Citizen of our Earth

Tag: Mental Health

  • When War Meets Humanity: A Baby Left Behind

    👶 A Newborn at the Door: Humanity Amid the War in Khartoum

    When the war broke out in Khartoum, someone told this story:

    “My friends and I decided to stay home and not leave. One day, as the shelling grew heavier, we heard loud banging on the door.
    We were surviving. Barely.
    And then — the knock.
    When we opened it, two soldiers were standing there. They handed me a bundle and quickly walked away.

    We unwrapped it — and to our shock, inside was a newborn baby.
    We don’t know where they found him, and we don’t know why they chose our house.”

    What does it mean — to save a life when hundreds are dying? 💔

    I kept reflecting on that moment. Two soldiers, in the midst of relentless bombardment and daily death, left a newborn at the door of strangers.

    This single act revealed something profound: the resilience of human empathy, even in the harshest conditions that strip people of their humanity.

    It was the raw instinct to protect the vulnerable. 🕊️

    We are biologically wired to respond to infant cues. They have signals that activate caregiving circuits in the brain. Even in war, this system does not switch off. In fact, it may grow stronger.

    Seeing a newborn likely triggered an automatic, primal urge in those soldiers to protect life amid surrounding death.

    War often forces soldiers into moral disengagement — psychological mechanisms that justify violence and detach them from empathy. But facing a helpless infant can spark moral re-engagement.

    A baby carries no political, ethnic, or military identity. A baby embodies pure vulnerability. For a moment, it forces recognition of shared humanity — a crack in the logic of dehumanization that war demands.

    And in the chaos of death and destruction, humans search for meaning. Even the smallest act of preservation can be a psychological anchor. Saving that child may have been the soldiers’ way of saying:

    “Not everything is lost. Not everything is meaningless.”

    It was an act of defiance against the absurdity of war — a way to reclaim both agency and humanity.

    The young man who told the story added:

    “We were just a group of young people. We had no idea how to care for a baby. Fortunately, our grandmother was with us — the only elder who had stayed behind. She knew exactly what to do: feeding, cleaning, caring.

    But the dilemma remained: how could we keep him here, with the shelling, shortages, and constant danger? We posted about it on social media. A family preparing to leave the area with their children came and took him with them.”

    Later he wondered: Why our home? Why us?

    Maybe they saw our lights on. Maybe they remembered this street from before. Maybe it was pure chance — the only house with a door still hanging straight.

    Maybe the choice was not random after all. The soldiers may have sensed something — a house that felt safe, civilian, human. Perhaps a fleeting memory, perhaps intuition.

    They didn’t have time to find a hospital. Didn’t have time to find family. Didn’t have time to be heroes. So they did the next best thing — they trusted strangers. 🤲

    While “fight or flight” is the well-known survival response, under collective threat humans also activate “tend and befriend” — the drive to protect the vulnerable and seek social bonds as a survival strategy. Leaving the baby with civilians was an act of social trust: the implicit belief that “someone will care for this child.”

    A newborn represents the future — continuity, renewal, hope. 🌱 Amid scenes of death, preserving a baby is an unconscious affirmation of life itself. Psychologically, it is a defense against existential despair.

    “If this child lives, maybe we haven’t lost everything.”

    Sara

    If you’re reading this — you’re part of that rebellion too. ✨
    Pass it on. Protect someone. Choose life.
    Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. ❤️

  • The Silent Pandemic: Rethinking Mental Health Access

    The Silent Pandemic: Rethinking Mental Health Access

    Digital Mental Health: A Revolution for Youth Wellbeing

    “I think a lot… and I wish I didn’t exist, so I wouldn’t have to keep feeling this way.”

    This isn’t a line from a tragic novel. It’s the raw, unfiltered answer of a medical student in an African country—one of many we spoke to years ago in a mental health survey that asked: Have you ever thought about harming yourself?

    I still can’t bring myself to share her full response. Or those of her peers—each one echoing pain so deep it feels dangerous to read. Just seeing their words on paper filled me with tension, grief, and fear.

    Are We Paying Attention—Or Ignoring a Silent Pandemic?

    The World Health Organization confirms: depression and anxiety are among the leading causes of illness and disability in young people aged 10–24.

    These aren’t abstract statistics.

    They’re sitting next to our children in classrooms. They’re the siblings of our coworkers. They’re in our neighborhoods. They may even be our own sons and daughters—hiding behind silence.

