It’s Ramadan, and just like the birds aren’t off-duty, neither are the pilots. They fill the air with the screeching sounds of their steel eagles, preparing for the National Day parade.
I’m sitting in my classroom, trying to focus on the lecture and ignore the lethargy from the day’s fast when another plane’s sound screeches in to drown out the teacher. This time, it gets a lot closer. It gets louder and louder and…
The realisation hits me. I’m sitting in a comfortable lecture hall, with air conditioning and lights, my only concern being that I can’t wrap my head around the derivative formula while my stomach grumbles from my fast.
Somewhere in Gaza, someone my age is hearing the exact same sound as me. Only they are terrified of it. They have no classroom left, as their schools have been bombed. They have no teacher, as she has been killed. And they have no lights, because their entire lives have been spent in electric blackouts.
This sound, for me, is nothing more than background noise, or at most, a reminder that these planes can protect us. While this same sound, for them, is the most horrifying thing, the bringer of grisly deaths, severed limbs, and shattered homes.
The plane’s screech fades away, but I can still hear my heart in my throat. These are the same planes I was so excited to see as a child. These same planes that every time one would go by, I’d run to the window and squeal in joy, trying my best to catch a glimpse of it.
The children of Gaza hate planes for a good reason.
From now on, I don’t think I’ll be able to hear the sound the same way again.
It’s Ramadan, and just like the birds aren’t off-duty, neither are the pilots. They fill the air with the screeching sounds of their steel eagles, preparing for the national day parade.
I’m sitting in my classroom, trying to focus on the lecture and ignore the lethargy from the day’s fast when another plane’s sound screeches in to drown out the teacher. This time, it gets a lot closer. It gets louder and louder and…
The realisation hits me. I’m sitting in a comfortable lecture hall, with air conditioning and lights, my only concern being that I can’t wrap my head around the derivative formula while my stomach grumbles from my fast.
Somewhere in Gaza, someone my age is hearing the exact same sound as me. Only they are terrified of it. They have no classroom left, as their schools have been bombed. They have no teacher, as she has been killed. And they have no lights, because their entire lives have been spent in electric blackouts.
This sound, for me, is nothing more than background noise, or at most, a reminder that these planes can protect us. While this same sound, for them, is the most horrifying thing, the bringer of grisly deaths, severed limbs, and shattered homes.
The plane’s screech fades away, but I can still hear my heart in my throat. These are the same planes I was so excited to see as a child. These same planes that every time one would go by, I’d run to the window and squeal in joy, trying my best to catch a glimpse of it.
The children of Gaza hate planes for a good reason.
From now on, I don’t think I’ll be able to hear the sound the same way again.
Read our latest posts: Ramadan Reflections: Finding Gratitude in Small Gestures, Ramadan Reflections: Realising the Value of Peace, Ramadan Reflections: Believing in Allah’s Rahmah, Come What May
