On Worth

My dear friend,

The candle burns beside me, but my thoughts are far away. In its small glow I remember a night when there was no light at all.

It was in north west Syria, years ago. I was living in a tent shared with other men. It was the kind of tent that traps the day’s heat and releases it at night, a place that smelled of plastic, dust, and sweat. The ground was uneven, the air thick, and everything carried the weight of waiting.

Outside, the camp spoke its own language. The hum of a generator, rats moving through piles of plastic bags, men snoring from exhaustion, and the distant sound of gunfire that reminded us the world outside was still breaking.

That night, I woke up drenched in sweat. For a few seconds, I forgot where I was. Then reality returned. I was not free. I was trapped in a camp, in a tent, controlled by a smuggler who promised to help us escape military service in Syria and reach safety. Instead, he took our passports, our IDs, and with them, our choices. He used to laugh and say, “Freedom comes at a price.”

I sat outside, unable to sleep. The night was thick and heavy, but when the first line of dawn appeared, the camp slowly began to reveal itself. Rows of tired tents stretched into the distance. A few cats wandered between them. People carried empty jerrycans, heading for the water point. The light touched everything with quiet honesty. For a moment, it made even the broken things look almost beautiful.

My friend, a photographer, once told me, “When you see something beautiful, take the picture with your eyes.” I did that. I took a picture with my eyes of that morning golden light brushing over a place where dignity had almost disappeared.

Then the smell of bread reached me. It was faint but enough to stir something human again. I had not eaten much in days, just a few biscuits and what we called “Tea Salad,” a mix of bread, sugar, and tea. One of the men woke up, lit a cigarette, and sat beside me. We did not know each other well, but that morning he spoke as if we had known each other for years.

He said quietly, “You should stop thinking. Just go with the flow.”

I smiled weakly and told him I was only watching this beautiful sunrise. He shook his head. “There is no sunrise here,” he said. “Only children playing in mud because they do not know what a camp is.”

He paused, then said something that has stayed with me ever since. “You don’t understand. The price of you is a bullet, which is less than five dollars.”

I asked him what he meant, though I already knew. He said, “Our lives can end with one bullet, and that bullet costs less than five dollars. That’s our value here. That’s the price of you, of me, of everyone in this country.”

He looked away, but his voice broke. He tried to hide it, but tears began to fall. I wanted to tell him he was wrong. I wanted to tell him that life was still worth something. But I said nothing. At that time, I did not know how to be vulnerable. I thought strength meant silence. I thought pain was something to be carried alone.

Now, years later, I regret that silence. That morning, I learned how heavy despair can become when it has no one to speak to.

Later that day, we ate the Tea Salad together, sharing one plate between many hands. We laughed a little, not because there was joy, but because laughter was easier than breaking down. That strange, sweet, bitter meal still feels sacred to me. Maybe because it tasted like survival.

A few hours later, NGO staff arrived at the camp. They were young, kind, and doing their best. They wore clean branded vests and carried booklets about hygiene. They spoke about handwashing, water safety, and how to stay healthy. They called us “beneficiaries.”

I remember sitting there quietly, trying not to cry, because just weeks before, I had been the one giving those same sessions. I was the trainer. I was the person standing in front of others, explaining the importance of such activities, drawing diagrams on whiteboards, guiding young staff through their first facilitation exercises.

And now, I was sitting on the ground as a participant, listening to instructions on how to wash my hands.

It broke something in me. But it also began to rebuild something else.

That day, I learned what humility truly means. Life can turn so quickly that the teacher becomes the student, the trainer becomes the listener, and the helper becomes the helped.

When the smuggler finally let me go, I left the camp not with pride, but with an ache that felt like a scar written into my soul. I remember joking with another man in the car as we left, telling him that one day I would come back and lead the NGOs that worked there. He laughed. The smuggler laughed too. But less than a year later, I found myself managing and funding programs in that very camp.

Life, I have learned, does not always move in straight lines. Sometimes it circles back, just to see what you have learned.

Even now, after so many years from that day, when I wash my hands, I still do it the way I was shown that day. And every time I see Dettol in supermarkets, I smile. I think of the camp, of the red skin from using Dettol as soap and my shower gel, of the man who told me that my life was worth five dollars, and of how wrong and how right he was.

Because, my friend, the truth is this: in a world that measures lives by bullets, budgets, and statistics, our worth is not defined by what others see. It is defined by what we continue to do despite it all.

That day taught me that dignity is not a title. It is a decision.

It is the decision to wash your hands when water is scarce. To smile when fear is everywhere. To help others even when you have nothing left. To keep leading, even when the world has broken your heart.

Dignity is the act of refusing to disappear.

My friend, vulnerability is not weakness. It is how we stay human. And worth is not something given by others. It is something we hold quietly within us, even when no one else recognizes it.

The candle beside me is burning low now. The wax has almost reached the number for today. I look at it and think of that camp, of that morning sun, of the man who taught me one of the hardest lessons of my life.

We are not worth five dollars. We are worth every sunrise we refuse to stop seeing.

And if you ever doubt that, remind yourself through small acts. Stand up for someone who feels unseen. Speak kindly when you could stay silent. Keep doing what is right even when no one is watching. Take care of your space. Help someone without expecting anything in return. Rest when you need to, and begin again the next day. Give without keeping score. These are the ways we remember our worth. Not through titles, bank account, assets we have, or praise, but through action, presence, and care.

Until tomorrow, my friend, hold your dignity close. Let the world measure you however it wants. You know your worth.

With truth and light,

Ali Al Mokdad