    And yet, access to mental health care remains broken—even in wealthy nations. In low- and middle-income countries, it’s nearly nonexistent. Shortages of professionals, crushing costs, and deep-rooted stigma block the path to help.

    If the current system isn’t working—why do we keep clinging to it?

    A Glimpse of Hope: What Students in Sudan Told Us

    Years ago, we surveyed university students in Sudan about digital mental health tools. The results were striking: over 70% said they were willing to try a teleconsultation for mental health treatment.

    Why? Because it’s private. Affordable. Accessible.

    What Digital Mental Health Could Look Like

    • Imagine a young man in a remote village, miles from the nearest clinic, scrolling through his phone at night—exhausted, hopeless. But instead of despair, he opens an app and finds cognitive behavioral therapy in his language, voice messages from a counselor, a safe space to breathe.
    • Picture a female university student overwhelmed by academic pressure and family expectations, too afraid to speak aloud—yet texting anonymously with a therapist through a secure platform.
    • Or a rural mother, isolated and struggling with postpartum depression, listening to guided mindfulness sessions on her basic smartphone while her baby sleeps.

    The Tools Are Here—Why Aren’t We Using Them?

    Digital mental health—mobile apps, teletherapy, AI-supported chatbots, online CBT—can bridge gaps no traditional system ever could.

    It bypasses borders. It slashes costs. It reaches anyone with a mobile phone. And believe me: billions have one.

    So why aren’t global institutions acting?
    Why aren’t we building regulated, scalable, equitable digital mental health systems—as widespread as social media, as accessible as WhatsApp?

    All we need is imagination. Will. Coordination.

    Final Call to Action

    The suffering is real. The tools are here.
    The time for transformation is now.

    👉 If you believe in a future where no young person feels invisible in their pain—share this post, start the conversation, and push for digital mental health innovation.

    — Sara

  • Feeling Guilty for Not Feeling Guilty: Lessons from Lockdown

    Feeling Guilty for Not Feeling Guilty: Lessons from Lockdown

    Survivor’s Guilt: Thriving in Crisis

    January 2020. COVID-19 was gathering its full force, preparing to strike the world like nothing we had seen before.

    At the time, I was working a full-time job—physically and mentally demanding—while quietly battling a number of scattered health issues. What I really needed, more than anything, was rest. Deep rest. A pause. A chance to breathe, reflect, and heal.

    And then, as if on cue, the world changed.

    Every news channel, every screen, every conversation became consumed by the pandemic. Uncertainty and fear spread as fast as the virus itself. Governments scrambled to respond to an unprecedented crisis. People were scared—of the unknown, of getting sick, of losing loved ones, of losing their livelihoods. You saw it all. The anxiety was everywhere.

    Then came the lockdown. 🚪

    Overnight, everything stopped.

    To most of the world, it felt like a crisis.
    To me? It felt like a gift from God. ✨

    My 40 hours of in-person work each month shrank to just four hours online. No commuting. No errands. No social obligations. Just home. Just silence. Just time.

    For the first time in months—maybe years—I had space. My body began to recover. My mind slowed down. I slept better. I breathed deeper. I was, honestly… happy. 😌

    While the world grieved, I was at peace.
    I was thankful. Even joyful.
    And that joy came with a quiet shadow: guilt.

    People around the globe were suffering—getting sick, losing jobs, losing family members, stranded across borders. Lives were unraveling.
    And here I was… grateful. At peace. Healing.

    So I asked myself: Shouldn’t I be sad? Shouldn’t I feel more empathy?

    🧩 The Psychology of Feeling Guilty for Not Feeling Guilty

    What I was experiencing was a subtle form of survivor’s guilt—not because I survived a tragedy while others didn’t, but because I thrived in circumstances that crushed so many.

    Survivor’s guilt isn’t limited to war zones or natural disasters. It shows up in quieter ways:

    • The person displaced by conflict who finds safety and opportunity abroad 🌍
    • The business owner whose services suddenly become essential during a crisis 💼
    • The freelancer who flourishes during an economic collapse while others lose everything 💻

    Sometimes, in the middle of a global storm, one person finds shelter. That doesn’t mean they’re ignoring the rain—it just means they’re finally dry. ☔

    When we feel okay—even good—during a collective crisis, our minds often rebel. On one side: gratitude for the unexpected relief. On the other: a quiet, insistent voice whispering, How can you feel this way when others are suffering?

