I had gone to bed early, exhausted from a long day at university. But at 2:30 AM, I was jolted awake by my sister’s cries. Her voice trembled as she clutched her ear, tears streaming down her face.
“I have severe pain in my ear. What do I do?”
I was half-asleep, my mind foggy, my body unwilling to move—but her pain didn’t give me a choice. I looked around our small, cold hostel room. Empty shelves, no medicine. Nothing but helplessness staring back at me.
Desperate, I resorted to an old home remedy—I warmed some oil and carefully poured a few drops into her ear. “Try to sleep,” I whispered. “I’ll take you to the hospital in the morning.”
She nodded, exhaustion pulling her back under. But I couldn’t sleep. I lay there in the darkness, thinking.
Thinking about how fragile we are. How, in the blink of an eye, everything can change. How unprepared we are for the smallest inconveniences, let alone life’s biggest storms.
The Man Who Had Lost Everything—But Not His Faith
Morning came, and as promised, I took my sister to the hospital.
After her checkup, we sat outside the test lab, waiting for a friend. That’s when a man sat next to us, his little son by his side. The boy, no older than three, had bright, curious eyes. He flashed us a shy smile, and we couldn’t help but smile back.
His father, however, looked exhausted—his clothes worn, his posture heavy with the weight of life. But despite his obvious struggles, there was something peaceful about him, something… grateful.
We played with his son for a while, teasing him gently. Then my sister asked, “Is he sick?”
The father’s smile faded slightly, but his voice remained steady.
“He has Hepatitis C.”
I felt a lump in my throat.
“I lost another son at this age to illness,” he continued. “My wife is gone, too. Now, it’s just him. He’s the only reason I’m still here.”
He was young—maybe twenty-eight, thirty at most. But life had aged him far beyond his years. Yet, despite his grief, despite his losses, he still smiled. He still said, Alhamdulillah.
I sat there, stunned.
Here was a man who had lost everything—a child, a wife, his stability—and yet, he was grateful. And here we were, with everything we could ever need, still complaining about life’s inconveniences.
A Lesson in Perspective
Soon after, my friend arrived, and we went for my checkup. I, too, had been feeling unwell. The doctor prescribed me a drip and an injection, so I was taken to the emergency ward and told to rest on a bed.
That’s when another patient was rushed in—a young girl, covered in blood, fresh from an accident.
By her side stood another girl, her hands trembling as she whispered, “Should I call your mama or baba?”
The injured girl, despite the pain contorting her face, shook her head furiously. “No… no, baba will get angry.”
I felt my breath catch.
Even in a moment of suffering, she wasn’t thinking about herself—she was terrified of her father’s reaction. Not of the pain. Not of the blood. Not of the possibility that she could have died.
Just the fear of disappointing him.
And in that moment, I realized something.
We all believe we’re the ones suffering the most. We drown in self-pity, convinced that life has been cruel to us. But if we just look around, if we step outside of our own pain for a moment, we’ll see—there are people going through unimaginable hardships.
People who sit alone in dark rooms, battling silent wars.
People who have lost their loved ones but still wake up every morning and say Alhamdulillah.
People who are covered in wounds, but their only fear is disappointing those they love.
We are not the only ones who struggle.
We don’t need more reasons to complain. We need to be grateful.
Grateful for the roof over our heads.
Grateful for the food on our plates.
Grateful for the family that surrounds us.
Because gratitude doesn’t come from having a perfect life. It comes from recognizing that even in our worst moments, we still have something.
And for that, we must always say, Alhamdulillah
@Aiman Hassan
