This past November I finally left behind my teenage years for good. I didn’t have any epiphanies but a headline I read that day left me reeling.
Post war, family in Afghanistan sells their 10-year-old child to 56-year-old man to stave off starvation — for a few months.
I slowly found myself navigating two distinct realities: one of relative stability and freedom, another that exists far beyond my reach but weighs heavily on my conscience.
I live in Kolkata, a city teeming with contradictions. Streets buzz with hawkers and rickshaw pullers, chats over chai on politics, football, literature, and cinema in the mornings, while the sound of carom marks the evenings in the neighbourhood. It has long been termed ‘The City of Joy’, first penned by author Dominique La Pierre. The city has long rewarded the resilient, the creative, the visionary. The honour of that epithet has been marred by recent incidents. One thing has remained indomitable, however. Hope. Of justice. Of freedom. Of unity.
Days before reading the headline, I believed myself to have been dealt a bad hand by destiny, a life in a city, a country, that has long been critiqued, by its own, for its high numbers in crimes against women. I realize now that me being able to express my views critiquing the downsides of living in this country, the ability to oppose authority and protest, is a privilege that millions do not possess.
Kolkata’s vibrant chaos is worlds apart from the harrowing realities, where surviving, not thriving, is the ultimate goal.
This duality in our worlds—the comfortable bubble of my life and the all-encompassing devastation that makes me disturbed, even in imagination —shapes my understanding of human rights and their fragility in the face of conflict.
Human rights, as enshrined in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, are universal by definition, promising dignity, equality, and security to every individual, irrespective of race, gender, nationality, or circumstance. It is us humans who promised to preserve these rights. It is us humans who have grossly and routinely violated these rights, often with impunity in countries like Syria, Yemen, Iran, Iraq, and Afghanistan.
As I reflect on my privilege, the jarring disparity between my life and the lives of those in these regions becomes uncomfortable to ignore.
In my world I have the right to dream, debate, and dissent, a right I now realize is a privilege for many, and even mere fantasies for some. At my age, my everyday concerns primarily revolve around academics, particularly during the examination seasons, when the need to thrive becomes tenfold. But in the other world—one of war and despair—these freedoms are unimaginable luxuries. In Yemen, millions of children face starvation as a weapon of war. In Syria, entire families are buried under rubble, victims of barrel bombs or airstrikes. In Afghanistan, women and girls are denied education, their futures stolen under the guise of tradition and control.
Gender inequalities are often exacerbated during, and in the aftermath of war, rendering women there vulnerable to systematic exploitation and oppression. Children, are stolen from their families and stripped of their innocence are conscripted into armies, or sold into a lifetime of physical, emotional, and quite often, sexual violence.
The more I read, the more overwhelmed I feel about the harsh disparity between my reality and theirs. I recall a moment of abrupt sorrow, after reading a report on the aftermath if the Syrian Civil War.
I was in my room, being lulled to sleep by the familiar the call of the local chai seller and the rhythmic clatter of tram bells. In Aleppo a girl was running for her life, her home reduced to rubble.
The juxtaposition forced me to question the randomness of fate.
In war-torn countries, violations of human rights are typically systematic and multidimensional, to keep the population under the mercy of their leaders. People residing in those countries face not just violence or displacement but also about the denial of basic necessities: food, water, healthcare, and education.
The ongoing conflict in Yemen has created one of the worst humanitarian crises of our time, with millions on the brink of famine. The Rohingyas of Myanmar, have been forced into refugee camps, living without citizenship, without any hope for a future, their existence reduced to nothingness.
Also Read: World Refugee Day Feature: The Challenge of Angels Unawares
I am repulsed by the authorities and the leaders of the nations who sit behind closed doors, ruining millions of lives with their cruel whims, damning their countrymen to years, if not decades of violence.
The psychological toll caused by the prolonged trauma is an often-overlooked aspect in the aftermath of war. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is one of the most common causes of future health issues in survivors, more so than the physical wounds. Our emotional and mental psyche is much more fragile than our physical body, and survivors of war bear their grief as lifelong burdens, their identities forged by desolation and all-encompassing agony.
It is often difficult for me to reconcile with the fact that there’s nothing much I can do as a 20-year-old student to bridge the gap between the two worlds. The enormity of the issues—violations, displacement, trauma—feel paralyzing. I remind myself then as I do you now, that change, however incremental, begins with awareness. I choose the pen as my tool. Writing allows me to bear witness and spread awareness about these atrocities, amplifying the stories of those who are silenced, and to challenge the complacency that often accompanies privilege.
I intend to educate myself and others about the brutal realities of war-torn regions in a step toward understanding and advocacy, which in turn shall result in increased support to organizations that provide aid to refugees, campaign for peace, or document human rights abuses is another tangible way.
I understand it is easy to feel powerless in the face of immense suffering, but I firmly believe collective action—however small—can create ripples of change.
The sharp contrast I relayed to you today, between my life in Kolkata and the lives of those in war-torn regions, is not just a story meant to be read and forgotten but a call to action. I hope it serves as reminder that the freedoms I enjoy are not guaranteed but fought for and maintained through vigilance. Our humanity is interconnected, our resilience binding us all together by an invisible thread. The suffering of one diminishes us all, and the fight for justice and dignity must be universal. Awareness, empathy, and action must transcend borders to create a world where human rights are not a privilege but a guarantee.
Also Read: We May All be Refugees
In the end, my world and theirs are not different, in their true essence. Our shared dreams of peace, justice, and dignity— uniting us despite the chasms of geography, culture, and circumstance. Humanity is both a responsibility and a source of hope. It is the thread that binds my two worlds together, reminding me that even in the face of despair, the fight for human rights is one worth pursuing.
The collateral of war is not just the physical destruction of cities or the loss of lives but the erosion of our collective humanity. It is a challenge to all of us to rise above indifference and to see the suffering of others as our own. In bearing witness to these atrocities, I have found purpose in a renewed commitment to bridge the gap between my two worlds.
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Ishani is currently a student at Jogamaya Devi College. Having always had a passion for writing, she wishes to pursue it as a career in the future. Her interest in writing stems from countless hours of reading books of all genres, with a particular appeal to high fantasy and thrillers.