    This is what psychologists call meta-emotion—an emotion about your own emotions. In my case, it wasn’t just happiness I was feeling. It was guilt about being happy.

    A loop formed:
    You’re not sad. You should be sad. Therefore, you’re failing.
    As if our emotional states must always mirror the global mood.

    But here’s the truth: emotions are not moral judgments.

    💡 What Was Really Happening Inside Me

    🧠 Cognitive Dissonance
    My internal reality—relief, rest, recovery—clashed with the external one: a global tragedy. My brain struggled to reconcile the contradiction: How can I feel good when the world feels bad?
    The easiest resolution? Guilt. My mind punished me for not following the expected emotional script.

    🧠 Social Norms and Emotional Expectations
    Society assumes that during collective trauma, everyone should feel sorrow, anxiety, or grief. When we don’t, we feel like we’re failing a moral test. But emotions aren’t moral choices. They’re responses to personal context.

    🧠 The Gift of Reduced Allostatic Load
    For people with chronic stress or health issues, the lockdown wasn’t just a disruption—it was a decompression:
    • Less commuting = lower cortisol 🚗
    • Fewer social demands = reduced cognitive load 🗓️
    • More sleep = better immune function 😴

    The pandemic was a tragedy.
    But for some of us, it was also a rare moment of stillness—of breath, of recovery, of unexpected grace. 🌱

    By the end of the year, my health was better than it has ever been. 💪

    Because healing doesn’t have to wait for permission.
    And peace doesn’t have to apologize for existing—
    even in the middle of a storm. ⛈️

    And that doesn’t make us bad.
    It makes us human. ❤️

    — Sara

    💬 Did you feel something similar during the pandemic—or during another crisis? I’d love to hear your story in the comments. Let’s start a conversation. 🌍✨

  • A House on Hold, But a Garden That Grew

    How Ten Trees Kept a Dream Alive

    When the war broke out in Khartoum, my husband was outside Sudan, working tirelessly and sending money to build his dream home in the city. And it was going well. The construction was complete, most of the finishing touches were done, and he had even planted trees around the house — hoping they would grow tall and shady by the time we moved in.

    But on the morning of Saturday, April 14, 2023, everything changed. In the blink of an eye, the city turned into a battlefield. People fled for their lives. Some were killed, some displaced, and some stayed behind to face the horror and destruction.

    The streets we once walked without fear turned into war zones. And with that, my husband’s dream house stood still — abandoned like so many others.

    ⚒️ The construction stopped.
    💔 Belongings were stolen.
    🌱 The trees? They died — thirsty, forgotten, abandoned in the chaos.

    At first, everyone was paralyzed, trying to understand what was happening, absorbing the shock. But slowly, people began to reposition themselves, to find new ways of living within the chaos.

    That’s when my husband made an unusual choice. He hired a guard — one of the few who chose to stay in Khartoum. Not because he wasn’t afraid, but because he, too, believed in staying alive in place.

    And then, from thousands of miles away, my husband did something that seemed small, almost irrational at first: He started planting trees again.

    🌍 Not waiting for peace.
    ⚡ Not waiting for electricity or water or functioning institutions.
    🔥 While bombs still echoed through the city, while neighborhoods burned and families mourned — he began to rebuild the green.

    Every morning, before sunrise, he’d wake up and call the caretaker:
    “Are the trees okay?”
    “Did you water them?”

    I watched him every day. He would ask about the battles in Khartoum, about the condition of the trees, whether they had been watered. He would ask if it was possible to bring another sapling from the nursery, how to solve the water shortage, or how to raise the fence to protect a fragile plant. He would request photos and videos of the trees, then call back again to discuss why one looked pale or how another could be better supported.

    And the caretaker — patient, committed — would answer, and act, and send back proof: a small tree standing straight in cracked soil. 🌱 A leaf unfurling. 🍃 A shadow beginning to form.

    This went on for months. Then years. Through explosions. 💥 Through silence. 🤐 Through grief. 🕊️

    Now, more than two years later, the war in Khartoum has subsided and shifted to other places. People are beginning to return. And in front of our house, ten trees now stand tall — proud, defiant, and unbroken.

    They stand like sentinels around a home that isn’t even lived in yet. And they say more than words ever could.

    🌳 What My Husband Was Really Doing

    At first glance, you might think he was just obsessed with landscaping. But I’ve come to understand — this was never about trees alone.

