We Are the Light: No. 5

The Broken Silence

Author Pen Name: N. Shaami

Nation: Myanmar

Age: 21

 

She was a child, too young to carry shame.

Yet, it was wrapped around her like a veil,  

stitched by fear, threaded by silence.

They said she was too beautiful to be seen.  

So, they hid her in a house that wasn’t home,  

with questions that had no answers.

Then, blood seeped into her life.

No name for it, no guide.  

Only pain that whispered,  

“You mustn’t speak.”

She bled in silence; 

learned to grow without witness and guidance, 

learned to stitch pads from scraps, and smile through confusion.  

No mother’s hand.  

No sister’s word.  

Just quiet.

But silence is not eternal.

She grew. 

She loved.  

She mothered.

And in her arms, she held daughters,  

eyes wide open with questions, ones she asked in the dark.

So, she lit a candle.  

She called things by their names:

This is your body.  

This is your strength.  

This is your voice.  

 

 

 

I grew up in a far-flung corner of my country. Today, people call us Gen Z, a generation surrounded by technology and artificial intelligence. But growing up, I never knew that world. For girls like me, the world was seen through rocks, trees, rivers, and long walks through the fields, not through screens or the internet. 

At the age of three, I lost my mother to childbirth. I was too young to understand death or grief. I remember watching the adults around me cry and trying to imitate them, not fully understanding the loss that had entered our lives. 

At that time, our village had no healthcare facilities. In emergencies, people had to walk for hours to reach the nearest service. My mother died while giving birth to her sixth child. 

After her death, my father carried the responsibility of raising five daughters. I watched my four elder sisters grow up quickly, balancing work in the fields with their studies and responsibilities at home. 

Life was often difficult. Sometimes my sisters and my father had to walk to another village to buy groceries. They would carry a small sack of rice back home, which would last only a few days. When it ran out, they would make the journey again. 

When the work season in the fields ended, my father and sisters would often go into the forest to collect firewood to sell for a little money. I would go along with them and carry a small portion of the firewood. Crossing rivers and climbing over cliffs, we would be very tired by the end of the day. Yet, this was the life we lived for a long time. 

Our home had no nearby roads, no cars, and not even electricity. In the evenings we lit a kerosene lamp. When we woke up the next morning, our nostrils would be blackened from the smoke. I still remember my sisters studying under that dim light, struggling to see the letters on the page. 

As I grew older, I began attending school and helping with small responsibilities at home. During school vacations, I stayed behind to make tea for my family. I would carry a small kettle into the fields and serve them while they worked. My eldest sister later taught me how to cook simple meals, and I began preparing food for my father while he worked in the fields. 

When I was in third grade, my father told us he was thinking about remarrying. My sisters and I felt hopeful. We had always longed for a mother at home and believed life might become easier for our father.

But things did not unfold the way we imagined. 

Our stepmother cared deeply for her own children, but we rarely felt that same care. Often when we returned home from school vacations, the door to our house would be locked because our father stayed at her home. When we finally entered the house, spider webs hung in the corners and dust covered the rooms. Pots and pans were sometimes left unwashed for so long that fungus grew on them. 

Our eldest sister would quietly begin cleaning and cooking, trying to make the house feel like a home again. It often took several days before everything felt normal. 

When it was time to return to school, our stepmother packed lunch and pickles for her own children. We never received the same. She would visit our house briefly and leave again before sunrise. We complained to our father many times, but there was little he could do. 

Over time, my elder sisters began dropping out of school. They chose to focus their hopes on the two of us who were still studying. 

Their sacrifice pushed me to work harder. In sixth grade, I earned a scholarship to study at one of the prestigious schools in my country. For the first time, many of my basic needs such as food, shelter, and school supplies were provided by the school. 

The transition was not easy. I struggled to communicate, especially with my mentor, who was a foreigner. During our conversations, my answers were often limited to “yes” or “no.” Realizing this, I began reading children’s books, practicing English with friends, and writing in a journal every day. Slowly, my confidence grew. By the time I graduated from high school, my English had improved significantly. 

After graduation, I felt uncertain about my future. I had always dreamed of studying medicine because of what happened to my mother, but I was unable to pursue that path. For nearly two years, I struggled to decide what to do next.I had nowhere to go and no one to discuss with. 

My sisters could not guide me because they had never had the opportunity to attend university themselves. Finally, I gathered some courage to speak up to my brother-in-law if he could support my education. After several months, he agreed on the condition that I repay him after completing my studies. 

With his support, I moved away from home and began studying at my current university. I became the first daughter and the first girl in my family to attend one. None of my sisters had the chance to pursue higher education.

Recently, however, my brother-in-law decided to stop supporting my studies. I am still in my second year, and the path ahead is uncertain. The sudden change left me feeling lost, as if the ground beneath me had shifted, and I didn’t know where to stand anymore. 

Yet, I continue to move forward. My sisters gave up their education so that I could continue mine. For their sake, and for the girl who once studied under the dim light of a kerosene lamp, I hold on to the hope that I will find a way to finish what I started.

I Understand Those

Author Pen Name: Samreen Makhifi 

Nation: Afghanistan

Age: 21

 

I understand those
Who long to leave this life—
Those who carry dusk within their bones
And wake each morning heavier than before.
I do not want to take my life,
Yet sometimes, in the prayers,
I ask God to make my journey shorter,
To loosen my grip on this weary earth.
When they speak of Hell,
I do not tremble in fear.
I have already walked through fire,
Barefoot across its burning tongue.
Hell sounds like a distant threat
To someone who has worn suffering like a second skin.

If Only I Could See Heaven

Author Pen Name: Sobon* 

Nation: Bangladesh

Age: 19

 

A thousand years have passed, yet I still wonder what heaven looks like. I imagine how I might have lived if I had been a bird, a cat, or a fish. The sky is vast and I remember how I could fly amongst the clouds, flying high and higher. I only wished I could live with my family in the sky, and perhaps one day we would reach paradise. However, being a cat and living among humans was not easy. Why did some people throw stones at me when I was only looking for food and care? Are those such expensive things to desire? So I wanted to live in heaven – a peaceful place. Oh, I was not happy as a fish, either! Why did I always have to be hiding in a safe place when the whole ocean was my home? I wondered what the outer world looked like. Those stars above the ocean felt like lights from heaven. If only I could see what heaven actually looks like.

*Sobon means dream.