During the COVID-19 pandemic, my entire family and I were confined to our home—our world shrunk to four walls. For nearly a year and a half, we lived in what felt like voluntary imprisonment, though the choice was really survival. Streets were silent, shops shuttered, and the rhythm of life outside paused indefinitely. Inside, time slowed to a crawl.
Our days blurred into each other, tethered by the television, which became both our window to the world and our only companion beyond each other. With schools closed, workplaces shuttered, and fear looming like a shadow, we gathered every evening in front of the screen—watching news reports, documentaries, and real-life stories unfold in grim repetition.
I spent what little savings I had, bit by bit, on food, utilities, and essentials. There was no income, only outflow—a slow drain that echoed the helplessness many of us felt. The anxiety wasn’t just about the virus, but also the dwindling money, the uncertainty of tomorrow, and the mental toll of monotony.
“In the silence of lockdown, as the world unraveled on television screens, I spent my savings and my strength—one day at a time—waiting for a dawn that felt endlessly out of reach.”
What struck me the most during those long, uneasy nights were the countless stories of death aired on television. It became an obsession of sorts—not out of morbid curiosity, but perhaps a subconscious attempt to make sense of the chaos. I watched with numb eyes as different corners of the world flashed scenes of overwhelmed hospitals, mourning families, and unanswered cries. Every story of loss felt both distant and intimately close. Their grief became mine. It was overwhelming, and yet, I couldn’t look away.
The world seemed to be dying—piece by piece, person by person—and we were all witnesses to a tragedy we couldn’t stop. But in that silence, in that stillness, I also learned something about resilience. We had so little, yet we endured. We had each other.
