Bismillah,
The past few months have been tough. I am glued to social media and most of the time crying when I am alone at nights. What I have seen on Palestine was inhuman. And it’s even more inhuman to see the people who have powers to stop this have done nothing.
At nights, my mind goes overdrive thinking about the people in Palestine. I weep for the humanity. I cry for the people that got robbed from their dreams.
We would not know them if it’s not because of the journalists in Palestine trying their best to report what’s really happening and not some propaganda and fake news out there.
Ah, to become a journalist.
I got reminded again of my childhood dream. I have loved writing ever since God knows when. Writing for me is an outlet for my feelings. It got more serious as I grew older. I won 6th place on a national writing competition. Some of my short stories got published on national newspaper. I joined competitions on Indonesian Literature (let’s put it that way) and I won 2nd best on regional level. I knew what I wanted to do when I grow up. Not an engineer, not a doctor — I wanted to be a journalist.
It wasn’t an ordinary choice for a kid like me. Everyone expected me to go down engineering/science route. To be honest, it was on my mind as well. I wasn’t bad in Math. I was okay in Science. I don’t like Social Science but I was an all rounder so it wasn’t that bad either. I could go any route I wanted — but a journalist? No one around me really believed that I wanted to go down that path.
But as a kid, it wasn’t a problem. I just enjoyed what I enjoyed doing. I kept writing stories – sometimes by request. My inspiration came from everyone around me. My favorite to write was fictions, simply because I could become anyone that I was not. And I could make the world that was not the one I was in.
Life happened. My parents saw that I was becoming more serious in writing. They gently nudged me that there were better things to do in the future. Engineering for example? Or a doctor. Something related to science.
Little Fanny fell silent. I was at age where I understood what my parents were thinking. I knew they meant well, but deep inside I knew I could never gave up on writing. Okay, I thought. I could still write as a hobby
I buried my childhood dream – and what I knew I am good at.
And right now, I wish I were a journalist. Perhaps my little voice could be useful. Perhaps what I would convey to the world could become something that weigh on my scale on Judgement Day. I wish so much to be there amongst the heroes.
But right now, I am not. I am not a journalist. I am not there with them reporting what happened to the world. I am safe (alhamdulillah). There’s a roof over my head and food on my table. I have water that I can drink anytime I want. My kids are tucked in their beds, resting and preparing for their school tomorrow.
I am not a journalist. But I hope whatever I am doing right now to send my love to Palestine could be something that tell the journalists that their efforts are not in vain. The world knows. The world is watching. The world learns the truth.
Free Palestine – forever and ever.
Love from your sister in Islam,
