This godforsaken land—I see it reflected in the dull eyes of all of us. We don’t speak of it out
loud. I don’t know if it’s the fear of divine punishment or if we’re all deafened by the resounding
booms in our minds. Our ears, filled with gravel and dust, and our mouths sealed tight by a
mixture of spit and grime. We bear witness in this unsettling silence, a primal fear looms so large
that even our children, our infants, refuse to cry.
It’s fascinating to observe the desolation that surrounds you after your eardrums have burst from
the blasts. Your heartbeat echoes steadily, its rhythm juxtaposed with the jagged hands that claw
at your clothes. In that moment, you realise they are the hands of your brother’s child.
‘A child shouldn’t have those hands’, you think.
‘Where is my brother.’ It is more of a statement when the realization hits you. He is departing, for
better or worse, drifting up to the sky, abandoning his flesh.
‘Only we are left,’ you slowly acknowledge as you grab the child’s hand and rise fatigued from
the ruins.
We remember the world through sounds as we walk the streets, both of us lingering near my
house, once lively with laughter, now dismembered. It’s unfortunate. Everything is, truly. We’ve
grown accustomed to the silence, embraced it as though it were an old friend, not something
imposed upon us, not a tool used to oppress us. If only we did, perhaps we’d hear the sirens ring,
the buzzing of planes flying above our heads. If we remembered the explosions, the ringing, the
blast, the fire, the bodies, maybe then we’d think to run. Yet, the silence made us complacent.
I stood there like cattle. My nephew ran, and I turned to watch him, anticipating the sound of his
scream. Yet, the noise didn’t reach my ears. Nothing was heard, not even when the bomb came
crashing down. Not even when he was caught in the blast, his body blown to smithereens. A
scene of abject horror. I think I screamed.
I couldn’t hear it.
“The screams or the bomb?”, you ask.
Silence.