In the Time of Silence: A Cry from Beneath the Rubble

By Shatha Barhoush

In a time when pens are asked to paint rainbows, I find myself unable to decorate reality with false colors. I am not a historian, nor do I carry a political agenda. I walk through this world with my heart held in my hands, writing between love and fear, between serenity and death, to say that I am the circle with no beginning and no end.

We closed our windows with silence, yet life still crept through the cracks, trying to console our wounds with jasmine growing amid the ruins. Behind every window lies a broken story, a grief lodged in the heart like bitter frost. With every sigh, we mask our helplessness and try to push pain away as if it were the last of unwelcome guests. But what kind of pain refuses to leave? Is it the bitterness of medicine, or a poison with no cure?

The wars sweeping our world taste bitterer than wormwood. The sky weeps each time it embraces the souls of martyrs, its blue washed away and replaced with red. Stars are extinguished by force, the moon hidden behind clouds heavy not with rain but with blood. On this earth, one hears the cries of children and the wails of mothers more often than the chirping of birds. From olive trees grew bombs, and from childhood was born death.

O Arabs…

Our Arab identity breathed its last when the honorable fell, when we colluded with silence. Its face is no longer the one we knew, but a mask soaked in blood. Arab dignity has become barren, birthing only more pain and humiliation. We bury love in cold freezers, replacing it with a hatred that feeds on the scent of blood.

Even the air we breathe is polluted, not only with corruption but with the gases of war and the bullets of rifles.

The silence we live today is not neutrality, but a mask that conceals the defeat of emotion. The laws of this world do not protect those without power or wealth. Words have been stolen from the mouths of the poor; even the hungry are denied the right to complain.

The history taught to us is forged, stained with lies and complicity, not preserving the truth, but burying it.

O you, the man in power…

The world was not created for you alone, nor were the chairs of authority meant to be inherited among you. In this homeland lie suppressed talents and buried dreams yearning for light. Our youth, despite their wounds, craft hope from nothing, toil to secure daily bread, comfort their grandparents, and wipe the tears of children in their neighborhoods.

Mothers no longer cook maqluba as they once did; they chase after sacks of flour and drops of water instead.

O lover of the throne…

We have bright minds, diplomas carried in hands wearied by bombardment. Our closets hold clothes scented with olives and earth, yet today they are stained by the soot of rockets. Our children deserve to run through fields, not cower in shelters.

O master of hollow speeches…

This world is not yours alone. It belongs to us, the displaced children, the grieving mothers, the youth chasing after a chance at life. If you are full of joy, leave its crumbs for those who have tasted only sorrow. Let them build a world that resembles them, one that shines with their innocence and fills with the scent of rain, not gunpowder.

The day will come when this generation rises from beneath the rubble, tears down the walls of oppression, greets the spring sun, and declares that dawn must break, no matter how long the night.

Sir…

Take what remains of your humanity and leave, in silence.

Shatha Barhoush is a Palestinian writer and blogger who crafts creative, reality-inspired essays, translating pain into luminous words. Her work has been published on several platforms, including “Banafsaj” and “Palestine News Network.”

The opinions expressed in this article are solely the author’s and do not represent the views of Nisaba Media.