    It was about control in a world that had lost all sense of it. When he couldn’t stop the war, he made sure the soil was watered. When he couldn’t bring us home, he made sure something was growing there, waiting.

    Psychologists call this symbolic action — doing something small and tangible to represent a belief too big to speak: This place still matters. I still belong. I will return.

    It was emotional anchoring — a way to stay connected to home when exile threatened to sever every tie. Every photo, every video, every instruction — it kept the house alive in his mind, and in his heart.

    It was hope as action, not wishful thinking. While others waited for peace to begin, he began peace. He planted it. 🌱 He nurtured it. 💧 He measured its growth in centimeters and courage.

    And beneath it all — it was grief transformed. The grief of lost time, of interrupted dreams, of a city bleeding. Instead of collapsing under it, he channeled it into care. This is what psychologists call sublimation — turning pain into something life-giving.

    He didn’t just mourn the trees that died. 🌳 He resurrected them. And in doing so, he preserved his identity. Because to stop caring would have been to let the war win — not just over land, but over his soul.

    And now, two years later, those ten trees stand as living proof of his quiet defiance — his refusal to let war have the last word.

    And when we finally walk through that front door — dusty, delayed, but standing — we won’t be entering just a house.

    We’ll be walking into a story of resilience. One that began not with bricks, but with roots. 🌱

    To the man who planted trees in the middle of war — I see you. And I know: where you grow, life follows. 💚

    Sara

  • Embracing Chaos: Tips for Mental Resilience

    Embracing Chaos: Tips for Mental Resilience

    Do You See Chaos Everywhere?

    Does the world seem like a raging jungle to you, full of confusion… mystery… and evil?

    Do you feel like you’re walking on quicksand, unsure of what will happen in the future, tomorrow, today, or even the next moment?

    This is how things feel right now for many people.
    You turn on the TV, and you’re bombarded with news of violence, killing, and destruction. The places that escaped wars were struck by earthquakes, fires, and floods.
    You look at your phone screen, and all you see are economic collapses and societal disasters… call them what you will.
    Crises… crises… crises everywhere.
    How do you find balance amidst this chaos?

    The first step is to realize that chaos is a natural part of life. Instead of fighting it, try to accept it.
    Perhaps chaos, as harsh as it may seem, is a form of divine cosmic order that restores balance. But because our knowledge and understanding are limited, we perceive it as chaos.

    1. Accept Chaos as Part of Life

    Learn how to adapt to changing circumstances instead of trying to control everything.

    2. Don’t Give In to Frustration

    Don’t let negative news pull you into a spiral of fear and despair. It’s your right to stay strong.
    Never lose faith that everything will pass, and you will not only get through these times but may even emerge stronger and wiser.
    Staying calm amidst chaos isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity. Focus on what you can control.

    Strategies for Feeling Safe in a Turbulent World

    ✔ Create a daily routine that gives you a sense of stability and accomplishment.

    • Make your bed every morning.
    • Stick to the five daily prayers (for Muslims).
    • Set aside time for reading.
    • Regulate your sleep schedule and reduce screen time.

    ✔ Practice Mindfulness
    Make meditation or conscious breathing part of your daily routine. You can set an alarm every few hours to remind yourself to pause, take a deep breath, and feel the movement of your chest with each inhale and exhale.
    Take daily moments to connect with your senses:
    👀 Look around clearly, notice colors and shapes.
    👂 Listen to the sounds around you.
    👅 Taste your food mindfully—don’t eat in a hurry.

    ✔ Practice Gratitude
    Every day, think about the things you’re grateful for, no matter how small:

    • The ability to breathe.
    • A cold glass of water.
    • A moment of peace in a busy day.
      You can even write these blessings down daily and read them aloud.

    ✔ Spend Time in Nature
    If possible, go outside. Walking among trees or even sitting on your balcony can help restore your inner balance.

    ✔ Seek Support
    Don’t hesitate to reach out to friends or family when you feel confused or anxious. Sharing your feelings can bring comfort and a fresh perspective.

    ✔ Surround Yourself with Positive People
    Don’t remain alone amidst the chaos; build a support network that gives you strength and stability.

    And finally… cultivate resilience.
    We all have the ability to process events and deal with them flexibly. We cannot change the world, but we can accept it and live in it with honesty, generosity, and love

                    Best regards,

                                        Sara