Warning: some readers may find this article disturbing.

When a bullet — a fact — is fired, the yearning for a facade of existence diminishes.

Now, equipped with a tourniquet and wound dressings, I am hoping one day I can venture into crises that lack coverage.

I recognise the privilege I possess, yet with each story I uncover, a growing sense of fear shadows me.

During a demonstration on treating gunshot wounds, I was critiqued for not applying enough pressure when inserting the dressing into the wound.

If I go soft, the victim may die.

“The bullet looks cuter than I expected,” I mentioned to a colleague.

“It’s intentionally designed that way,” she answered.

Never in my life had I tended to someone else’s injury, let alone witnessed a gunshot wound firsthand.

My coach was a renowned photojournalist who was miraculously released after being kidnapped for 15 months by Islamist insurgents in Somalia.

In his darkest moments, devoid of hope, he orchestrated a grand escape through a bathroom window, only to be dramatically recaptured in a mosque.

The physical punishments he endured morphed into psychological torment.

His experiences offered me a new lens through which to view my own fears and aspirations today.

Our world extends far beyond what’s right in front of us, if only we recognise that our pain is just a small piece of a vast tapestry.

Within this, there’s a spectrum from hunger, death, and hatred to love, bravery, and serenity.

This leads me to ask: do we still hold faith?

Our beliefs are often shaped by what we see.

We overlook that sometimes belief has to precede seeing.

That marks an impressive distinction.

For me, I don’t need a gun to tell a story.

I am the gun for those I cherish.