Homecoming
She waited a long time—longer than any mother should ever have to wait. Every day, she sat by the entrance of her tent, watching every passing shadow, believing that the approaching footsteps might be her son’s. She wept until her tears ran dry, yet hope clung fast to her heart. Then, finally, he returned to her. He did not return as the son she had dreamed of holding to her chest; instead, he came back as the mere remnants of a human being—a skull and some clothing gathered in a trash bag. Even in death, his human dignity had been stripped away.
Continue reading →The Girl Who Became a Teacher During Genocide
💔🚨 Since the beginning of the genocide, my little brother has not been able to attend school—not even for a single day. 😭🇵🇸
Continue reading →My name is Layan
My name is Layan. I am 16 years old.
At my age, I should be worrying about school, dreaming about my future, and laughing with my friends over little things. Instead, war chose a different life for me.
Continue reading →Standing on the Edge
🥺 How many times have we stood on the edge? 💔
Continue reading →The Price of a Memory 💔🕊️
Before the war, beads were my sanctuary. I used to weave them into bracelets and charms—small, colorful tokens of love for my friends and teachers. Each bead held a piece of our laughter, a shared secret, and a promise that we would always be together. 🤍
