Simply being human is worth it all

By Irintsoa Rakotomamonjy

It all started with the sunlight pools on my hardwood floor, one afternoon. Three goldfinches

paced across my window bar, whistling a tune I’ve gotten used to. Through the spaces,

branches rustled against the glass, as if knocking to check on me. This was nature’s call to

join them outside. To break the mundane that afternoon, I found myself dragging my feet

further within each step.

While the sun begun to dip below the horizon, I was joined by fellow pedestrians – some in a

rush, some sedately. The world around was bustling with noise and chaos, as people drove

home after work, but I somehow remained untouched by it. Across the road, a familiar

melody swayed in the air from a car parked nearby. It was John Coltrane’s My one and only

love. I started humming to the tune, one that infused reminiscent of a life once lived.

“…I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and

physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.” -Sylvia Plath

When a man asked me to look after his cart - Picture by Irintsoa

Plath’s quote transcribes what it felt on the sidewalks. Before that moment, I was fanatically

stuck in a swirl of news and updates. The world’s atrocities were a weight settling in my

chest. I was convincing myself that I had to carry this weight with and for those who can’t. At

some point, it felt pathetic to feel too deeply, especially when you cannot fully grasp all that

is thrown at once. Even writing this paragraph enables guilt to creep in, as if I had the

privilege to complain about what I see while others cannot get out of a fight that they never

chose to be in.

I was left questioning if my feelings were vain. It was as though my actions were lethargic

and misaligned with important causes. And as much as I always intended to step away from

the stimuli, the truth is, tuning down the noise doesn’t erase reality. You cannot mute the

children's cries, nor cover the sky of flying missiles. The messages and emails still remain,

even as you switch to silent mode. So, no, this is not the usual “turn off your phone and step

outside,” although perhaps many of us need that. It’s a call to turn inward – asking yourself

what you can carry, what you can give, and how to hold space for what matters without

drowning in the expectation that you must hold it all. Not out of duty, but merely out of our

humanity.

Humans. A capsule of feelings. A storage of love.

While we are succumbed to media’s idealization of being human, we tend to forget what it

truly means to be one. That day, when nature itself called me outside, it dug out something

long buried and left untouched since quarantine, five years ago. A chunk of hope. It revealed

itself in many ways: winter’s apricity penetrating a chilled skin; the weary stranger who still

musters a smile; a tulip rising in a place you thought was too deserted; the taste of milk and

honey soothing a sore throat; the Arab neighbour’s children shouting “Yalla, nerkod! (let’s

go)” as they gather to play; the feel of your grandma’s hand in yours; the crescent moon

hanging in the afterglow. Suddenly, feeling everything deeply is the hope.

Our humanity is what they are trying to take away from us – urging us to outsource our minds

to the rush of time and the noise they amplify. But it’s always there, waiting for those who

slow down enough to see it. And to see it, to feel it, is rebellion in itself. Orwell has been

famous not just for his sharp commentary, but because of his ability to expose the quiet

mechanism of control that shape society. Yet, among his most quoted warnings, there’s a line

in 1984 that I find underrated:

“If you can feel that staying human is worthwhile, even when it can’t have any

particular result whatsoever, you’ve beaten them.”

Orwell exposes the discrete theft of our essence under the ruling system of how control does

not only dictate actions but reshapes the very instinct to feel. He wrote of the proles, a

minority group in Oceania (fictional country), as an “inert force which would someday spring to life and regenerate the world,” not because they were rebelliously loud, but because they

had the ability to experience life without calculation of fear. Warm embraces, shedding a tear,

singing aloud, speaking words to a dying man – these sounds like helpless gestures, but could

have value in itself, especially in that world were citizens are constantly under surveillance.

In that raw, unfiltered humanity, however dismissed or overlooked, is where we plant the

seed of revolution.

Yes, we are horribly limited. We cannot carry it all, cannot mend every wound, cannot

always be who we wish to be for others. We stumble, we fall short, we endlessly search for a

hope that seem too far away. But what if it is right outside your window? What if you even

held a tiny light in your hand – the ability to love, to spread joy, to mourn with those who

mourn, to offer kindness in even the smallest ways? If the world were ending tomorrow, I

hope we’d die being an essence of hope while we could.

ABOUT IRINTSOA:

Irintsoa Rakotomamonjy (she/her) is an aspiring 19 years old writer from Madagascar, currently pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Digital Media and Communication. Ever since her early childhood, she has had a great passion for art-related mediums, believing in using them for advocacy. Specializing in storytelling, some of her previous works have been published by UNICEF Madagascar and some self-published on UNICEF’s platform Voices of Youth. Also an avid reader and film enthusiast, her heart lies in Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s works, her favourite author, and Greta Gerwig’s visual direction. These are only the beginning, and she is yet to learn more on her creative journey.