116.

It’s been 116 days since the atrocities of October 7, 2023.

On that day, my heart sank, not just for the innocent civilians killed in southern Israel and the hostages taken back to Gaza, but because I knew the horror that was about to come. The hell that Israel would be raining down on Gaza. I knew it would be about a month of death. Of tragedy. Like every other time violence erupts, they disproportionately kill thousands of people, but usually the world calls a ceasefire and then it’s back to the status quo of blockade, occupation, and the familiar rhetoric of the news we are all used to.

I couldn’t imagine it would get to day 31. No way it could go more than a month. Then day 60 came. And now day 116. 116 days of absolute decimation, destruction, and the murder of almost 100 children, daily. How?

Generations of families wiped from the Earth, generations of children disappeared. Even the children that have survived thus far (if starvation or disease doesn’t get them) have no homes to go back to, nor schools. They will be a lost generation. A lost generation spawned from a generation already lost.

This brings me back to the title of my book. A book I penned over two years, about my father and the lessons I learned from his resilience in battling terminal illness, and the pilgrimage to lay him to rest in his ancestral homeland.

This title started to bear on me as this war dragged on. The daily barrage of death, seeing it unfold instantly on my phone. But then, I remembered where the title of the book came from (spoiler alert: It’s at the ending.)

We have a duty here and now to help each other as much as we can, and all those in the world to truly live. Those kids in Gaza, the mothers, the fathers, the innocent, they never had a chance. They never faced a chance. But most of us here in the west, we do have a chance, every day, to live. That’s not to diminish our own issues or problems, which I will get to very shortly here. Because even for me, I have my daily struggles. The exorbitant cost of living, the decrease in business, keeping up with payments all while trying to recover financially from the havoc that Covid brought. (But yet, it could be worse and I am thankful to the universe every day to allow me another day to grow older.)

But first things first, let’s address how morbid the title is, especially in today’s climate which I just touched on.

We are a world away from Ukraine, from Gaza, yet we are not far from being reminded of our mortality, simply by opening up Instagram.

We can’t get used to the idea that watching death unfold in front of us is just normal and we can go on with our day as usual. We cannot be numb to the dignity of life and the sacredness of it.

I recently came across an Instagram post that was sent to me. In it, it says your job is the dream of the unemployed. Your home is the dream of the homeless. Your smile is the dream of the depressed. Your health is the dream of the ill.

I agree wholeheartedly with those statements. However, if we are working a job we are forced to work, if we are living under a roof that is not of our choosing, but was forced upon us, (and can barely afford), or by circumstances beyond our control, if my smile is faked to get by, then I cannot diminish my own problems, no matter how small they may seem to others. I can say that I am grateful and have the chance to perhaps better my condition or situation.

Mortality, it’s a subject we don’t embrace all too often. We ignore it, but by ignoring it, we are getting one day closer to its premise. And we must believe our life is dignified; we cannot lose hope. We deserve to be happy.

So yes, “we’re already dead”, a premise I’m still trying to reconcile every day (in other words, Maktub), even though I wrote the book, to be like Jim. So what would Jim say? He would have the courage to stand up for the dignity of life, call on the people that can make a difference to end this madness. And when it’s all said and done, pick up the pieces and try to move forward as best as we can.

Thank you for reading.