. I tried to eat like a lion on a Discovery Channel documentary, but even between all of us, we couldn’t finish 50% of it. We left behind the rock-hard bones and the over-loaded onions and cucumbers.

Oh — I forgot to mention:
During the whole meal, a group of children (aged around 6 to 10) watched us from the edge of the hut. The shopkeeper chased them away many times with a cane. They would run and reassemble again just as quickly. This back-and-forth lasted the entire time we were eating.

Then, as we stood up to leave, those kids stormed into the hut and grabbed all the leftovers — the bones, the onions, the cucumbers — and stuffed everything into their mouths without hesitation or discrimination. They literally swallowed the leftovers, even the bones.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Were they really that hungry?

And then suddenly, the old story flashed back in my mind — children eating eggshells… “chara… bara…”
The same emptiness invaded my joy.

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If you’re a humanitarian worker, I’m sure you’ve come across many stories like this.
You’ve likely been overwhelmed by helplessness and frustration.

Maybe your thoughts went toward liberal peace theories, capitalist agendas, AI solutions to eradicate poverty…
Maybe you blamed corrupt individuals.
If you’re a communist, maybe you hated the system.
If you’re religious, maybe you thought of karma or cursed the devil.
Or, if you’re like me — a mix of all the above — maybe you just felt helpless and discouraged.

I’m sure many of you feel the same.

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Yes, there are many so-called tools around us:

• To reflect on our roles.
• To focus on why we are here.
• To build a life outside of work (though we all know that’s rare in this kind of passion).
• To seek professional support.
• To meditate or pray.

When I was in the field, I tried to do all of the above.

Now, I have a son.
And sometimes, when I look at him, my mind drifts to the children I met in warzones…
Children I left behind in hunger.
Children I left behind in abusive environments.
Sometimes, I feel sad and helpless.

And I know many of my humanitarian colleagues feel the same, in one way or another.
At the end of the day, we’re all just humans — made of flesh and blood.

Now, I pray for them. Hmm… These brutal wars and conflicts have left us with hundreds of thousands of heartbreaking experiences. Children living in war zones are facing horrors we can only imagine.

Why am I sharing this random, sad thought?
I guess I’m just writing what’s on my mind…

Because when I see children suffering — in Sudan, Ethiopia, Myanmar, Gaza, or anywhere else — I want to scream, “Stop, stop the war!”
I’m sure you feel the same.

We must not lose our humanity, especially in these confusing times filled with so much violence.

And if you see your neighbor losing it , please lift them up.
We all can do better.

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Let me tell you — this blog post is so random.
I just wanted to put this out for you… so you can see the world through my eyes.

If you’re new to this field, maybe this will help you prepare your heart and mind before you go.
Or maybe, you can share your own thoughts or feelings here.

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