Let us become people who bring towels to the wet, food to the hungry, breath to the breathless — not lectures, not scoldings, not spiritual advice in place of human touch.

“Don’t get lost in your pain, know that one day your pain will become your cure.”

— Rumi

By Abdullah Usman Morai | Sweden

The Moment That Cannot Wait

There are moments in life so raw, so desperate, and so immediate that they cannot be fixed, reasoned with, or explained away. In those moments, the human soul does not need theory. It needs air.

Imagine a person drowning. Their arms flail, lungs scream for breath, and their vision dims beneath waves of fear. Now imagine standing on the shore, yelling: “Next time, stay closer to the bank!” Or worse, “This is how you should have learned to swim!”

Cruel, isn’t it?

Yet this is precisely how we treat people in emotional, financial, social, or psychological distress. We offer advice when they need rescue. We analyze pain when what’s required is presence. We explain suffering instead of easing it. The result? Broken people become more broken. Drowning souls slip beneath the surface, unheard and unaided.

This article reflects on the profound metaphor — “If someone is drowning, that’s not the time to teach them swimming” — through real stories, cultural critique, and the luminous wisdom of Rumi. It urges us to rethink our response to pain, to shift from posturing to presence, and to become the kind of human being who doesn’t hesitate to dive in when another is sinking.

South Asia’s Sorrow: Advice Where There Should Be Aid

In the densely packed neighborhoods of Karachi or Kolkata, tragedy is never far. And yet, neither is judgment.

In 2021, Razia Bibi, a widow working as a housemaid in Karachi, lost her only son in a road accident. He was 13. What should have been a space for mourning became a stage for interrogation.

“Why was he out alone?”

“Didn’t you teach him better?”

“Maybe qudrat is testing you.”

Her pain was not acknowledged. It was dissected.

In another case, Manoj, a 24-year-old from Rajasthan, took his own life after failing to crack the civil services exam for the third time. In the days that followed, neighbors and elders gathered — not in shared sorrow, but in loud discussions about discipline, failure, and coaching strategies. “Children these days are weak.” “He should have tried harder.”

Not a single person had asked how he was doing before he died.

Such stories are repeated across South Asia. In our homes, we tell grieving children to “be strong.” In schools, we tell bullied kids to “toughen up.” In workplaces, we ask employees to “stay professional” even when they’re breaking down inside. In every crisis, we wait—wait for the storm to pass before showing concern, by which time the damage is done.

When people are drowning, we stand on the bank, talking about swimming.

When Institutions Become Indifferent

It’s not just individuals who delay compassion — systems do too.

During the 2022 floods in Sindh, hundreds of villages were submerged. While people climbed trees and rooftops to survive, government meetings were held to evaluate damage and plan distribution. Rescue boats arrived days too late. Relief camps were overcrowded and unsupplied. Officials gave televised statements about climate resilience, while children died of hunger in the mud.

In India, the mental health crisis has reached epidemic levels. A 2016 National Mental Health Survey found that nearly 150 million Indians need active psychological help. Yet most public universities have no trained counselors. Instead, struggling students are given motivational speeches — often by the very people who pressure them to outperform.

A similar tragedy occurred in Sri Lanka during the 2022 economic collapse. With medicines in short supply and fuel prices skyrocketing, hospitals shut their doors. Cancer patients were told to “wait.” Families were told to “cope.” When the roof is collapsing, do we really need to be told how to build stronger walls, or do we need someone to hold the roof up?

“Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead, let life live through you.”

— Rumi

Institutions, like people, must learn that presence matters more than posture. People in crisis don’t need speeches. They need solidarity.

The Psychology of Postponed Compassion

Why do we delay empathy? Why do we teach when we should be helping?

Psychologists call it emotional distancing. By analyzing the pain of others, we protect ourselves from the unbearable thought that we, too, are vulnerable. It’s easier to think someone failed because they lacked discipline than to admit that life is fragile and unpredictable.

There’s also moral conditioning, especially in patriarchal and class-stratified societies like South Asia. A woman facing domestic abuse is often blamed for not leaving. A poor farmer crushed by debt is mocked for being illiterate. A rape survivor is interrogated about her modesty. Victims are turned into culprits.

This blame masquerades as wisdom. But in truth, it’s abandonment.

We refuse to enter another’s pain. So we intellectualize it. We turn lifelines into lectures.

There Is a Season for Healing — But First, Survival

Teaching someone to swim is noble. Helping people grow is essential. But the drowning don’t need discipline — they need a lifebuoy.

No one heals in the middle of a storm. First, they must survive.

You cannot tell a grieving father how to raise his other children while he is burying one. You cannot expect a war refugee to talk about long-term development while their home is still burning. You cannot teach calmness to someone mid-panic. The order matters.

“With life as short as a half-taken breath, don’t plant anything but love.”

— Rumi

Love, compassion, and immediacy — these are the waters of rescue. Education and recovery come afterward.

Stories of Real Rescue: When People Got It Right

In contrast to systemic neglect, there are luminous moments of human grace.

In a flood-hit village near Thatta, a humble schoolteacher opened the gates of his one-room school to shelter over 30 families. With no funding, no political support, and no media coverage, he offered warmth, food, and safety. He didn’t wait to be told. He saw the drowning and jumped in.

In Dhaka, when torrential rains left hundreds stranded, an informal group of rickshaw drivers ferried women, children, and elders to safety, free of charge. One of them said:

“Dukh mein paisa nahi liya jaata, bhai.”

(“You don’t take money from the suffering, brother.”)

During the COVID-19 lockdowns, in the slums of Mumbai, a widow named Shamim Bano used her meager savings to cook rice and lentils for hungry children whose parents had lost work. Her only words were, “If Allah has given me the strength to stand, I must feed those who’ve fallen.”

These are not famous people. But they are rescuers. Their presence taught no lessons — and yet, they taught us everything.

Literary Echoes: Stories That Mirror Real Life

Literature has long understood this truth.

In Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, the criminal Valjean is redeemed not by judgment, but by the bishop’s silent kindness.

In Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner, true healing begins only when the protagonist acts to save a child, not just regrets past sins.

In Qissa Meherbano, a modern Pakistani short story, a mother forgives a son who wronged her, not because he deserved it, but because mercy must sometimes come before justice.

Our greatest stories remind us: rescue comes first. Redemption can wait.

A Personal Challenge: How Do We Respond?

So, how should we respond when someone is drowning — emotionally, financially, spiritually?

• Pause your impulse to fix. Sometimes presence is the fix.
• Offer listening, not logic. Ask: “What do you need from me right now?”
• Don’t moralize pain. Just because you survived your storm doesn’t mean everyone can swim the same way.
• Act now. Help first. Process later.
• Return later with tools. After rescue, yes — teach, empower, prepare. But not before.

Let us become people who bring towels to the wet, food to the hungry, breath to the breathless — not lectures, not scoldings, not spiritual advice in place of human touch.

Conclusion: The Hand That Saves Is Greater Than the Word That Teaches

“Be like a tree and let the dead leaves drop.”

— Rumi

Let go of the need to explain everything. Some things — like pain — are not puzzles to be solved but wounds to be witnessed.

In every family, every society, every nation, there are people drowning in grief, debt, trauma, and silence. And in every one of us is the capacity to either offer rescue or a reprimand.

Let us not stand on the banks, pointing out their mistakes. Let us wade into the water.

Let us say with our presence what no philosophy can:

“You are not alone. I see you. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

For when the waves are high, and the soul is slipping beneath the tide, nothing matters more than the hand that reaches in — without hesitation.