Burnout with Gaza: Season 0, Episode 1 of My Life as an Ansari

I didn't realize in October that this was going to be a marathon, not a sprint.

Here is Season 0, Episode 1 (first of a two-part introduction) for this article series — the story of my personal experiences and struggles as I became an Ansari (Helper) of Gazan refugees (Muhajireen). List of episodes can be found here.

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Tell me if this sounds like you, a few months ago.

I just couldn’t. I just couldn’t not watch the jetstream of horrifying news, photos and videos that were pouring out of the newly-erupted violence against Gaza. Day after day, I would keep up with the horrifying updates of Israel’s massacre of my brothers and sisters, of Israel killing my siblings, spilling my blood, burying my children and my families under the rubble of what had once been homes and living stories.

I didn’t watch the gory, blood-filled videos of the victims. I knew that I personally couldn’t and shouldn’t. But other content I was glued to — the gore-less suffering victims, their crying families, pleas for help. The protests, the activists’ anger, the awareness spreading like wildfire. The news from multiple reliable news outlets, the news being broadcast live from ordinary people on the ground. The social media journalists on the ground in Gaza, who became brothers and sisters from across a screen, whom I would repeatedly check on and learn from. The unity of purpose in the comments sections. The guiding thought leaders, imams, speakers and the big-name activists, those beacons of light.

The days turned into weeks. For me, it wasn’t survivor’s guilt that kept my horrified gaze glued to the ghastly settler-colonialist invasion. It was the sense of responsibility to act. Me, submerged in my peaceful life and countless privileges — I had to do everything in my power to raise the voice of the oppressed. I got more serious about my Instagram page. Everyday, I would take a barrage of screenshots from browsing social media, and post them onto my WhatsApp Status, as a quick and easy boost of awareness for my contacts. Doing my part.

Secondly, as someone blessed by Allah to have the ability to write, I had to put this ability to use. I was responsible before Allah for this gift — a gift which, Alhamdulillah, I enjoy, too. My perfectionist tendencies have irked me for far too long by making me fail to publish, and to remain stuck in a cycle of editing and over-editing. But now I pushed to publication. I got serious about my Instagram, and created short-form content there. I started this Substack, and wrote long-form articles here. Week on week, I consumed news on Palestine, which fueled me to write, and I would push to publication. Pressing that Post button.

So I was consuming Palestine updates in order to re-share news for awareness, to keep people informed, and secondly in order to create my own content. Initially I would consume updates multiple times a day, neglecting to factor in the longer-lasting impacts of this heavy consumption on my mood and in the back of my mind. Some days my WhatsApp Status would consist of dozens of screenshots as updates. Somedays very few. Life went on. My day job and my family life did not, of course, stop. So I staggered through my days as the weeks stretched on, reacting in this messy fashion, allowing a sense of obligation and martyrdom to cause me to sacrifice my sleep, my punctuality and my routine.

Those initial several weeks were stark. The anxiety and the horror of the nakba unfolding in the first few weeks. The Gazans are being bombed indiscriminately from the north. Are they really being pushed south? The impending horror of a ground invasion. The mounting death toll numbers. The reactions from the international community. The heroic influencers online. The anger. The pain. Reminding myself of the Last Day, and drawing closer to Allah.

It’s not like before October I was the most punctual person on top of my to-do list, schedule and stress management. I’m not implying that the 2023/2024 Nakba came in and crashed my perfect life. Instead, my knee-jerk activism and panicked response exacerbated my existing problems: procrastination, poor stress management, and not getting things done. Anxiety symptoms deepened in my body in various ways. My sleep suffered, in both quality and quantity. My first few white hairs appearing — I’m 27. I starkly remember being at the barber’s, and seeing a few white hairs in my falling locks of cut hair. My mood and emotional composure were crumbling.

Hospital invasions becoming the norm. Children trapped under the rubble. So much pain and suffering. So much activism to do. Daily life as well. I had to do it all.

My burst of effort was fizzling out, wearing me down. I couldn’t go on.

[Click below for the second part of this two-part introduction to this article series, Season 0, Episode 2: Turning Around]