War is being tired

War is being tired
 
Visiting many war-torn places around the world has made me exceedingly aware of the countless things I take for granted in my everyday life.
 
Electricity, for example.
The ability to check Facebook or send a WhatsApp message because the apps have not been blocked—these simple conveniences are privileges I rarely stop to appreciate.
I seldom think about having enough food to eat, sending my children to college, or traveling freely on open roads. The medicine I need is always there, and I can leave my country whenever I wish.
 
I watch uncensored news, openly critique the government without fear of arrest, and sleep under warm blankets, with the hum of a heater in the background. Never frigid air. Never drones overhead.
 
In the comfort of my everyday life, it’s easy to forget that, for many, these privileges are remote dreams.
 
This year, I have been deeply reminded of this during my time in Ukraine and Myanmar, two countries at war. Ukraine battles an external enemy; Myanmar fights an internal one. I have learned that war is not just the battles on the frontlines, the fighting with guns and mortars. War is not just bombed-out buildings and prisoners of war. War is the daily grind of life being disrupted, interrupted, and dislocated. It’s spending half a day on tasks that once took a minute. It’s waking each morning, uncertain of what the day will bring. War is plans put on hold, crushed dreams, and shattered futures. It’s the helplessness of not being able to give your children what they need or do what you know must be done.
 
War is both physical and mental. People who don’t get shot still lose their lives.
 
The words I hear most often in Myanmar and Ukraine are: “We are tired.”
They don’t say they are angry or frustrated as much as they say they are tired.

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“We used to be so patient,” says my friend in Myanmar. “But I notice a change in all the people. We are tired of life being so difficult. We are starting to be less patient with each other.” 
 
“Our children get sick more often than they used to,” says my Ukrainian friend. “They are tired of never feeling safe. We are tired of our lives being put on hold. We are tired of not knowing how long this war will last.”
 
At a healing camp in Yangon, a four-year-old confided to a counselor about the chaos at home—his drunk father yelling at him, his mother beaten regularly. The war outside mirrors the war within his family.
 
Our Ukrainian friends tell similar stories of alcohol abuse, neglect, and domestic violence. During war, the antagonizer doesn’t have to commit all the violence. As long as the enemy can keep the population suppressed, they can count on the people turning on themselves. Dads will hurt their children. Mothers start drinking to calm their nerves. Children fall into depression and passivity. Neighbors vent on each other for minor disagreements. And eventually, the people will grow tired enough to surrender: Let the rulers rule how they want. We’re tired of fighting.
 
But not everyone gives up.
 
Every day, thousands—if not millions—make a choice: We will fight. They fight their own attitudes first. Then, they fight the enemy by choosing the right actions.
 
As I return home, I cannot unsee what I have witnessed: quiet bravery in the face of chaos, strength built in shared struggle, and hope thriving in the darkness of war.
 
These experiences compel me to live with greater awareness, deeper gratitude, and a stronger commitment to serve. The world is full of privileges we overlook and struggles we don’t see—until we choose to open our eyes.
 
What do you take for granted? And more importantly, how can you bring light into someone else's darkness today? If the people of Myanmar and Ukraine can choose resilience in the face of unimaginable hardship, so can we.

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Oddny Gumaer
 
 

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