Mohammed Shaban

I was going about my usual routine at the butcher shop in Tripoli, Lybia. The steady hum of machinery and the sharp scent of freshly cut meat filling the air. It was just another day, or so I thought, until a moment of distraction changed everything.

In the midst of preparing a batch of cuts, my mind wandered to a family matter that had been weighing on me. Lost in thought, my hand slipped, and before I could react, the machine's blade met my left index finger with a sickening crunch.

Pain shot through me, but instinct kicked in. I called out to my colleague, who rushed over in alarm. Together, we acted swiftly, wrapping my severed finger in a waterproof compress and placing it in a plastic bag. With trembling and bloodied hands, we dipped it into a larger bag filled with ice water and sealed it tightly.

The trip to the hospital was a blur of pain and anxiety, but somehow we made it there. Miraculously, the doctors were able to reattach my finger, but the damage had been done. Despite their skill, I was left with little sensation in the digit, a constant reminder of my carelessness.

Since that day, I've approached my work with a newfound sense of caution. Every slice, every movement is executed with precision and focus. I may have lost a part of myself that day, but I gained a valuable lesson in return. Age has a way of teaching us, even when the lessons are hard won.