All I can think of tonight is my parents who grew up in civil war, in a war-torn country. It took 25 years of their lives.

My parents forcibly retired 8 months ago after a sanctioned local bank they worked at closed.

My parents' retirement money lost 80% of its worth now.

My dad almost got stuck in a road block on his way to his doctor this afternoon.

My dad has respiratory issues and is among those who are at high risk if they contract Covid19.

I can't imagine the fear he lives in, in #Lebanon. Yet he supports every protest.

I'm tweeting and thinking: what more can I offer my parents?

If I look at their lives now from an outsider perspective; they worked for years in a local bank for nothing.

That's hundreds of parents, not just mine. Some who got laid off recently.

You see I know what its like to be poor - when I was 7, my parents ran into a rough patch and my father lost his job back then.

I remember having tiny sandwiches for dinner so that Mom could save more Picon & bread for school the next day.

This is why I cry - this is why I cried when I saw pictures of empty fridges and I cried when I covered the migrant workers stories and I still cry in my car when I see homeless kids or elderly.

Even those of us who now have good careers, were poor at some point.

You get into journalism because you want to change something, and journalism ends up changing you.

I guess all I could do is keep working my ass off to make my Mama and Papa proud, maybe this will make up for all of their life losses in this country.