We live in a world that often judges a person’s worth by their productivity— by what they can contribute to the gears of society. Those who cannot keep up are labeled as ‘burdens’, and are ultimately forgotten. I’ve often wondered though, is humanity truly about having a transactional relationship with the world around us? That was once my belief, that ‘worth’ should be tied to tangible impact— until I met a man who had nothing, yet gave everything.

For years, I had measured my own ‘value’ in accomplishments. Degrees earned, projects completed, lives impacted— those were all the sole currencies of worth to me. Back when I was a UN Young Volunteer, I prided myself on my ability to ‘make a difference’. I traveled to war-torn regions, refugee camps, and disaster zones, armed with protocols and supply lists, convinced that progress was ’measurable’. Though, the deeper I went, the more I questioned. In the eyes of the world, the people I served were simply burdensome numbers— they were displaced and impoverished, ultimately ‘unproductive’. Yet, in their presence, I encountered a resilience that defied all metrics.

The displacement camp in Iraq was like so many others. There were rows of tarp tents, the strong scent of dust and smoke, and the murmur of voices carrying stories too heavy to shout. My assignment was straightforward: to assist with daily operations, to distribute aid, and to offer emotional support. I was prepared for despair. What I wasn’t prepared for, was the quiet dignity that persisted in the face of it.

That was where I met Mustafa.

At first, he was just another figure in the crowd— inconspicuous. He was gaunt and almost skeletal, not unlike the hundreds who moved through the camp like shadows. Like many others, he had lost an arm, and the empty sleeve of his shirt was pinned to his side. When our eyes met, I could feel the depth of sorrow in his eyes that words couldn’t capture. When I greeted him, he only nodded wordlessly.

By chance, I learnt fragments of his story from the camp staff. He hadn’t opened up much, but from what they did know, his village had been razed to the ground, and his family brutally killed in front of him. He had survived by sheer chance, crawling from the wreckage before being found by aid workers. His voice would break every time he recounted the experience.

For weeks, I saw him sitting alone, staring at the horizon as if waiting for something. Perhaps that was his way of coping with his situation; his way to process his trauma. Then, one evening, as the sun bled into the desert sky, I noticed him crouched beside a small fire. He was cooking. Curious, I lingered at a distance. His movements were deliberate, almost reverent. From a cloth, he unfolded a handful of rice. It was no doubt precious to him, a scavenged treasure. He added it to a dented steel pot with a few drops of water, along with a shriveled onion, a pinch of salt, and a single green chili. The meal was pitiful by any standard, yet he treated it like a feast. When he noticed me watching, he didn’t shy away. Instead, he raised his hand in invitation.

“Would you like some?”

His extended invite was so ordinary, so human, that it struck me hard like a blow. He was a man who owned nothing, who had no certainty of his next meal, yet he was offering to share the little that he had. As I sat beside him, cross-legged in the dust, a blend of emotions rushed over me. The rice was bland, the chili sharp on my tongue. He ate slowly, savoring each bite as if it might be his last.

Between mouthfuls, he spoke. His stories were not of his pain, but of the small things he treasured. He recalled the way the wind used to carry the scent of thyme in the hills near his village. That was the thyme he would pick and add to his dishes— the thyme that his daughter loved to taste. Every time he added thyme to his dishes, his daughter would be overwhelmed with glee. It was one of the reasons he loved cooking so much— he loved that he could bring joy to his loved ones through the process. As he spoke, glimmering tears rolled down his cheeks.

His grief was apparent. In that inappropriate moment, my intrusive thoughts got the better of me and my mouth slipped. I asked a question I was sure I’d regret. I asked how he could bear it— the loss, the injustice. He was silent for a long time. Then, he slowly whispered, “Anger does not fill the stomach. Hate does not rebuild a home.” He didn’t utter another word for the duration of our meal.

In the days that followed, I watched Mustafa during whatever spare time I had. I saw that despite his struggles, he never begged, and he never lashed out. Instead, he helped where he could; whether that be carrying water for an elderly woman, or comforting a crying child. Once, I even saw him give his portion of bread to a stray dog. When I asked why, he simply said, “It was hungry too.”

Our world praises those who accumulate— wealth, power, influence. We are taught that to have more, is to be more. But Mustafa, with his single arm and empty pockets, possessed a generosity that defied logic. He gave not because he had more, but because others didn’t have any. His actions were not for reward, but because it was his nature.

One night, under a smog-covered sky, I approached him for reconciliation. My previous behaviour had been inappropriate, and I seeked his forgiveness. The first thing he said after hearing my profuse apologies was, “It’s fine. I don’t hold grudges.”

When I asked him if he was mad at all, both at me and at the world, he stared me deep in my eyes as his face was lined with exhaustion and something else— something like peace. Then, he said, “Resentment is a fire that burns the one who carries it. I choose to carry something else.”

Months later, my assignment ended. I left the camp, and returned to cities where productivity was measured in spreadsheets and quarterly reports. But Mustafa’s presence lingered. I thought of him when I saw a businessman refuse spare change to a beggar. I thought of him when I heard politicians debate the ‘cost’ of helping refugees. I thought of him when I caught myself, once again, equating my worth with my output.

Mustafa had nothing the world valued— he didn’t have a job, nor many possessions, nor much influence. And yet, in his refusal to let his suffering harden him, he embodied the purest form of humanity. We shouldn’t be defined by what we produce. We should be defined by what we preserve in ourselves when everything else is gone; of kindness, of dignity, and of the willingness to share a handful of rice with a stranger.

Mustafa is gone now— lost to the cruelty that had taken so much from him. His legacy is not in what he left behind, but in the fond memories of those who had known him. In a world obsessed with value, he was a living reminder that those richest in humanity are often the ones who have nothing left to give, but give anyway. He was a living testament to the famous saying: that no one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another, and he inspires me to continue living by that testament, too.