By Dr Khalid A Al-Saleh

O compassionate mother, how did you receive your children, as they kept them away from you out of fear for your wellbeing. You the child who has been away from his mother and returned and did not find her. You the elderly man who lived all your life with your companion until you saw her motionless between the rubble, who did not answer your call for the first time.

You the father who buried his children though you kept them for this mission. You the friend from whom I knew everything about — what made you be in the middle of the storm? I no longer know anything about you...how can we deal with those tragedies and this misery with papers full of letters and words — words motionless bodies cannot read!

These are stories of human beings born to dream but trapped in the nightmare of a heroism whose price is measured in souls. Born to hate, yet burdened by anger and curses, they are thrust into the tumult of a world that demands sacrifice without asking permission. They become symbols of others’ greed and history’s retribution, confronted with doors of death each bearing a name and a slogan.

People speak of the fate of heroes and the cost of success, chanting “Long live my country” without some knowing its location on a map or others holding the identity of its occupiers. All carry its flags, screaming away from its pain, only to return weeks later, thirsty for shouts I can no longer hear. Rockets roar overhead, and they all become my substitutes, judging my death while preoccupied with righteous calls. How can I disappoint those who guided me, offering advice and wisdom?

It is a duty to fulfill, a fate to embrace and my story will die only to be reborn in another time, in the same place. The scene repeats, chants grow louder, and phrases are written in all languages, conveying a simple truth: “I am still a human being searching for happiness, organizing my dreams,” absent from the vast array of alphabets and words.

Mercy for me on earth and heavens, but for you, dreams and wishes endure.